Cuckookit's pointed ears lilted upwards at Howlfire's familiar voice, with icy-blue eyes following like twin gentle flames, bobbing upwards to meet a mirror of moonglade. They recognized her as one of the many visitors to the nursery, with molten golden gaze and titan-tall limbs. They often wondered if they would grow up to be as glorious, as splendid as she - but he could not imagine himself as a great warrior of woven folklores. It would come with time, it supposed, though they hadn't much hope. "Mm, dunno. Pretty." The child's words fell out in division, like dove-down flittering from his maw, too fragile to be pushed out yet too incurious to fly out. He was a creature of little action and littler words, almost sedentary where his anxieties rooted him to the frost-bitten earth. Hesitation seemed to line everything they did, to the point where even this expedition had been marked by a thrumming of hummingbird heart. They thought about maybe placing the feathers in their parents' nests, dotting the dull plushes of mosses and lichens alike, though mellow mind told them that it may be a waste of time. They would then keep them for themselves, though they hadn't any place to put them. If he kept them in a corner of the nursery, then the other kittens would trample and tear them to shreds. If he buried them within the insurmisable ground, then it would never return them in the same condition that he knew them fondly by. Therefore, this was a fruitless act, too.
It didn't stop them from plucking feathers, still. They liked the rhythm, the uniformity and the certainty.
"O-Oh. Um, sorry." Ears folded slightly backwards at Lambkit's comment now. The kitten stood next to Howlfire, and though he and Cuckookit were similar in size, he definitely seem more resplendent and proud than them. His gaze now trained upon his half-uncle? (he hadn't paid attention as to what exactly Ramkit and Lambkit were to him and his brood, but they did know that they were family) like a lambent knell, a softly ringing bell that always resonated too deeply with whoever could see. Blinking once or twice, the little kitten then stared downwards at the pristinely-kept prey. It would be a waste of a bird if they did not eat it, but they were not hungry... "You... can have it." The blue smoke kitten pushed the fresh-kill towards the cream-coated tom, as though he were some mansuete predator, cowed even from eating another being that was once alive. They hadn't much problem digging into the warm flesh of prey, allowing the metallic tang of blood to coat their mouth and their tongue, but their appetite always seemed to wane. At least they perked up once Twitchbolt had taken notice of their collection. "I do!" They piped up once the deputy had approached them, and it was the first time that the light of life had pooled in Cuckookit's dull-sky stare, like a sky rolling its belly over for the sun's warmth. "My favorite is... cuckoo feathers. Like my name." They did not often see their namesake interspersed along the other pieces of prey, though he enjoyed the stripes of grey and white throughout the plumes the one time that he did get to eat it. It felt almost sacreligious to devour what had granted him his name, though such big thoughts hardly fit in the container of such a simple mind.
