frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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sopping
Jun 24, 2024 11:17:37 GMT -6
Post by trashheap on Jun 24, 2024 11:17:37 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/pM1nlE6~png Morning could not have dawned in a more unceremonious fashion. It came upon them with the low bellows of a storm. Dormant thunder nestled in distended clouds; air made muggy by suspended condensation; winds made laggardly by the weight of the laden air. Hardly the conditions for a hunt, or a patrol, or anything for that matter that did not involve a den roof over one’s head, and yet Stagleap had been sent nonetheless, and Needlestorm—the poor unfortunate—with him. Together, they toiled through fields and forests. Up inclines of old, weathered stones and down beaten trails left by the hard, hoofed feet of larger ungulates. The going was slow, though fruitful. By the time they walked along the fringes of Cairn Peak, they each had a morsel between them to return with—a pittance to earn their way back to their nests and shelter away from the rain that was surely coming. Already, Stagleap imagined his own nest. Feather down and moss. Dry, familiar. Unlike the muddy earth underfoot. Slippery stones. Panting breath and mugginess under fur. Things which sang of discomfort; things that did not suit him. Nor did they suit his companion. He studied her in that lazy way he had, eyes flirting over lean contours and supple, rolling steps. Potency and femininity both. A suiting amalgamation for one of Firetongue’s own kin. “ Is it just me, or is it getting darker,” he murmured softly and drew his eyes from the swaying of her hips to the turning of green eyes. Verdant. Like the pine and the grass and all things growing. A contrast to the blues and apricots surrounding it. “ We should find shelter before it comes down on us. I'd prefer not to get wet” His eyes flicked skyward, then down again. He waited, and in the waiting, a peel of sound, a sigh, a hiss, and the open fields of stone and grass were shelled in pelting rain. A coolness swamped the summer’s heat. Their fur slicked against their slender frames, and it was not a matter of when they might take shelter, but where, for they hurried on and came into the burial grounds where many dead lie and tucked away into a tight cavern of stone and weed growths. They stooped in the cramped cavern and peered out into the rain, and Stagleap, exhilarated by their plunge, could not help but laugh and fix Needlestorm with a brazen stare. “ You should have seen your face,” he murmured teasingly, smiling in that sardonic way he had, his voice lulling, satin. “ Like a childs.” He leaned toward her. “ Were you afraid?” |
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sopping
Jun 28, 2024 13:51:24 GMT -6
Post by tor on Jun 28, 2024 13:51:24 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/GkZMSqm/needle2~png A cat with greater propensity for dramatics might say morning never came, trapping the world in the pale, dull gray of just before dawn. Needlestorm was not that cat. She acknowledged the grayness of the world with a frown, then dutifully set off on patrol alongside Stagleap, uncaring of the heavy clouds that blanketed the sky. The rest of the world seemed to care about the threat of a storm. There was hardly a trace of prey to be found, and not a single thing along the border to be concerned about. Needlestorm thought she could sense Stagleap getting antsier the longer this fruitless patrol went on. Her tail flicked in annoyance as they diverted toward the north, then settled when she realized they were on the trail to Cairn Peak. Maybe they would return with empty paws, but this patrol wouldn't be pointless if they could spend a few moments with their kin. By the time Stagleap spoke, some of the first words uttered between them since they left camp, the sky had darkened significantly and they both carried thin catches — prey caught scrambling between the rocks of the peak. "I'd prefer not to get wet."He's doomed us, she thought in the silence that followed, knowing Stagleap expected a response but not offering the other warrior anything but a small nod. And then, sure enough, rain crashed down from the sky as if they had insulted the heavens by not being concerned about the looming storm sooner. They both looked frail like this — bodies plastered with rain, pelts clinging tightly to their frames, thin from the recent leaf-bare. Still, despite being little more than a skeleton with personality, Stagleap sauntered onward, and Needlestorm slipped elegantly behind him. The cavern they found kept them in closer proximity to each other than she was interested in, but offered a fair view of the burial stones that marked graves. She could pay respect to the departed from this distance, she thought. So long as Stagleap did not insist too much on speaking. "You should have seen your face." Her doom was her own fault this time. "Like a child's." Needlestorm scowled. "Were you afraid?"
