in a burning glade, i learnt to survive. [p]

[redshiftreign]

BURNINGNIGHT
THE AFTERMATH
he/they/it | shadowclan warrior | 19 moons
lyrebird's lullaby, the collector, shadow fiend
@lethean [gladepaw]

the sun was too bright, burningnight decided as he ducked his angular head through the warriors den and out into the clearing, long tail swaying rhythmically behind him. the warmer days had lead to brighter sunlight, glaring down longer and harsher on his dark coat, microwaving him from the outside in. smoldering, suffocating, turning him into a convection oven.

like coals and embers, like his pelt. burning. scorching. smoldering. the incandescent hum of the heat singing soft vigils

he was just the ashes and the aftermath.

the wind rolled past, so unlike the howling whiplash of tempests once raging through the ravine just a few short moons ago that shadowclan had called its home. now they were here, in unfamiliar soil, beyond the mourning ruins and deeper in and further up. icy heartlands all but forgotten, the quiet tom found himself moving with melancholy meter through the clearing to collect his new ward.

burningnight had never fallen to the desire to mentor. he had had his fill of apprentices during his own training, and the smaller not-yet-warriors were scarcely anything but naissances in his amber eyes. another unpredictable mess for his nerves to singe and fray over, the pain almost physically repugnant. if he were two hairs less of a pious servant of the shadows and Her Mean Majesty, he might have curled back into his nest and willed the world to dissolve him into dust, small flecks and embers and ashes until there was no burningnight or existence, merely the remnant traces of what once was and what could have been.

all he wanted was the flames to be extinguished slowly, starved of fuel, and left in silent reverie as a quiet heat hummed from them. the flames of the mind, soul and body. snuffed, quiet and innocuous. was wishing to fade into the background such a sick desire for him to have? to hide away from prying eyes, his secrets (however scarce) held tight to his chest and kept under lock and key, blanketed by silence and oblivion.

stopping alertly in front of the apprentice's den, burningnight stared with a blank expression as his gaze flickered about, hunting down the vaugely familiar pelt.

"gladepaw," came the monotonous tone of the young warrior as he waited at the entrance to the apprentice den, peering into the massive hollow stump with keen eyes.. with the strict restrictions and the cannibal on the loose, training was going to be difficult, confined to camp unless in large groups. he wasn't keen on hunting down an enforcer and some warriors and turning their scrutinizing, suffocating gaze on himself, so he had decided to do provide the apprentice with a simpler and more manageable lesson to start. one that could be effectively preformed within the comforts of camp, following Dawnstar's rules unerring.

[lethean]

GLADEPAW

@redshiftreign [burningnight]

[/B]

Waking suddenly could be as a great epiphany, a eureka moment, when friendly ghosts of the soul startle for him to be brought into reality. It was fortunate then, that with nothing more enticing to engage with than his thoughts in the darkened den, he had only just started to drift towards stretching oblivion and warping dreams when he was jumped back to alertness, though no worse for wear. So it was also unfortunate, that he did not receive the eureka moment being startled should have brought with it; but who was he to say? Maybe it lurked in the fringes of shadow and he just hadn't searched with enough fervor (though he found that hard to believe—curiosity ruled this cat well enough it was a surprise death hadn't clawed at him first).

Gladepaw jumped to his paws barely a moment after Burningnight's monotonous (yet, he admonished, strangely distinct) voice interrupted the cultivated silence. He wrangled himself into a manner of reproachful submission, approaching him with feather-soft steps, the colors of his pelt darkened to dull shades in filtered light. His mentor wasn't one overly enthusiastic, though who could fault him, draped in that dark pelt with glowing embers for eyes; it was no testament to his abilities, and Gladepaw couldn't resist needling the tom with a light smirk and lightning in his eyes, "Well, that sounds like an invitation I couldn't bear to resist, now doesn't it? Ever the charmer, aren't you?" A laugh, and he passed next to Burningnight, head canted to observe him, tail flicking lazily behind. Gladepaw flashed an infectious smile. The tom was keen, wise, but he always seemed to be wreathed by some shadow or another; that could just be because of his pelt, but he digressed—it was unnatural, like he absorbed light and clutched it close. Gladepaw was the opposite—a myriad of russet, earth, and subtle flame that decorated his pelt.

A perfect parallel, I think.

He had enough calm, jovial energy for the both of them. So much so, the apprentice made it a mission to bring the monotonous tom some hint of joy—it only took a spark to light a wildfire, after all. It was all well enough, like entreating a frost to sunlight, wax to a flame. Gladepaw didn't care much for subtle reservation, though he often found himself steeped in quiet observations and concentrating on mastering that definite austerity of some warriors. The somber attitude about the camp, while warranted, and the fierce restrictions imposed by the only slightly intimidating Dawnstar, meant this invitation wasn't likely outside the camp—or anywhere really adventurous at all. A bore, but still a necessity nonetheless.

But still Gladepaw settled back on his haunches, facing the outside of the den and the radiant sunlight, waiting patiently, ever the epitome of a perfectly imperfect apprentice.

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