Post by Gemini on Oct 22, 2020 18:00:03 GMT -5
Badgerscar had found himself sitting outside the Warriors' Den, his thick pelage ruffled from the zephyr that pulled through, a scowl crossing his countenance at the crisp temperature of the passing wind. He swallowed thickly, shaking his crania as he glimpsed upon his large, alabaster foundations. This is not my type of evening, but before it gets to dark, I might as well head out before I become drowsy. Though, if I go out, I could become restless. He continued to ponder, raising his visage back to the horizon line, blinking slowly. The voluminous tom's embodiment raised to his appendages, tassel swaying behind his rump. Green pools scrutinized his normal exit out of camp, append extending toward the location. Black Woods.
Badgerscar put on his midnight paws and prowled into the thickening night, though it was only dusk. In the stillness his ears could tell him things that were drown out in the daytime. Other clanners, how he despised them with their dirty aroma. The tom raised his velveteens to the sky, a kiss of dampness hung ready to meet the tender earth. He switched his tassel left to right as if to rid himself of the gathering tension that came with a hunt. Moving down the garden paths with the slink all true felines possess, talons still sheathed, his mind surged sending tingles right to his toes. He shook his thoughts from a hunt, chuckling softly to himself. Who am I kidding, I can't hunt. His physique tensed, wishing he could've.
Upon the forest floor lie trees of yesteryear, fallen in storms long forgotten. The forest fire had been harsh those moons ago, stripping away the bark and outer layers, yet rendering them all the more beautiful. They have the appearance of charred driftwood, twisting in patterns that remind Badgerscar of ripple waters; even the color of the moss is kelp-like. They are soft, damp, yet his paws come away dry. The feline tilted his head upward, feeling his fur tumble further down his back; the pines are several tail-lengths tall, reaching toward the golden rays of spring. Birdsong comes in lulls and bursts, the silence and the singing working together as well as any improvised melody. A new smile paints itself upon his countenance, his rose-pink disambiguation semi-illuminated by the dappled light that whisked away. Before he knew it his paws have begun to strut once more, body and mind both on autopilot - it's almost night, but who would be expecting him back at camp? No one.
When the last sun-rays of the day kiss the heathland, when the greens and purples melt into grey under the moonlight, that's when the warren empties and the rabbits are out to forage and play. They move slowly, lolloping in their ungainly way, grazing as they go. At the slightest noise they're up on their hind legs, black eyes staring in more directions than the feline could himself. Sometimes he'd watch them for a while, just because he needed to eat, it didn't mean he didn't appreciate nature. If only he could get the job done for a successful hunt. A hunt may take more than a couple minutes for this herculean tomcat.
The blackness before him had a velvet quality, like the air had been thickened somehow. Without an upwards glance Badgerscar knew it was star speckled and cloudless. He glanced downward to the path he knew to be harsh by the feel under his digits to find that twilight was over, other than admiring the constellations above, his eyes were useless until the dawn. He enjoyed gazing upon all the fallen warriors, wondering what each of their lives have possibly carried. He'd spend time thinking about different scenarios and how warriors may have lived and passed
Night had fallen fast upon the land. No more than an hour ago the sky was painted with hues of red, orange and pink, but all color had faded leaving only a matte black canvas with no stars to be looked upon. The darkness was thick, though he could see quite well with his adaptive vision. Other than the darkness and himself all that seemed to exist was the chilly wind that’s harsh bite could be felt through his cloak of fur. He could feel the furs on his skin raised and the bite of the wind had left its mark in the form of small bumps that were tingling his embodiment, but its bite was more than flesh deep. His blood ran cold through his veins and his bones were chilled. The length of his fur was thickened normally warm, but the heat did not reach his epidermis. He remained close to himself.
no one is actually dead,
until the ripples they caused in the world die away.
credit to nat of adoxography.