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the dark of the night [mousetooth/calpurnia]

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stag

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the dark of the night [mousetooth/calpurnia] Nov 28, 2015 0:14:18 GMT

Post by stag on Nov 28, 2015 0:14:18 GMT

MAGPIESTAR

528 words for mousetooth

Willowbreeze had always had a unique love for thunderstorms. She had been a quiet soul. But when the clouds crashed and the trees shook, something within her became vibrant. It gave her a youthful energy. In some ways, she became more alive than she had ever been. He remembered those nights, her anxious energy as she turned and shifted in their shared nest. On these rare nights all semblance of patience fled her body. It was torture simply waiting for the kits to go to sleep, for the camp to calm down and fall into shadows. When all the warriors were snug in their nests, she would tug him out into the rain – often by one ear. He had to lean his head down so she could reach. Of course her grip was gentle, her laugh muffled by his thick fur. They would slip silently from camp, often more than one senior warrior watching with mock disapproval. And in the rain, with lightning and thunder sounding above them, they would frolic. Those singular nights, they shook moons from their bones. They became children once more, splashing and chasing each other about in the rain. His eyes fluttered closed as he lost himself in the memories.

Sometimes the light of dawn would be filtering over the hills before they returned to camp, their pelts slick against their skin and their chests heaving with exertion. They would trudge back to collapse in their nest, curled around each other, feeling young once more. He still remembered their last storm. Willowbreeze had been days from giving birth to their last litter, days, barely weeks away from her own death. Even swollen and waddling with her awkward bulk she had stuck her nose into his den, smiling hopefully at him. And they had frolicked, that final time. His eyes fluttered open, Willowbreeze’s memory vanished. He sat at the very edge of his den, looking out at the sheets of rain. For the first time, he was alone amid the crack of thunder. He stood, pushing his way out. He vanished through the camp entrance. The rain poured, soaking him quickly. But he took no care. He moved automatically, wandering the length of his territory. He couldn’t return to his nest, not tonight, not until the sky was silent once more. He came upon the river bank, pausing only in his venture when he noticed a familiar shape curled amongst the pebbles.

At last, a soft smile lit his tired lips. He climbed up the steps, standing over his youngest daughter's curled figure with a bittersweet fondness. He shook his head, water still dripping from every inch of him. When he spoke, his voice was a low affectionate rumble. “You seem to have inherited your mother's love of storms.” He moved slightly away, shaking out his thick fur. He stepped back once more, dipping his head to give her ear tip the lightest of licks. Curled as she was, her coalish fur almost criss-crossed with stripes of shadow, he could almost see his beloved mate before him, a lingering memory. He wanted to believe it was her, that she’d never gone. But such an idea was ridiculous.

we never quite thought we could lose it all

Last Edit: Nov 29, 2015 16:00:04 GMT by stag

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the dark of the night [mousetooth/calpurnia] Nov 28, 2015 6:45:35 GMT

Post by Deleted on Nov 28, 2015 6:45:35 GMT

the sky is alight with lightning and the air around mousetooth is alive with the noise of thunder. it crackles above their heads, and the rain pours steadily out in riverclan territory; no doubt, the river will surely be flooded, following such a torrential downpour.

the warrior tucks herself deeper into her nest, nose secured underneath her fluffy tail-tip, as she blinks hazy eyes out at the rain. it moves in a constant flurry as one entity, in a singular sheet, and it's oddly entrancing. it was the sound that had awoken her, but it was the sight that refused to let her go back to sleep.

there's always been something about the storms that draws her in. there's beauty in the world, in every nook and corner, every place she turns her gaze to. there's beauty, even in the rain, whether it be in drizzle or in sheets, the water that replenishes the earth and keeps life going on.

it's that certain beauty in the mystery and the darkness that pulls her from the warmth and safety of her nest; she unfurls herself fluidly, like a fog, and she steps on paws that are quiet as a ghosts', trails her way around sleeping bodies to the entrance of the den.

her eyes look out across the clearing, drowned in the rain, and the sound of the water falling on the ground echoes deep within her hollow chest.

and she swears, within this moment, where her gaze has fallen upon a bush her and her mother used to sit underneath and eat fresh-kill, that she can see her. she can see willowbreeze, in all of her former beauty, in the glory she had up until her dying breaths; her pelt is outline with the multitudes of stars that hang in the sky above, shimmering with every tiny movement.

