Post by whitestep on Jun 24, 2014 13:52:21 GMT -6
[attr="class","fallowsshell"]
[attr="class","fallowspostshell"]
[attr="class","fallowslyrics"]RAISE ANOTHER BROKEN GLASS TO FAILURE
[attr="class","fallowspostbody"]
Cotton fell like flakes of winter. Whitestep paused, head upturned, as he watch them twin and twirl like some intricate dance he knew nothing of. The clouds circled overhead, blanketing the sky with the promise of rain. Strips of sunlight peeked through the cracks and dappled the forest floor. He breathed in; expanding his lungs until he felt them push against his ribs. He tasted the sweet aroma of lilacs and pine, the tang of wet soil. The tom wanted to capture the moment, fold it into the back corners of his mind. He thought of his daughter Cherrypaw, who shifted her training from the path of a warrior to that of a medicine cat. He knew she would have appreciated the small fragments of life, the sole things that inspired regrowth.
His family seemed to be a topic that entertained many a loose lip. Dysfunction. Unnatural. Those poor children. The few words Whitestep was able to pick up from their hushed voices. It pained him to see his half-siblings, Mottledpaw and Palepaw, caught up in something that they had no control over. Even Cherrypaw and Thistlepaw were sometimes swept away by the careless gossip of their clan mates. A few going so far as to question whether Starclan would accept his daughter as the future medicine cat of Starclan. At those times he felt the slow roil of anger, like molten tar, churn in his chest. He felt it drip down his ribs and pool into his stomach. His unyielding anger seemed to be a much formidable opponent than any clan cat could ever hope to be. Sloefur, his father, had always taught him that a clan was meant to be a system of support. Each feline was an elaborate piece and while two may look or act the same, each was unique in their own way. Whitestep had always sat in awe in his father’s speeches, soaking up the information and retaining what he could. But lately, as his clan mates gossiped, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed.
The summer breeze felt sticky and warm, almost heavy. It enveloped the older warrior, pulling on his fur, as if asking him to walk with it. Whitestep obliged, allowing the wind to dictate his paw steps until he found himself at the borders. Shadowclan’s territory ran to the West while Windclan stretched to the East. The oak and pine trees began to thin, the undergrowth dwindling to a few clumps of ferns. He stopped a few fox-lengths from the borders and settled back on his haunches, tail curled over his paws. At the previous gathering, there was talk of war and revenge. Accusations tore from one clan to another, creating a chasm between clans. They were afraid, behind their bold words; he remembered the stagnant stench of fear lingering among them. Whitestep found the concept hard to grasp, couldn’t even imagine what sort of feline would kill another for no reason or how kittens could wind up washed ashore—so badly decayed that they were practically unrecognizable.
His tail flickered pensively, his eyes staring out into the foreign terrain that lay ahead of him, and yet, he saw nothing.
Cotton fell like flakes of winter. Whitestep paused, head upturned, as he watch them twin and twirl like some intricate dance he knew nothing of. The clouds circled overhead, blanketing the sky with the promise of rain. Strips of sunlight peeked through the cracks and dappled the forest floor. He breathed in; expanding his lungs until he felt them push against his ribs. He tasted the sweet aroma of lilacs and pine, the tang of wet soil. The tom wanted to capture the moment, fold it into the back corners of his mind. He thought of his daughter Cherrypaw, who shifted her training from the path of a warrior to that of a medicine cat. He knew she would have appreciated the small fragments of life, the sole things that inspired regrowth.
His family seemed to be a topic that entertained many a loose lip. Dysfunction. Unnatural. Those poor children. The few words Whitestep was able to pick up from their hushed voices. It pained him to see his half-siblings, Mottledpaw and Palepaw, caught up in something that they had no control over. Even Cherrypaw and Thistlepaw were sometimes swept away by the careless gossip of their clan mates. A few going so far as to question whether Starclan would accept his daughter as the future medicine cat of Starclan. At those times he felt the slow roil of anger, like molten tar, churn in his chest. He felt it drip down his ribs and pool into his stomach. His unyielding anger seemed to be a much formidable opponent than any clan cat could ever hope to be. Sloefur, his father, had always taught him that a clan was meant to be a system of support. Each feline was an elaborate piece and while two may look or act the same, each was unique in their own way. Whitestep had always sat in awe in his father’s speeches, soaking up the information and retaining what he could. But lately, as his clan mates gossiped, he couldn’t help but feel betrayed.
The summer breeze felt sticky and warm, almost heavy. It enveloped the older warrior, pulling on his fur, as if asking him to walk with it. Whitestep obliged, allowing the wind to dictate his paw steps until he found himself at the borders. Shadowclan’s territory ran to the West while Windclan stretched to the East. The oak and pine trees began to thin, the undergrowth dwindling to a few clumps of ferns. He stopped a few fox-lengths from the borders and settled back on his haunches, tail curled over his paws. At the previous gathering, there was talk of war and revenge. Accusations tore from one clan to another, creating a chasm between clans. They were afraid, behind their bold words; he remembered the stagnant stench of fear lingering among them. Whitestep found the concept hard to grasp, couldn’t even imagine what sort of feline would kill another for no reason or how kittens could wind up washed ashore—so badly decayed that they were practically unrecognizable.
His tail flickered pensively, his eyes staring out into the foreign terrain that lay ahead of him, and yet, he saw nothing.
[attr="class","fallowsnotes"]529 words for @anyone. notes. open to TC, WC, or SC