IT'S GONNA BE A LONG NIGHT * [OPEN]

[TRIP !]

Although he experienced them rather frequently and, honestly, should've grown accustomed to them long ago, there was nothing Ternflight hated more than nightmares. Especially those of recollection - they just had to be the worst, as well as, unfortunately, the most common. This piece of knowledge - which the young warrior had gradually became aware of over the moons - didn't surprise him, though; he had always been one to delve in the past, and this is what became of it.

Twisted dreams about his long-dead father, Crowfoot, made up the majority of these nightmares; and, of course, those of his brother. But as different as these dreams could be, they all amounted to the same thing: Ternflight was alone. Indescribably, utterly alone. Psst - as if he needed to be reminded of that piece of foxdung. His mother wasn't dead yet (or so he assumed; the tom didn't care enough to check, though all it would take would be a simple walk to the elder's den) but he knew, even she wasn't really his mother, as hard as Sparrowflight tried.

He was getting tired of it, really; clinging to the past like a desperate kit was weighing him down. It was no wonder he was so horribly depressed ... As hard as he tried to surround himself with friends, it never did him any good. Not really. In fact, the tom had half a mind to just ditch the whole thing. But as his mind screamed 'let it go', something else, a part of him that he could only assume was his own, persuaded, 'just a while longer'. And, as rebellious as he was, Ternflight couldn't refuse.

Panting heavily, Ternflight awoke in a cold sweat; the sound of his own yowl of alarm had, quite rudely, disturbed his already restless sleep. Disappointed, yet slightly relieved that it was over, the tom hauled himself up into a sitting position. He glanced around, then let out a shaky sigh; the nightmare was gone, and so was his fear - but the memory of that intricate pattern still lingered. "Good riddance," he spat scathingly, completely oblivious to his denmates' irritated glares - his yelp had woken them up, most likely. And yet... he still felt his paws itch, a phantom urge to trace that craving to it's roots, or better yet, to create something like it. No, something better. But on his own terms, not those of another.