"willowbreeze," mousetooth whispers, her voice hoarse and tiny. her mother's head tilts to her youngest daughter, and her starry eyes blink; but just as quick, she turns away and she's running into the rain, out of mousetooth's sight.

without a word, without a question, without a thought, she sprints away from the entrance of the den and she follows her mother. her feet fall heavily on the muddy ground, and she nearly slips over; she forces herself upright and she runs, water soaking underneath her pelt and rain pattering heavily down onto her head. her heart and her mind are running unanimously, both tied to one single word - willowbreeze, willowbreeze, willowbreeze.

mousetooth flies, barely even noticing how soaked her pelt has gotten, her eyes locked on the sight of her mother's tail-tip disappearing behind tree trunks and bushes. her lungs ache and her chest heaves but she refuses to quit, keeps pushing and pushing.

when she loses sight of her mother's starry frame, she's at the river. she screams her name once, looking around wildly, refusing to give up her search; but willowbreeze is gone, once again, and mousetooth is doubtful that she'll ever return. "please come back," she whispers as soon as she regains her breath, tilting her chin up to peer accusingly up at the stars as rain patters down against her forehead. "i need you. magpiestar needs you. we're lost without you."

yet, she knows it's futile, and her heart aches all the more for it. she pads on numb paws to the river's edge and stares into the glassy surface of the water, broken only by the rain falling upon it, and she stares into her own eyes. her empty, cold eyes, that are the same as her mother's but lack the spirit willowbreeze always had burning within her.

if she'd had her mother's spirit, like she always wished that she had, then the two would be nearly impossible to tell apart. their faces were identical, except for mousetooth's deformity - the teeth her mother always claimed that she loved her all the more for. but she hated them, despised them, wanted nothing to do with them. they were just a mark of how she'd never live to be half the cat her mother was.

the chill has seeped into her fur and onto her skin, and is slowly creeping its way into her bones. the storm is beautiful in its rage and anger as it pours down over her sullen face and shivering, shaking body; it has all the beauty of her mother, and she understands now why her mother loved the storms so much.

she ponders over going back to camp before she catches a cough and dies, but instead of leaving, she lays upon the pebbles stubbornly and looks out across the surface of the swollen river. and so be it, she thinks bitterly. if i die here tonight, so be it.

and there, the she-cat stays, quivering in the cold but refusing to move. until someone else approaches, their heavy paws falling over the ground audible over the crackle of lightning and roar of thunder. for whatever reason, she still doesn't move, not even when they stand behind her. perhaps it's because she knows, instinctively, that it would be her father, as they were tied together to the storms as they were to her mother.

"you seem to have inherited your mother's love of storms," comes his voice, and she doesn't stir, not even when he licks the tip of her ear in comfort.

the storm is beautiful, in all of its mystery and capability to give life just as well as it can take it, and for that, she does not love it. mousetooth turns her eyes upon him, tilting her chin to take in his massive form; his skin clings to his body and she can count the knobs of his spine poking between his thick, soaked fur. it's then that she realizes how fragile and old her father has become, and how limited their time is together.

she can see, within his eyes, the love he had for her mother, is the same love that he has for her. she tilts her head forward, pressing her nose against his.

stag | 1,011

Last Edit: Dec 1, 2015 2:23:09 GMT by Deleted

stag

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the dark of the night [mousetooth/calpurnia] Nov 29, 2015 15:58:58 GMT

Post by stag on Nov 29, 2015 15:58:58 GMT

MAGPIESTAR

726 words for mousetooth

Seven million, seven hundred seventy six thousand seconds. One hundred twenty nine thousand, six hundred minutes. Two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours. Ninety days. Three moons. There were a hundred ways to say it, to think it, to count it up and down. Magpiestar knew this for a fact. He had counted it each and every way. None made any difference to him. In a way, they were all meaningless numbers. He could have babbled on and on, counted until not another breath whisped from his cracked lips. Others had reached the brink of insanity over less. He'd seen them, those rare fragile souls. Their minds had been destroyed, become obsessively focused on something insignificant, so insignificant as to render them almost completely unable to function. Of course he'd seen other forms of infirmity too. He'd watched his father slowly lose his grasp of time, lose it until he no longer knew his son as his leader, and wandered the camp searching for a long-dead mate. Such searching, dwelling on things that couldn't be changed, it was destructive. It sucked the life from one's eyes, the strength from their bones, occasionally even the will to live.

