Post by whitestep on Jun 23, 2014 23:11:13 GMT -6
[attr="class","fallowsshell"]
[attr="class","fallowspostshell"]
[attr="class","fallowslyrics"]RAISE ANOTHER BROKEN GLASS TO FAILURE
[attr="class","fallowspostbody"]
Whitestep, roused from his dreams, stood in his nest, clumps of moss clinging to his disheveled pelt. His mate, Gorsefur slept on one side of him while his step-mother, Poppyheart, slept on the other. Both she-cats were nestled in their moss bedding, tails wrapped around their respective bodies. ’don’t you think she’s a little too nice, Whitestep?’ Gorsefur said the other night before they settled in to share tongues. It seemed his mate was convinced that Poppyheart’s sole purpose in life was to seduce him. While he understood that it was odd that she decided to mate with his father (who was at least somewhere past his eightieth moon) he couldn’t bring himself to believe that there were some sort of ill intentions that went along with it. Whenever Gorsefur would bring it up, he would shake his head and chalk it up to some hidden insecurity within his mate (although, that only seemed to rile her up further).
He smiled, shaking his head. The tom had never been able to see the flaws in other felines or harbor mistrust based upon previous judgments. Gorsefur would say, jokingly, that he was too pure of heart. He would like to believe that wasn’t a bad thing but apparently, at least to his mate, it was something he needed to work on. “Despite your insanities, I love you,” he murmured before he weaved his way through the warrior den and out into the heart of camp. The dawn patrol wouldn’t be assembled for another hour or so and most felines were still hunkered in their nests. He had no apprentice to tend to and he doubted his children or niece and nephew would enjoy being dragged out of bed to go for a walk. Gorsefur would likely bite his face off if he even tried to pry her out of bed. So, the tom disregarded his unkempt pelt and ventured out into Thunderclan territory.
Birdsong varied between tree to tree; a symphony of disagreeing chords. The moon was a faint white silhouette in the sky. The clouds were beginning to break apart, the sun reflecting rays of orange and pink. Whitestep breathed in the crisp air and wondered if any other clan cat was walking upon their territory; feeling and seeing the same things he was. He found his paws carrying him toward the clearing; the scent of shadowclan lingering in the breeze. Whitestep tended to avoid the clearing despite its abundance of prey. The piece of land, wedged between two opposing territories, was little more than a field of blood. Before he was born it had been a gift to Shadowclan; a gift from Firestar. However, after the great leader died, it became a place of battle for many moons. Rowanstar had it constantly patrolled; the border markers always kept fresh.
The tom stood on the outskirts; his jaws parted, ears erect. While the territory belonged to them for now, it was only temporary. As it was with the sunning rocks, the clearing would always be a place where lives would be lost.
Whitestep, roused from his dreams, stood in his nest, clumps of moss clinging to his disheveled pelt. His mate, Gorsefur slept on one side of him while his step-mother, Poppyheart, slept on the other. Both she-cats were nestled in their moss bedding, tails wrapped around their respective bodies. ’don’t you think she’s a little too nice, Whitestep?’ Gorsefur said the other night before they settled in to share tongues. It seemed his mate was convinced that Poppyheart’s sole purpose in life was to seduce him. While he understood that it was odd that she decided to mate with his father (who was at least somewhere past his eightieth moon) he couldn’t bring himself to believe that there were some sort of ill intentions that went along with it. Whenever Gorsefur would bring it up, he would shake his head and chalk it up to some hidden insecurity within his mate (although, that only seemed to rile her up further).
He smiled, shaking his head. The tom had never been able to see the flaws in other felines or harbor mistrust based upon previous judgments. Gorsefur would say, jokingly, that he was too pure of heart. He would like to believe that wasn’t a bad thing but apparently, at least to his mate, it was something he needed to work on. “Despite your insanities, I love you,” he murmured before he weaved his way through the warrior den and out into the heart of camp. The dawn patrol wouldn’t be assembled for another hour or so and most felines were still hunkered in their nests. He had no apprentice to tend to and he doubted his children or niece and nephew would enjoy being dragged out of bed to go for a walk. Gorsefur would likely bite his face off if he even tried to pry her out of bed. So, the tom disregarded his unkempt pelt and ventured out into Thunderclan territory.
Birdsong varied between tree to tree; a symphony of disagreeing chords. The moon was a faint white silhouette in the sky. The clouds were beginning to break apart, the sun reflecting rays of orange and pink. Whitestep breathed in the crisp air and wondered if any other clan cat was walking upon their territory; feeling and seeing the same things he was. He found his paws carrying him toward the clearing; the scent of shadowclan lingering in the breeze. Whitestep tended to avoid the clearing despite its abundance of prey. The piece of land, wedged between two opposing territories, was little more than a field of blood. Before he was born it had been a gift to Shadowclan; a gift from Firestar. However, after the great leader died, it became a place of battle for many moons. Rowanstar had it constantly patrolled; the border markers always kept fresh.
The tom stood on the outskirts; his jaws parted, ears erect. While the territory belonged to them for now, it was only temporary. As it was with the sunning rocks, the clearing would always be a place where lives would be lost.
[attr="class","fallowsnotes"]513 words for @palepaw. notes. this is an awful post, i apologize. next one will be better!
