Chill Alley Cat
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ
The sky was a pure violent white, the sleet consuming all it touched with its ghostly tone. The day sky has disappeared to be replaced by the brightness that scorned the eyes as if staring into a cold sun, making time unmeasurable. Frigid air slices any living thing open to bite at its bones with freezing teeth, turning flesh into ice as it unfurled pelts with its unmerciful jaws. It felt as if a cat could drown in air, unable to tell what was up and down as everything was pale.
Windclan was consumed by a blinding storm.
The onslaught of winter was especially cruel that day, forcing the lean cats into their dens as frostbite nipped at their tails. The season has been especially long this year, growing worse with time to build the now never ending snow that caught the clan off guard, now trapping them in camp. All cats have gathered in the warrior's den, the frailest elders and smallest of kits enclosed in the center of the spiral of pelts. Some clanmates pushed the outskirts of the huddle and now felt deathly still, the cold freezing them to the ground.
A single wiry tom had begun on the outer circle of the clan, the warrior deemed fit to face the cold for the safety of the others, had slyly wormed his way deeper into the enclosed den. The patchy-furred cat scooted paw by paw further into the warmth, like a parasite in a carcass forcing others out of the way as they shifted in his advance. The black cat earned himself some scornful looks on his journey, some hissing under their breaths at his selfishness with a glare, but the tom seemed unbothered by their judgment.
As sharpspine finally stopped among the inner circle of clanmates, he burrowed deeper into their coats to secure his domain of heat. He huffed, his breath still visible in the air, feeling an odd cross between amusement and pity at any cat that found themselves stuck in the storm.
Windclan was consumed by a blinding storm.
The onslaught of winter was especially cruel that day, forcing the lean cats into their dens as frostbite nipped at their tails. The season has been especially long this year, growing worse with time to build the now never ending snow that caught the clan off guard, now trapping them in camp. All cats have gathered in the warrior's den, the frailest elders and smallest of kits enclosed in the center of the spiral of pelts. Some clanmates pushed the outskirts of the huddle and now felt deathly still, the cold freezing them to the ground.
A single wiry tom had begun on the outer circle of the clan, the warrior deemed fit to face the cold for the safety of the others, had slyly wormed his way deeper into the enclosed den. The patchy-furred cat scooted paw by paw further into the warmth, like a parasite in a carcass forcing others out of the way as they shifted in his advance. The black cat earned himself some scornful looks on his journey, some hissing under their breaths at his selfishness with a glare, but the tom seemed unbothered by their judgment.
As sharpspine finally stopped among the inner circle of clanmates, he burrowed deeper into their coats to secure his domain of heat. He huffed, his breath still visible in the air, feeling an odd cross between amusement and pity at any cat that found themselves stuck in the storm.
