Post by Twigtail on Oct 19, 2008 15:24:58 GMT -5
The sun dawned early, as was usual for these lengthening newleaf days. It floated up over the water, a glittering disk of gold that stretched out a hundred million little rays out over the sea and setting it on glittery fire. A band of light was sent from that fiery sun deep into the recesses of the warriors’ den in the quaint camp of the IvoryClan camp, but it didn’t have to go so deep to waken Beetlewing, who slept habitually near the entrance. Fresh salty-fishy air was rolling in with the sunlight, tickling the blue-gray warrior’s nostrils, urging him to get up. Listen, Beetlewing! the morning said. The seabirds are already up and awake and flying! Can you hear them, singing for the morning? Can you tell I’m hear? asked the morning. And yes, Beetlewing could, and the large warrior uncurled out of his knot of gray fur and lean muscle, blinking like an owl caught at noon. With a yawn that stretched the tomcat’s jaws, he stretched and got to his oversized paws. Careful not to waken anyone who didn’t want to take advantage of the morning, he tread out into the morning light, eyes narrowed against the onslaught of gleaming, golden lights.
The big tomcat seated himself on the still-cool sand, rolling his shoulders beneath a pelt that was tickled with silver when the light played with it. The breeze slid temptingly between his whiskers, and Beetlewing licked his chops. It was a beautiful, opportunistic morning, and even he couldn’t find it in himself to be gloomy. Actually, he wasn’t as gloomy as he was usually made out to be: just antisocial. And true, he wasn’t feeling particularly social that morning, but he was feeling particularly optimistic. It was the kind of morning when even he, Beetlewing, the Clan coward, might wish a good morning to any cat who happened by. Feeling particularly special that morning, the warrior licked a big paw and ran it over his face: over the ridges above his large eyes, over his deep gray nose, over his wide cheek, over his tidily-triangular ears. Deciding he was “clean enough,” the tom looked out over the Great Water and wondered what was on tap for the day. He hoped somebody, anybody, would come out and give him something to do, since he wasn’t the independent sort to come up with something on his own.
The big tomcat seated himself on the still-cool sand, rolling his shoulders beneath a pelt that was tickled with silver when the light played with it. The breeze slid temptingly between his whiskers, and Beetlewing licked his chops. It was a beautiful, opportunistic morning, and even he couldn’t find it in himself to be gloomy. Actually, he wasn’t as gloomy as he was usually made out to be: just antisocial. And true, he wasn’t feeling particularly social that morning, but he was feeling particularly optimistic. It was the kind of morning when even he, Beetlewing, the Clan coward, might wish a good morning to any cat who happened by. Feeling particularly special that morning, the warrior licked a big paw and ran it over his face: over the ridges above his large eyes, over his deep gray nose, over his wide cheek, over his tidily-triangular ears. Deciding he was “clean enough,” the tom looked out over the Great Water and wondered what was on tap for the day. He hoped somebody, anybody, would come out and give him something to do, since he wasn’t the independent sort to come up with something on his own.
