Shadowwyn Moor Clair de Lune, L. 32

For @Wren <3

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In the desolate heart of winter, a lone figure found itself traveling the expanse of the frozen moor. The icy gale howled through the skeletal branches of trees that reached out their long, gnarled hands to beg for even one drop of sun from the pallid rays that had managed to dig through the oppressive cloud cover.

Faint at first, like a distant echo, a sepulchral melody bloomed from the heart of the wasteland. The crisp breeze played accomplice, carrying its mournful notes with an eerie flow that summoned spirits to waltz just out of sight, as if one might catch a glimpse of them if they turned quickly enough.

The singer's voice rose and dipped, holding a wistful tone that crystalized in the frigid air for all to see:

So rot, ferment and decompose
So all the things can grow

something was wrong.
something had been wrong, for the past few days, or perhaps this past week. something was out of place. something had shifted and it had begun to disconcert wren; and yet, she could not place what it was.
everything was — fine, for the most part. silvertongue healed. shadowpaw warmed up to her, somewhat. ash star was still ash star, yes; but wren lived with it. but something else made her hair stand on end. something else stole sleep from her in the night.
surely it was just paranoia, that incessant fear that nothing good will last. either way, the warrior set out beyond riverclan's borders, just to check. to feel safe.
the wind tore at her cheeks and cold mud now covered her feet. she could not help herself from looking over her shoulder, staring up at the sun-blocked sky; songbirds fly overhead in a formation, and for a moment wren feels a little less alone.

As the flock danced against the ashen sky in whispered murmuration, the singer's voice lifted, calling out for them as the song echoed against the muted theater of austere moorland. The unmarred snow rose in fractal spirals like little angels grasping for the heavens before falling back to earth.

At the end of the funeral march, the congregation remained overhead, encouraging the singer to continue its somber vocalizations; what little life remained in this desolate place, converging to mourn and rejoice in bittersweet melody.

i'm so sorry i dropped the ball on this SOBS

she is certainly, most definitely not alone here.
for a good long moment, she thinks it's the songbirds singing and wonders if she really is starting to lose it. birds don't sound like that, do they? birds can't speak. her hackles ruffle in a display of her rising anxiety as she slowly thunders onward, head dipped low so that she may peer through the undergrowth.
it's there that she sees — her? him? them? — she cannot quite tell. a wolven silhouette, scent shrouded in everything and nothing at the same time. it's that one who sings. she watches for a time, suspicious of their proximity to riverclan's land, but painfully curious and oddly soothed by the warmth of the vocals. swiftcurrent? kvarsheim, maybe? neither option sounded particularly pleasant to her.
she doesn't wish to startle as she approaches, making sure her footsteps are as noisy as possible; a warning to the stranger that they are the one who will drive her next actions.

Finally got a reply out sob

Small head turned to the crunching of footsteps as the little wolf propped themself up on a stump to get a better view of whatever was coming, nose twitching like a rabbit.

Good evening, my friend, They greeted, sage eyes fixed on the movement of the foliage. The voice was warm, with a friendly tone, emphasized by a gentle wag of the wiry tail. However, underneath the short crop of fur, the body stayed tense, ready to bolt at any sudden movement.

My name is Moss, and I'm the caretaker of the children of Kvarsheim, He spoke again, folded ear perked atop his head, Could you tell me your name, please? 

kvarsheim.
wren had been prepared for almost anything when she approached; violence, friendliness, fear, something in between, but what she had not expected, for some reason, was to meet a tarnished former ally.
she tries to hide the surge of panic in the adjustment of her posture, lips twisting into something that almost looked like a smile, but not quite. wren, she squeaks, forcing air from her lungs. i'm from riverclan.
not swiftcurrent. not anymore.
w-what, um, what brings you out here? kids finally settle down for a nap?

sorry for the shrimpy ass post smfh

She was nervous, but not aggressive. Moss relaxed, letting a friendly smile warm their silver-peppered maw, A pleasure to meet you, Wren of Riverclan. Funny, I met someone from a pack with a similar name, they were a cat, however. He joked, attempting to ease the woman's tension.

Something like that, he mused, the pups are getting big enough now I'm not needed much, which is a shame, but I have more time to explore now, the little wolf explained with a grin.

What about you, Miss— I assume —Wren? I do hope you weren't trying to hunt. I might have seen a rabbit a while ago, but I can't be certain. If there were any, I'm sure I frightened them off with my racket, they rambled, scratching at their chin with a nail and peering over the frozen landscape. Sorry about that, Moss said sheepishly, glancing back to the ash-coated woman. I suppose I could try and help you find one, if you'd like?