- Feb 5, 2009
- 3,808
- 15
- 201
(WARNING: sequel to insanely long post. Read at your own discretion. Contains no violence or language, but does contain mild reflections, regrets, and important decisions)
It could kill you.
With a grim smile, Lostcry watched Songclans activity, tail swishing smoothly from the oak branch upon which she lay, paws folded neatly beneath her. The leaves rustled, a reminder of reality as she basked in the past. Yet not even the cries of laughter from the camp below could silence her demons. Her eyes narrowed. How could she have been so stupid? At the prospect of death and pain, shed given up the one thing that made her unique in life: her voice. She closed her eyes as she remembered all the requests, all the attention shed garnered from her sweet, mellifluous voice. That was, until the attack.
Subconsciously, she put a paw to her throat, the long ropey scar ugly and artificial beneath her grasp. Not a day went by when shed re-thought her decision to avoid the procedure that would give her voice back. One day shed realize shed made the right choice, another day shed reprimand herself for such a poor, naive decision. And now there was talk of her being leader . . .
With a strangled purr of silent resignation, she stared off into the empty space. Her tail looped up, twining itself around the branch as her nerves tightened. Who had ever heard of a clan being lead by a mute, a cat incapable of even making daily conversation? Not only would she be embarrassing at clan meets and treaty sessionsshed be inefficient in battle, unable to communicate with the other warriors. It wouldnt be fair to Songclan, not one bit.
Yet they had chosen her.
With a small smile, Lostcry turned her attention back to the camp, seeing the cats she had come to know and count as brothers and sisters, mentors and guides. They had indeed chosen her, and it was time she did something to make sure their choice was not made in vain.
Determined, she gazed towards the west, and the dying sun. It was decided.
She was going to find Minkfur and Brightrose.
And she was going to get her voice back.
It could kill you.
With a grim smile, Lostcry watched Songclans activity, tail swishing smoothly from the oak branch upon which she lay, paws folded neatly beneath her. The leaves rustled, a reminder of reality as she basked in the past. Yet not even the cries of laughter from the camp below could silence her demons. Her eyes narrowed. How could she have been so stupid? At the prospect of death and pain, shed given up the one thing that made her unique in life: her voice. She closed her eyes as she remembered all the requests, all the attention shed garnered from her sweet, mellifluous voice. That was, until the attack.
Subconsciously, she put a paw to her throat, the long ropey scar ugly and artificial beneath her grasp. Not a day went by when shed re-thought her decision to avoid the procedure that would give her voice back. One day shed realize shed made the right choice, another day shed reprimand herself for such a poor, naive decision. And now there was talk of her being leader . . .
With a strangled purr of silent resignation, she stared off into the empty space. Her tail looped up, twining itself around the branch as her nerves tightened. Who had ever heard of a clan being lead by a mute, a cat incapable of even making daily conversation? Not only would she be embarrassing at clan meets and treaty sessionsshed be inefficient in battle, unable to communicate with the other warriors. It wouldnt be fair to Songclan, not one bit.
Yet they had chosen her.
With a small smile, Lostcry turned her attention back to the camp, seeing the cats she had come to know and count as brothers and sisters, mentors and guides. They had indeed chosen her, and it was time she did something to make sure their choice was not made in vain.
Determined, she gazed towards the west, and the dying sun. It was decided.
She was going to find Minkfur and Brightrose.
And she was going to get her voice back.
