Post by stag on Dec 23, 2015 0:22:18 GMT
MAGPIESTAR
698 words for riverclan
His paws were lead. He felt as if they weighed him down, held him prisoner to the ground. He couldn’t bring himself to stand. But an urgency pounded in his ears, it screeched, pleaded with him to find the strength to stand. A guilt washed over him, as if he would scream out his apologies. He was just too weak, too exhausted. He’d been beaten down, battered. His body was a shell, his spirit only a ghost of his former strength and confidence. And yet he knew, with certainty, he needed to stand. Once more, he needed to rise, and be the leader his clan was so desperately in need of. Moss and lichen cushioned his head, encouraged him not to move. It blanketed him in warmth. The light in his den was dim, filtering through the gorse curtain. Outside, he could hear the patter of busy paws. Apprentices were training, more than one ran about fetching supplies for Nettleheart. Warriors moved with caution, whispering fearfully amongst each other. There was the echo of perpetual mourning, the specter of death lurking around every corner. It stalked his warriors, his apprentices, his clan. And it showed in their wide eyes, their darting glances.
A growl echoed in the back of his throat. He forced his paws flat, forced himself to stand. His legs, once weak with age and grief, now held strong beneath him. His eyes hardened. He was sick, at heart, dying from the inside out. But the others, the clan that needed hope, couldn’t know of such a thing. He shook out his fur, the shaggy patched hair. He held his head high, gave his chest a few swift licks. The place at his side had been empty for far too long. When he fell, another would rise to take his place. Magpiestar would in one fell swoop became legend and ancestor, no more than a new tale. And in that moment, a new story would begin. One young tom's "once upon a time" was already far too late. And his clan deserved a distraction, something with which to pretend they could survive. No, this wasn’t pretending, wasn’t a playact. They would survive. They had to. He pushed through the gorse curtain, emerging into the winter light. The camp was quiet. Sets of eyes flicked to him, watched his form, waited. He would raise his voice, loud enough that they could hear his message of hope.
He turned, bunching his muscles. They creaked slightly with protest, but he ignored this. He sprang, forcing himself to bound up one stone after the other. He climbed higher, his heart pounding as breath whooshed in and out of his lungs. He sucked in the cold air gratefully, a new adrenaline and strength to his old bones. Once, it had been as if a hundred moons of life had been sucked from him – stolen away like his darling mate. But he rose today to reclaim that life, to reclaim every stolen life. He flicked his ears, moving to the edge of the Pebblerock. He stood high, taking a moment to let the pale light illuminate him – a figure of strength, of power, of an answer to their desperation. There were warriors, waiting for their hope, their rising king. His voice rang out over the clearing, commanding. “Let all cats old enough to catch their own prey gather below the Pebblerock for a clan meeting!” He looked out across the clearing, beyond the island and to the river that sustained them. Perhaps, for a single day, they could be oblivious. He needed their strength. For as he spoke, memories were rushing back. Once upon a time, he had performed a similar ceremony for his own precious children. He had looked to the Nursery, watched for Willowbreeze to appear, a new generation at her heels. He pushed this memory away, holding his head high as the warriors and apprentices began to gather. Again, his voice boomed out – a slow smile curling out over his lips.
“The time has come, my children, for the birth of a new leader, the prelude, the harkening of a new era.”
we are like the earth and sky
