Swift as the Coursing River [closed]

The thick swath of gorse that carefully concealed the vulnerable contents of WindClan's camp was heavily laden with rapidly wilting remnants of fresh greenery, previously bright flowers and gently blossoming buds growing stiff and unyielding under the newfound stifling weight of the long sun, spiny tendrils of gorse thorns encased in fragile debris precariously shed. The entirety of the camp was dusted in a soft coating of brilliant yellows and greens, the dry grounds revived by the gentle kiss of warmer weathers. Soft springs of sweet grasses and vibrant heather blossomed up from the sandy hollow of the camp, aiding the fallen flower petals in their unwitting attempt to further soften the ground below one's paws.

Although Brindlestar took care in her exiting of the gorse tunnel to ensure that her coat wasn't unintentionally snagged against the curling claws of the hanging thorns, even the gentlest movement was enough force to send down a shower of enticingly sweet petals raining down against her back. Tongue curling against her teeth, she resisted a shiver at the faint prickle of the hooked gorse thorns scoring lightly through the wild mane of her coat. It had only been a few moons, give or taken, since she had officially taken over WindClan, but she still made an effort to attend patrols as needed- it felt too strange to hang about camp, especially knowing that she still had two Apprentices to oversee.

Shaking away her dusting of overly sweet smelling little flowers and growths, the lanky she-cat turned to await the entrance of her companion. Frostpaw had earned his new name and status the previous evening, and now he would be given his traditional first look at the Clan's territory; an adventure that would likely take up a good portion of their day.