Magpiestar knew this, intimately. Despite the meaningless of those numbers, he was acutely aware of them. Even if he hadn't counted every moment, he'd felt each second of her absence. It ached and throbbed in him with each beat of his heart. Seven million, seven hundred seventy-six thousand, and one. The seasons had turned, and life without her had gone on. And yet simultaneously it had stopped, for him at least. He knew, though of course he wouldn't dwell on such things, that below the soft spring dirt, his beloved mate's body would be nothing but bones. She would be the grinning skull from his nightmares, not the soft beauty he had loved into old age. Even in death, time would take its toll. Time was the great equalizer. It brought them all down, one by one. There was no difference between any of them - loner or clan, leader or apprentice, prey or predator. One day, perhaps in the not so distant future, Magpiestar too would be reduced to bones. And then even those would fade away, would crumble to dust. All memory of him, all record, would be gone. He knew such a thought might have disturbed others. His peers had an entirely reasonable desire to leave some mark, to be remembered. But he, for his part, was resigned to fall out of memory, to be forgotten. It was the way of the world, and the fate of them all.

So many had fallen silent, loathe to even whisper her name for fear of crushing their elderly leader. For indeed, though he was reluctant to admit to such a thing, Magpiestar was passing into the final stages of his life. In a strange way, what his clan feared to do was what he needed most. He needed to hear her name, to know that she hadn't been forgotten. He feared otherwise that when he died, all traces of her memory would die with him.

But that wasn't entirely true either. Her nose pressed into him, sending a trickle of warmth through his cheeks. It danced along his nerves, leaving a trail of memories. He breathed in, closed his eyes, allowed them to flitter open once more. Mousetooth stood before him, the peek of her canines bright in the dim light. She would remember. She would carry the memories. He spoke quietly, his voice low. "She used to stream through the reeds, leaping up with cries of joy at every clap of thunder." This secret little past-time, this guilty pleasure, they had never shared with their children. It had been private, a thing between lovers, old friends, confidants, soul-mates. But Magpiestar sensed that perhaps Willowbreeze, gone these past moons, was the only thing that could connect him and his eldest child. "She always waited until the camp was dark, until her youngest children were asleep in their nests. She said the storms gave life." He smiled softly at the memory, his mate's passionate words. He could hear her voice echoing with each clap of thunder. This is life, Magpie. Not the streams, not the mice that scamper through the undergrowth. It's this! Don't ever miss it.

we never quite thought we could lose it all

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the dark of the night [mousetooth/calpurnia] Dec 2, 2015 0:16:08 GMT

Post by Deleted on Dec 2, 2015 0:16:08 GMT

with every shift of her tiny shoulders, mousetooth could feel the soaked wetness of her pelt acutely. the rain had slowed into a drizzle over their heads; water dripped into her eyes and she blinked away the fogginess of her vision, peering up through the rain at her father's face tiredly. her bones ached with weariness and she knew, at that moment, that they would both end up in nettleheart's den the following day.

her, because no matter the fact that she was raised on the river, her body wasn't made to be soaked with water for extended periods of time; him, because no matter how many times he had done this before with her mother, his body wasn't as young as it once was. she shivered just at thinking of it, thanking starclan for the rain lessening up through the sky, because they were to be out there for a long, long while.

tilting her head up from her father's green eyes (like her mother's, they were both such beautiful in their iridescence), mousetooth's gaze moved upon the stars of silverpelt. within it's mass, the millions of stars that symbolized fallen warriors; it sunk like a stone within her that the willowbreeze she had seen, so vibrant and elegant under the night sky (seemingly made of the stars themselves), had been a mere figment of her tired imagination.

swallowing the lump in her throat, she unfurled herself from the pebbles she had laid upon, not even bothering to begin to wash the water from her pelt. she blinks more water out of her eyes and turns her chin to her father, blinking at him quietly. mousetooth saw willowbreeze in everything. in the trees, in the river, in the breeze, in the camp, in littlepaw's eyes, but especially so in her father's eyes - in his eyes lived her memory.

