Post by Lightstar on May 19, 2010 15:37:37 GMT -5
Some use sadness as an excuse to curl up into a ball and refuse to emerge. Others take their mourning and try to mask it with productivity, working and working until the mind clears. Naturally, the cause for sorrow has a great impact on which course is taken by the sad creature in question. For example, loss might result in the former action being taken, and disappointment, the latter.
What caused Rowanheart her sadness might be classified as disappointment, for it left a similarly bitter taste on her tongue. More precisely, hers was the grief caused by rejection. Now, her misery was taking form in her actions. If we must analyze, we can say that she felt that she was defective in some way, deficient in personality. Therefore, instead of huddling and brooding as she normally did in her passive way, she chose to do something very unlike herself. Calm, orderly, sluggish Rowanheart was going to cope with her sadness by being the one thing she almost never was.
Outlandishly, impulsively reckless.
Muscles, underdeveloped because of disuse, stretched and pulsed beneath the she-cat’s skin, burning with the heat of exertion. The river water which had clung to her underbelly ever since she swam away from the camp had dried or was flung off in her haste, leaving cream-colored fur cool and dry. Nevertheless, that same river that she had swum pulsed along beside her, slithering snakelike through the RiverClan territory that the warrior feline traversed with aching speed. It slithered, though, in the direction opposite to the one that the she-cat took, for she was jogging upriver, towards the place where RiverClan lands scraped against WindClan territory. Her pace may have slowed from what was initially a sprint, but the power and speed of which she was capable still laced her slim body; she merely slowed to a jog to avoid exertion.
The she-cat’s face was grimly set, a statue carved of red-brown wood. It rippled and warped as the elements of wind and water splattered it, but retained its basic shape: twisted frown, narrow eyes, pulled-back whiskers, near-flat ears. Behind that woody mask, a mind writhed feverishly, and the wails she dared not verbally loose echoed within her skull. They were screams of agony, of bitter disappointment, of something bordering hatred that was not quite so. All the while, a pair of teal eyes blazed in her brain, an accusation in their watery depths.
While Rowanheart mentally entertained her mourning, the ground shifted from damp soil to a rockier terrain, rising up to meet the she-cat’s paws until she was ascending an inclined path. It was like a stone river, tracing alongside its watery counterpart. The ground rose above the surface of the swollen river, the bank dropping away more and more steeply from the path. As if to emphasize this, several pebbles, loosed by Rowanheart’s ungraceful paws, clanked down the hard surface of the bank before splashing into the water, the noise of their passage almost imperceptible, for there was another, louder sound dominating this land of sheer rock and river.
Thundering, tumbling, shivering in the noonday light, the king of all water stood high above the river. It was as if the stream was a path down which this king would tread, but his position never shifted. The waterfall, emperor of the world, tyrant leader who would gladly drown all who displeased him, roared maliciously as the she-cat rounded a bend on what was now a Cliffside path and beheld the rushing, falling river at its most impressive. She, who had been forced into a walk by her weariness and the incline, looked up at its shining height, her moss-green eyes wide with awe. Misty spray, cast up carelessly by the falls, wafted towards her as the path wound higher still, and she drew ever nearer to the majestic, cruel waterfall.
Rowanheart halted as the path drew almost abreast the falls. The stones were slick with spray, and her paws threatened to skid if she took yet another step. Yet wouldn’t that please her reckless mind? Uncertainty was what stayed her paws. The auburn feline stared at the impressive waterfall, and it goaded her with its booming voice. Jump! it shouted at her, a throaty command. Are you a coward? Can you not swim this river? Just jump, and let your adrenaline be your strength. See if your body can withstand my hazards. I can kill you so easily. Jump anyway. Show me YOUR power! Is it half as impressive as mind? Yet Rowanheart still hesitated, uncertain now. She longed to take the plunge down the length of the falls, to dive into the waters below and swim the length of the river… or die in the attempt. Some iota of rational thought still peeked through her despairing mind, and stilled her muscles.
What caused Rowanheart her sadness might be classified as disappointment, for it left a similarly bitter taste on her tongue. More precisely, hers was the grief caused by rejection. Now, her misery was taking form in her actions. If we must analyze, we can say that she felt that she was defective in some way, deficient in personality. Therefore, instead of huddling and brooding as she normally did in her passive way, she chose to do something very unlike herself. Calm, orderly, sluggish Rowanheart was going to cope with her sadness by being the one thing she almost never was.
Outlandishly, impulsively reckless.
Muscles, underdeveloped because of disuse, stretched and pulsed beneath the she-cat’s skin, burning with the heat of exertion. The river water which had clung to her underbelly ever since she swam away from the camp had dried or was flung off in her haste, leaving cream-colored fur cool and dry. Nevertheless, that same river that she had swum pulsed along beside her, slithering snakelike through the RiverClan territory that the warrior feline traversed with aching speed. It slithered, though, in the direction opposite to the one that the she-cat took, for she was jogging upriver, towards the place where RiverClan lands scraped against WindClan territory. Her pace may have slowed from what was initially a sprint, but the power and speed of which she was capable still laced her slim body; she merely slowed to a jog to avoid exertion.
The she-cat’s face was grimly set, a statue carved of red-brown wood. It rippled and warped as the elements of wind and water splattered it, but retained its basic shape: twisted frown, narrow eyes, pulled-back whiskers, near-flat ears. Behind that woody mask, a mind writhed feverishly, and the wails she dared not verbally loose echoed within her skull. They were screams of agony, of bitter disappointment, of something bordering hatred that was not quite so. All the while, a pair of teal eyes blazed in her brain, an accusation in their watery depths.
While Rowanheart mentally entertained her mourning, the ground shifted from damp soil to a rockier terrain, rising up to meet the she-cat’s paws until she was ascending an inclined path. It was like a stone river, tracing alongside its watery counterpart. The ground rose above the surface of the swollen river, the bank dropping away more and more steeply from the path. As if to emphasize this, several pebbles, loosed by Rowanheart’s ungraceful paws, clanked down the hard surface of the bank before splashing into the water, the noise of their passage almost imperceptible, for there was another, louder sound dominating this land of sheer rock and river.
Thundering, tumbling, shivering in the noonday light, the king of all water stood high above the river. It was as if the stream was a path down which this king would tread, but his position never shifted. The waterfall, emperor of the world, tyrant leader who would gladly drown all who displeased him, roared maliciously as the she-cat rounded a bend on what was now a Cliffside path and beheld the rushing, falling river at its most impressive. She, who had been forced into a walk by her weariness and the incline, looked up at its shining height, her moss-green eyes wide with awe. Misty spray, cast up carelessly by the falls, wafted towards her as the path wound higher still, and she drew ever nearer to the majestic, cruel waterfall.
Rowanheart halted as the path drew almost abreast the falls. The stones were slick with spray, and her paws threatened to skid if she took yet another step. Yet wouldn’t that please her reckless mind? Uncertainty was what stayed her paws. The auburn feline stared at the impressive waterfall, and it goaded her with its booming voice. Jump! it shouted at her, a throaty command. Are you a coward? Can you not swim this river? Just jump, and let your adrenaline be your strength. See if your body can withstand my hazards. I can kill you so easily. Jump anyway. Show me YOUR power! Is it half as impressive as mind? Yet Rowanheart still hesitated, uncertain now. She longed to take the plunge down the length of the falls, to dive into the waters below and swim the length of the river… or die in the attempt. Some iota of rational thought still peeked through her despairing mind, and stilled her muscles.
