drowning dreams mercilessly || TAGGED Oct 27, 2020 1:45:22 GMT -6
Post by dumpster on Oct 27, 2020 1:45:22 GMT -6
The winds had raged and thunder had boomed; rains had poured… and for once their Clan was spared the brutality. It seemed that the majority of their numbers had spent the storms huddled together in their dens, braced together against the winds and mindful of the rain. He had heard it happen beyond their camp—out in the distance… the creak and desperate keening of another ancient part of their forests falling to time and happenstance. His teeth had grit; his pelt had prickled… He would see when the worst of the storms ceased what had become of his beloved forests… of the trees under and through and among which he had made countless memories.
With luck, he would be able to shake the painful, gripping nodules that every recent storm set upon him.
It was how he found himself padding along through the woods with his prodigy; thoughts yet unspoken still mulling and churning through his brain—uncomfortably accompanied by his grief for the very trees that housed them. A distant, subtle rumbling of thunder reminded him of his purpose… a purpose mistaken. The thing of anger inside of him twitched and coiled, eager beyond reckoning to reply… but Raggedthroat merely narrowed his hateful, slitted eyes as the formidable pair continued onward, Beavergaze’s shoulders now looming high above his own…
He had done well with him; there was no question of that.
None in his eyes, anyway.
“The weather ought to slow them down, at least,” Raggedthroat rasped, naturally speaking of their present and constant enemies within LichenClan. “With the best of luck, StarClan flooded their caves and swept away their stain…” his pitted muzzle wrinkled into a sneer, “StarClan doesn’t do things for you, though—that’s where they’ve always been damned batty.” He turned his head to regard Beavergaze as they made their way to a training hollow that he knew well… and one that perhaps might have haunted Beavergaze’s dreams and the rare moments of quiet he awarded himself.
“Never understood it, myself… waiting on someone or something to do something—waiting on them to issue their approval… it’s all useless,” Raggedthroat snapped; his coarse, bristling tail giving a harsh flick. “I’ve lived through a pawful of leaders and countless deputies, Beavergaze, and if there’s one thing that’s—” his most recent tirade broke into an abrupt silence as they entered the rain sodden clearing. The ancient tom cat stood still for several heartbeats, regarding the sight before him before he strode forward, tattered ears straining desperately to pin with grief to the sides of his skull before Raggedthroat wrenched them forward in the same heartbeat; yellow eyes falling tenderly over the horribly horizontal form of a particularly favored tree.
“I trained my sons by this tree,” the smoldering tom cat admitted.
A forepaw rose and settled upon a worn place of its trunk where the bark had been clawed away over time and by many different sets of paws belonging to many sons… As his forepaw settled upon the upturned trunk, Raggedthroat’s eyes turned themselves to its roots—rent from the earth and splayed; arching high and looming overhead with clumps of dirt and ferns and foliage still attached.
“Hornet-tooth wouldn’t stop scaling it, back when he was Hornetpaw… always wanting to prove himself.” Raggedthroat’s muzzle gave a bitter twist. “He did well; mentored young… Gorseheart turned out right, anyway… never did have good taste in mollies, but that’s something you would have had in common with him—” the ancient tom cat gave pause in his… eulogy.
“Shame it’s gone, now. It was a good tree.” Yellow eyes tracked its length and breadth, “They were good cats.”
A few heartbeats passed and his frown remained etched into his brow. “Come on then, we haven’t got all day and my bones ache—what are you standing around for? I need this arthritis worked loose,” Raggedthroat ggnnrawled.