come the dark, nightshadows deepen [closed]

The chilly late afternoon sky was richly colored with the dying light of the slowly setting sun, barren branches of sparse moorland foliage sprawling across the gathering dusk, awash in the honeyed hues of vibrant reds and rich golds. The intricate and carefully woven barrier of gorse, which protectively encircled the shallow dip that composed the limited shelter of their home, cast thick shadows- dark tendrils of jagged lines and looming outlines creeping steadily against the barren sands of the hollow. The stubborn shadows crept across the soft dusting of gently browning foliage that encased the sandy earth of WindClan's camp, the iridescent specks of light that easily framed the honey-colored specks of pollen and dust occasionally catching in the faint warmth of the late afternoon sun. However, instead of taking solace in the apparent end of the chilly and rather insignificant day, Yarrowpaw could only scrounge up a feeling of unwelcome, a strange mixture of discomfort and surprise.

Although he often felt bored and useless more days than not, these feelings had only worsened since the arrival of the Asylum cats. Now it seemed as though all Yarrowpaw did was sit around and stare at the unwelcome, and wholly terrifying, strangers. Go figure. But at least his Clanmates had newer faces to snap at, as opposed to chewing his ears for every little comment.

Only the soft flourish of unkempt fur catching against low-hanging thorns and a silvery cloud of simmering breath announced the otherwise silent arrival of Yarrowpaw, the young tom evidently searching for something to preoccupy his restless energy. Even though it had become painfully obvious that they were no longer welcome to freely roam about their home, it did little to halt his idle wandering. Soft steps going unnoticed under the fiery streak of tension wreathing through the small clusters of purposely separated onlookers, the starkly-colored tom resembled nothing more than a fragmented shadow against the barren backdrop of the late season moorland. Tilting a sharp chin and curious gaze over towards a small grouping of Asylum cats casually sprawled out against the narrow gap of the camp's entrance, an uncharacteristic flicker of anxiety wreathed across the pale tom's face.

It would probably do Yarrowpaw some good to finally get out of camp for the first time in several days, but the last thing he felt like doing was begging some stranger to take him out on a stroll like some sort of troublesome kit.

Though life in any Clan would have been a stark change from the rules and customs Pyrik knew best, the unfortunate consequence of being assigned to WindClan, specifically, was that most of his companions were Nightstrikers. Older Nightstrikers. He had nothing against their faction as a whole; they had Asylum’s best interests at heart, same as the Standards and the Scouts, and to be honest, he envied their strength. It wasn’t as if becoming a Nightstriker turned a cat into Theron, but…a few too many of them were like Theron. As for the rest, their skill made them intimidating when their personalities didn’t.

His opinions didn’t change the fact that Nightstrikers made up the vast majority of Asylum’s moorland presence, and somehow, he’d gotten swept up in conversation with a cluster of them—a cluster that, to his dismay, did not include Thalia. Beneath his fox skin, Pyrik huddled into himself and sent a silent prayer to the fox for hiding his expression.

If nothing else, life in WindClan had sharpened his senses. A twinge in his gut pulled his attention up, away from the older cats. There, he found a pair of amber eyes, vibrant as the sunset sky, on him. The white-pelted form beyond them was half leg and half angles, like many WindClanners. He looked somewhat close to Pyrik’s age, and nearly as uneasy. No wonder; the Nightstrikers had set up their huddle near the camp’s exit.

…The camp’s exit. Pyrik’s eyes went wide. With a nod and some hasty, half-thought-out mumbling to the cluster of Nightstrikers (well it’s been nice talking to you I’ve gotta go bye), he clambered to his paws, straightened the pelt so it rested neatly across his shoulders, and set off toward the white tom at a pace just below a jog. “Hey! I noticed you were staring, sorry if we were in the way—” Coming to a halt with a jolt, Pyrik took a breath. “Are you trying to leave? I can come with you. Since, uh, you need an Asylum cat along and everything.” That was probably a little too forward. Still, he’d rather overstay his welcome around a less terrifying breed of cat. Another breath. ”I’m Pyrik.”

Quavering shadows hung heavily in the softly fringed shade of Yarrowpaw's peripheral vision, sharp and disjointed outlines steadily creeping out against the terse late afternoon chill- the lurking shapes of heinously hidden Asylum cats drowning within the stifling depths of their terrifying overcoats. You could practically smell their stench, even from here. Thinly-veined tendrils of repulsion, faintly interspersed with chilly undercurrents of unease, crept through the haggard shape of his being, angular gaze remaining fixed upon the departing outline of an approaching figure. A thin prickle of disgust hung heavily in the stark young tom's belly, the urge for his hackles to rise and his teeth to bare only heightening as the stranger drew closer; yet he remained still, poised as though staring down some unknowable danger.

Muscles stiff and lungs tight, Yarrowpaw remained perfectly still as Pyrik steadily approached, the distinct lack of aggression so intimately displayed by Asylum-dwellers striking against the dwindling light of day. It still did little to quell the seemingly innate distrust and disgust he carried in regards to the strangers forcefully inhabiting his home, the natural repulsion that gently webbed through all the dark and dismal parts of him, the shameful parts he so openly carried. Sharply pointed ears twisting flat against his narrow skull, his tail gave an apprehensive twitch as he caught wind of Pyrik's careful words. "Yes," Yarrowpaw seethed out, irritation and rage tightly constrained under the clipped answer, "I am trying to leave, Pyrik. It's not exactly easy to find time to leave camp whenever you have to find a chaperone for every little advent, even such as making dirt."

Shoulders overly tight, so tight that the residual ache could be felt within the clenched weight of his grinding jaw, the prickly young tom's tail gave a slight lash. "My name is Yarrowpaw."