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Post by tor on Apr 9, 2024 14:17:49 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/5jdDtKc/hawthorn~jpg It was peaceful, now that the collection of historian apprentices finally agreed to leave them alone, returning to camp to pick up what warrior duties remained for them. No amount of deafness could quiet the energy of having so many cats in their space, and Hawthorntail was grateful to return to their comfortable silence, having humored their companions for the better part of the morning. Like this, they could focus all of their attention on the Stonemark in front of them, and the work that needed to be done after the last leaf-bare storm. Luckily, stone was sturdy against snow, and none of the new etchings had cracked too badly from frozen water expanding into ice. Most of the Stonemark had been cleared off after a morning of group work, leaving Hawthorntail with just a small swath of recent history remaining. Not too recent, they supposed, eyes following the lines that told the story of Wolfstar's war, but recent enough that most of their clanmates still felt the stinging toll of loss. They felt it, too. Nightheart would still be here, had they not suffered from a wound that never really healed, dealt by a RidgeClan warrior charging them down. Should they note that in the stone? Nightheart's death was noted further down - it was the first task they bestowed on themself as historian, back when the season first changed. Maybe it would be prudent to include when Nightheart's death began, and not just when StarClan finally took them away. Or maybe it would be morbid. They weren't sure. They could ask the approaching cat for their opinion. Hawthorn hadn't turned to look at them, but they could feel the vibrations in the earth as someone approached. "Hello," they said to the cat, though their eyes remained on the etchings of war before them. "I wasn't expecting guests." |
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Post by Jaecarys on May 2, 2024 13:15:09 GMT -6
#s://d~l3n~co/i/R1pF3P~png | dawnclaw, there's a fire deep in my soul, i'm gonna rise up like the legends of old. |
Dawnclaw typically found himself at the Stonemark when it was deserted. It was easier to run his eyes across the foreign markings when he was alone. There was some sort of shame, or embarrassment that came with his fascination, an echo of his father’s scorn. Sunstorm would mock him for his interest in MistClan’s sacred tradition. Who was to say his clanmates wouldn’t? Did they still look at him and see a RidgeClanner with no right to know their ways? Stop it, he told himself. It had been a year; Sunstorm’s lingering presence in his mind was getting fucking old. His big paws scuffed on the rocky dust of the Stonemark as he passed through its maw. It wasn’t a cave to swallow him whole, still with a clear view of the narrow sky above, and yet still it was a living thing. Maybe it was its proximity to the moonpool. Or maybe it was more than the presence of their ancestors here. This was the history of the Clan in its entirety, the tales of lifetimes etched into stone. A lengthy history he wasn’t a part of—none of his lineage was recorded here. In part, it was good. Sunstorm didn’t deserve such immortality. But Hemlockheart did. There was no grave to visit. No markings on the wall. His mother only lived in his memory, the sharp details of her face smoothing out, eroded by the passage of time. Dawn wasn’t watching where he was going, absorbed in hopelessly trying to make sense of the patterns, but his nose was as sharp as his vigilance. Just before rounding a small bend in the crag, a familiar scent reached him: Hawthorntail. For as long as he’d been here, he’d yet to find time to really talk to the historian. He’d like to say it was simply because the other tom was just elusive, but he’d be lying. Nerves held him at bay. It took him half a moment to decipher what the tom was saying, and his ears burned with guilt. He needed to learn to sign better. Even if Hawnthorntail weren’t on the council, it wasn’t fair to keep a barrier like deafness between them. ”I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted,” he slowly said as he approached. He followed the historian’s attention to the markings before him—the ones that had been blatantly fresh when he’d first joined the Clan. His ears swiveled back, and he murmured as he signed, ”These are about the war, aren’t they?” |
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