"Flowercloud...?"
A warrior speaks her deputy's name with the rigidity of spite and anger. Her paws draw her across the ground, her pelt littered with nicks and bruises but nothing substantial, especially in the face of what she had done to that tom. Soreness plagues her, but her honor has still yet to shed from her shoulders. Hawkstar's cry did not instill fear in her chest like it once did - no. What did... was the ribbons of red that unwound from her deputy thereafter.
She draws closer, but pauses a tail-length short. Yellow eyes dart from one clump of cobwebs to the nest, narrowed imperceptibly. Her words do not wobble like a kit's, her posture does not slouch like an apprentice's. She stands tall before her deputy, though her words crumple for her mother.
"I'm sorry. I should've been by your side," where Rosebelly were once a shield laiden across their mother's heart, Cygnetscratch was borne to be her sword. And yet in the moment, she abandoned the amber hued molly in favor of her own twisted bloodthirst. Her regret does not find itself in the fur still caught beneath her claws, but in the tufts lost in another's. She grimaces, and pathetically, she asks, "Does it hurt? Can I..." a pause, and her gaze fits to the ground, "... hold you?" For what if it's the last time? Would she harbor another guilt beneath the fluff of her chest?