perhaps he felt something akin, for he took in a deep breath, his pelt shining dimly underneath the starry sky, eyes blazing with determined fire. "she used to stream through the reeds, leaping up with cries of joy at every clap of thunder. she always waited until the camp was dark, until her youngest children were asleep in their nests. she said the storms gave life."

and although he said nothing of the sorts, mousetooth knew that he was sharing with her something intimate and secret, perhaps a story that would never be told again by him. a story that had never been shared before, she guessed, by the faraway, haunted look in his eyes - he was remembering something distant, a memory that would fade with him as his mind slowly became more and more frail. it was a story that would've died with him had he not ever told her, and a story that now became her responsibility to carry on, long after he was gone.

she'd been afraid to speak her mother's name, as many had been. they were terrified to cast him even further away than the death of his mate already had, but maybe, that had been exactly what he needed all along. to know that willowbreeze's memory, her legacy, her lineage, would not die with him; it would live and thrive with every one of her children, and the future grandchildren that she was never given the chance to see.

"she isn't forgotten," mousetooth responds, blinking her rain-wet eyes at her father. "we were all so scared of hurting you, but that wasn't what you needed, was it? you needed to know that we wouldn't forget her. that we won't forget you. she'll never be forgotten, magpiestar; her legacy was too great to be left behind. she was loved by so many."

stag | 617

stag

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the dark of the night [mousetooth/calpurnia] Dec 8, 2015 0:11:06 GMT

Post by stag on Dec 8, 2015 0:11:06 GMT

MAGPIESTAR

630 words for mousetooth

As chaotic as it was, life had a strange consistency to it. As the rain slowed from a pour to a patter and finally the lightest of drizzles, Magpiestar was struck by the quiet fact. A single lingering drop, fat and full, rolled down his muzzle and dripped languidly onto the earth beneath his paws. There was no space for it here upon his body, no single hair left dry enough to soak it up. And so it had fallen to the ground, fallen to be sucked eagerly into the greedy earth. It would find a place there until the sun rose again, until the heat of its rays brought the little drop out from the earth and back into the sky. Eventually, it would fall again - cycling ever back and forth. It may have clung to the earth, or to the cloud from which it was birthed, but in the end it would always be ripped away - forced to fulfill its heavenly purpose. It was a violent sort of reality. And yet, as the darkness settled ever thicker around them, Magpiestar found it oddly comforting. There were some things that were truly unchanging, truly unmarked by the cares and sorrows of the small.

For that was what they were - for all their blusterings, for all their cries and posturings, for all their sins of pride. They were small creatures, insignificant even. His gaze lifted towards the slowly clearing skies, seeking out the light of even a single star. Though he would never have said such a thing aloud, never even perhaps have admitted to such a blasphemous thought, he wondered at times whether they could truly lay claim to those lights. Could they expect to grasp the heavens as their own realm, to lay claim to something beyond their fragile understanding? Or were those lights, as so many had been, simply a comfort to the small, the weak and the proud. None was more acutely aware of the price of pride than he. At their center, at the core of their beings, they were all creatures of pride, and perhaps of hope. For every war that was fought, every battle ground sullied, there lay those two conflicting identities. Pride in what they were, in how they lived, in being as they had always been. And hope - hope that it would continue, that their fragile stability would not be shattered in this precarious moment.

He pulled his gaze down from the sky, turning it instead to rest upon his child. With her fur plastered to her small frame, huddled there in the darkness, she appeared impossibly small. Her very image seemed to waver before him, shimmering between the kitten she had been and the warrior she had become. There was a fortitude there, encased in silence and downcast eyes, one he wished he understood. He smiled gently, shifting to press close to her despite their soaked pelts. He rested his chin atop her head, the quietest of purrs rumbling in his throat. It was a cautious sort of purr, as if attempting to remember how to begin. "We all fear being forgotten, my child. We fear the loss of our very existence." He paused, withdrawing his chin so he could look Mousetooth in the eye. "But this is never what I feared for your mother, never what I feared for Willowbreeze." Her name sat between them for a moment before he continued. "Memory is only a fragment of what we are. Our truest selves are passed to those we leave behind. In you, in your sister, she remains never to be forgotten." He fell silent then, keeping his true fear to himself. So much of him had existed in her, did anything of him exist without her?

we never quite thought we could lose it all