IT'S RAINING, IT'S POURING
MY EYES, OH, THEY'RE STORMY
hayloft & 11 moons & polygender & any pronouns & barncat
That's the thought that occupies Hayloft's mind, as the first touch of frost creeps across the planks and freezes the scattered clumps of grass that remain. The hay, at least, offers warmth - it's strong scent soothing and familiar, amidst the strange season that sends shivers down their spine. They've lived through leaf-bare, once - though the memories have long since grown faded, slipping from their grasp no matter how hard they try. The touch of their mothers soft fur, her gentle words - the knowledge that they were never alone. Always one of many.
Copper eyes gleam as they blink - almost as if they can feel the press of bodies. Instead, it is only them - and the clouds of their breath, drifting slowly toward the heavens in the pale light of the dawn. Nose twitches, and the sleepy feline shifts reluctantly. They don't want to part from the comfort their shelter offers them - slanted planks, discarded boxes, tufts of hay and tattered blankets. The scent of ash barely even lingers, despite the blackened marks left as a permeant reminder of the past.
But still, there is much to be done - mice to be hunted, repairs to be made to their makeshift home. The sound of the rooster draws them from their nest at last, with a weary sigh. Attention shifts, instead, as something catches their eyes. A twist of their head, a blink of bleary eyes. ' The stars are falling, ' - or, more accurately, it's snowing. Whiskers twitch, quivering, and they skitter forward, cupping flakes in their front-paws. And then again, pouncing upon another frosty white flake as the wind tugs upon their fur. Chores can wait, they suppose - losing themselves in their joy as they dart about, dancing about in the falling snow, a quiet purr in the back of their throat.
─ actions & "
speech
" & 'thoughts / qoutes'( I DON'T WANNA LEAVE THIS BED )