"Afraid?" She asked, letting offense drip from every sound. "Of the rain? I think you were. You spent all morning looking at the clouds, instead of pressing your nose to earth to find more prey." Except, she knew full well their meager hunt was neither of their faults. She also knew that Stagleap was her friend, and meant no offense to his tease. It was in her nature to take offense to everything he said, was all. She flicked her ears to dismiss the harsh edge to her voice and spoke flatly. "I will admit, the sudden sound startled me." |
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frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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sopping
Jul 24, 2024 11:02:19 GMT -6
Post by trashheap on Jul 24, 2024 11:02:19 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/pM1nlE6~png It was like her to bite back. Stagleap took a particular pleasure in it; it was the nature of their banter. So unlike that which he shared with her brother-kin, but not unwanted. Nor did it displease him, only set the corners of his mouth into their playful curlings as he leaned back from her, let her anger putter out to a dull smoldering. At the very least, a sign that the worst of the affront had passed. And with it, a sullen admittance: “I will admit, the sudden sound startled me.” “ I know it did. It frightened me, too,” he murmured softly and turned again to the fields below. Grave pits lay before them, covered in earth new and old, bellying the dead of their ranks—of names known and unknown. In the kit-tales, weather such as this urged them from their earthen tombs to prowl the earth—ghost-shapes in the haze. To come near was to invite their malice or good fortunes. Stagleap had no intentions of testing which his presence might incite. The cave was shelter enough, and the view was more than acceptable, though he could see no ghost shapes in it nor hear the wails and moans of itinerant specters. Perhaps they are too tired this day. “ It is unfortunate that we would find ourselves holed here. If you believe the stories, we are inviting the capricious nature of the ancestors.” His eyes flitted over her face, gauging in it the effect of his words. Some, though not many, did not heed the stars as reverently as others. Stagleap among them, though there was a time in his youth where he had fancied them and prayed to them most devoutly. Only, he had quickly learned that only so many words could be spared to those who do not talk back, and the stars, he found, were adamant in their silence. “ Here’s hoping we have their good graces…” and his eyes shifted in the dark mask of his face. They would be here a while. Better not to spend it wastefully. “ …or do you not believe in such things? I never took you for the spiritual type. But I've been wrong about you before.” |
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sopping
Aug 22, 2024 9:24:24 GMT -6
Post by tor on Aug 22, 2024 9:24:24 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/GkZMSqm/needle2~png Stagleap ran his mouth before Needlestorm could take any comfort in the soft way he admitted his own fright. It didn't surprise her. He wasn't a cat who existed in the quiet moments, no matter how much more she would like him if he was. "If you believe the stories, we are inviting the capricious nature of the ancestors." If. If she believed the stories. She knew Stagleap to be a fool, but not a skeptic, and certainly not a skeptic who made others seemed skeptical in his wake. Annoyed, she merely flicked her tail in response, and let him continue. "Here’s hoping we have their good graces…" She knew she did. "Or do you not believe in such things? I never took you for the spiritual type. But I've been wrong about you before."To that, she had no response. His ignorance left her dumbstruck. She stared at the tom, her jaw tight but expression neutral, and reminded herself that longevity in friendship meant nothing when it came to really knowing another cat. "You are wrong about me now," she said cooly. She could give him more — explain why he was wrong, how he had insulted her with his skepticism. But, despite the fondness she felt for him, Needlestorm didn't think he deserved such an explanation. "Our ancestors aren't beholden to their moods, like we are," she said instead, eyes locked on the space between sky and earth, where rain hovered for a heartbeat before colliding into the graves dotting the peak. "Don't insult them by suggesting otherwise." A drop of rain splattered too close to the entrance, tossing wet dirt toward her. She twitched her whiskers in annoyance. "They led us here for a reason." She refused to think being stuck in such tight quarters with Stagleap was an accident. "You would do better to sit and listen and find out why." |
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frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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sopping
Aug 26, 2024 19:33:10 GMT -6
Post by trashheap on Aug 26, 2024 19:33:10 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/pM1nlE6~png Though Needlestorm did not rebut him with anger, there was a tautness about eye and mouth that would suggest his words had an ill effect on her. So she is the spiritual type—indeed, it would seem so, as she told him rather cooly that he was wrong and with an air that suggested any further delving into the matter would earn him further clipped words.
Stagleap left the matter alone. In circumstances like this, it was best not to muddy the air with grievances. Not when there was nowhere to flee to or any respite from any angry business that might crop up between. Better to save such occasions when a speedy retreat could be managed than to endure it at the far dredges of the world, holed up in some sodden cave with the aforementioned dead plodding and wriggling up from their internment in the dirt.
Instead, he allowed her to speak on in that far-away way that he had grown accustomed to in those who put faith in the dead and all the wisdom affiliated with them. She spoke of them as though they were wholly impartial—unbeholden to their moods but partial to any insults that might evoke them.
And at the end, there were still more ominous words. “They led us here for a reason. You would do better to sit and listen and find out why.”
Chastised, he sat in the heavy gloom. His pale eyes blinked, his ears pushed forward to the unbroken hiss of rain on consecrated earth. He sought the voices in the perennial stillness but heard only the thrum of his own heart, the soft sigh of their breathing intermingled in the confines of that increasingly cramped space.
The air had taken a chill despite the mugginess of the morning. Steam hissed and faded in the wake of the unremitting downpour. Rising, he spoke, his voice ringing too loud in what had been moments of uninterrupted quiet: “But I am listening. There is only rain.” He padded closer until he came abreast of his companion. “I prefer conversation—with the living, not the dead. I have found they never have very much to say.”
His eyes regarded her appreciatively, as they always did. The corners of his mouth curled into a goading smile, “Won’t you humor me? Just until the rain stops?” |
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