dew drops and morning songs (wolfman mid)

cragback of skyclan
all night hearing voices, telling me that i should get some sleep

    It is difficult with cloud cover to tell sunlight from moonlight, but the dark gray body, whose coloring is much like the sky pregnant with rain, is trained to sense the comings of morn as night ebbs to day. The warrior stirs in his nest, eyes of faint yellow cracking open in thin slits. Some of his denmates have already risen, perhaps to see what prey has been flushed from its home by the rain. It had been a gentle storm starting in the thick of the moon’s time, the thunder having had a particularly lulling effect as the patter of raindrops echoed it in a steady rhythm. Now, however, the den around him lacks its previous shadow as sunlight begins to filter in from the woven ceiling.

    Cragback gives a great yawn before pushing himself up with his large paws. He stretches in a great arch first, and then pulls himself forward with his haunches in the air. He feels his joints stretch and pop accordingly, his back leg doing a particularly wicked twinge as he attempts to extend it backward. He is used to that though, the only acknowledgment a brief, distasteful flicker of his whiskers.

    When he emerges from the Warrior’s Den, he comes to realize, despite the sun’s light shafting down through the grayish clouds it is still raining a bit. The smell of it is sharp against his nostrils, and he can even taste the heaviness of it on his tongue. Some of the Clan litter about the clearing but do not stay in one place for too long, either setting out to accomplish their given task or grab fresh-kill and return to their dens for a dry place to eat. The ground underpaw is wet as Cragback moves forward, having to pick up his protesting back leg with every step.

  His injury is always worse in the morning just when he wakes. Even the conditions of the sky seem to affect it, as if it has a mind of its own. Rain always makes it ache, he’s come to find. But as the senior warrior presses towards the camp entrance, the sharpness of it subsides to a much duller throb, and he is able to put weight on it once more.

   The sparse droplets dot his pelt as he moves, making his dark fur cling black against his skin. Perhaps he would go for a hunt. That is, after he gets a good walk out his back leg, Cragback learning it helps to have the muscles warmed before doing anything that could prove strenuous. He cannot help the sneer that marks his face; though he has adjusted to his circumstance, it is absurd that he’s had to go through so much discovery on his own. StarClan should have at least given him a guide via one of their cosmic dreams; that would have been the least they could have done for him aside from letting it not happen at all.

  Padding across the glade, Cragback notices the ginger-hued Brightfeather. He cannot remember the last time they'd spoken or gone a patrol together. He and the younger warrior have not spend much time together though, in general; they'd not grown up together either as Cragback had still been in the midst of his recovery when she’d been born. The broad-shouldered tom can remember the death of her mother, Birdthroat, distantly, but that is all his mind can conjure up to her backstory.

  With a pang of the wrought loneliness that he brings upon himself, Cragback subconsciously reaches out to her. She is known to be quite kind, he can recall, and wouldn’t be the worst of company. "Brightfeather?" His rough voice calls, limp slightly more noticeable as he quickens his pace to catch up.

skyy and her socks

because tomorrow might be good for something

cragback of skyclan
all night hearing voices, telling me that i should get some sleep

    Cragback has to consciously remind himself not to balk and lower his head with pinned ears at the sound of her cheery reply. He had approached her, he has to remind himself. He might as well have had a piece of old prey stuck between his back-most teeth that gives him constant grief with the way he broods and sulks and grumbles and snaps. Alas, his injury, the ultimate excuse for such behavior. For him, it feels as though it is ancient history; ancient history that just doesn’t want to seem to let him free. StarClan must have a vendetta for him, for some unknown, awful reason. As if to rub salt in the festering wounds on his spirit, Cragback recalls his young life with an almost visible beginnings of a snarl. What had he done to deserve such a life?

    At the sight of bubbling and mirthful Brightfeather, he cannot help his feelings of jealousy. This happens with almost any able-bodied cat, to be sure, but something about cats with a boundlessly happy outlook really rubs his fur in the coarsest way possible. However, Cragback must admit the sincerity that lies beneath her every word seems to reach out to him, and the dark tabby just might reach back.

    When she finishes speaking, Cragback feels panic rise up on him, rather unexpectedly, at the thought of her leaving him to his own devices. ”No!” He growls suddenly, trying to hide the fact that the thick fur along his spine rose up as a result by flattening the hairs back down through the grace of a deep, practiced inhale.

    ”No, I, uh,” the crippled warrior clears his throat, stiffening as a trailing tail tip flickers across him. Her scent lingers beside him, unsure of what to do considering personal space is something he takes great lengths to avoid even accidental touching. It is no trouble to let his siblings share tongues with him or the fact that their trio of nests are clumped close together in the fun. For his Clanmates, however, Cragback has a rather bleak outlook on touching so unnecessarily. He allows Brightfeather, however, this privilege without so much as flinching.

    ”I have no pressing duties at the moment, is what I mean to say.” He offers her a strange attempt at a smile.

skyy and her socks

because tomorrow might be good for something

cragback of skyclan
all night hearing voices, telling me that i should get some sleep

    Cragback can breathe again, glad that he had not ruined the kind offer with his own wretched temperament. He shakes himself, sending a ripple effect across his charcoal-striped fur and consequently sending the gathered drizzle from his pelt in a misty cascade onto the grass. He moves after her, staying in league with her steps. His body bobbed a bit with every pawstep forward, almost in a severe way; soon, his limp would ease, though it took practiced steeling to keep his face from twisting into ugly agony.

    The world around them is quiet, the light but encompassing cloud cover overhead providing something like a blanket. As the rain began to taper, his ear twitches following the call of a lark. Pale yellow irises flick towards the ginger she-cat a bit apprehensively, studying the zig-zags of darker fur along her cheeks, examining her translucent whiskers that flicker faintly as a pink nose scents the damp morning air. However, when her head moves in his direction, his face snaps forward self-consciously.

    His refusal to interact with most everycat on a daily basis leaves him a bit—awkward, at times.

    Her words surprise him slightly, Cragback unintentionally slowing in his crippled gait to process them. He had been caught off guard by the depth of them, and even more so by the amount of which he sympathizes with the sentiment. Brightfeather’s warm expression stirs a strange feeling in him alongside the blatant candor in her meow. He makes a noise like a blubber at first before clearing his throat and catching up with her.

    However, the seasoned warrior doesn’t particularly enjoy the rainfall, being that the humidity seems to always cause his injury to have a particularly unpleasant twinge to it. “It is a nice smell.” Is all he can think of to say, not really wanting to burden her with his negativity. Though, admittedly it hadn’t been his best one-liner.

    Cragback tries to seek out the advice of his sister, Dawnstrike. He can picture her teasing him mostly, about spending time with a pretty she-cat. Though, in many ways, he couldn’t disagree with that; after all, Brightfeather resembles his siblings to an extent, and he had always thought his sister is probably the most attractive female of SkyClan. But he is also rather partial to both Ginger-root and Dawnstrike, the two practically being his lifeline to sanity.

    His tail flickers a bit nervously, having embarrassed himself inwardly. “Uh, so…” The smoky tabby tries desperately to rake his mind for anything he actually knows about Brightfeather. But he comes up rather empty-pawed. She is nearly thirty moons his junior, the more cynical part of his personality thinking what could they possibly have in common?

skyy and her socks

because tomorrow might be good for something