Cold
A short character piece for my warriors oc Orcafur!
Orca looked down at the dark waves from their perch on the cliffside. It was calming to them, watching the crashing chaos of the water below. The harsh winds buffeted the lithe cat and they sat down, curling their tail neatly around their paws and flattening their ears. Other than these small movements they were still. The leafbare winds sliced right through them, made colder by the sea, though Wharfclan cats were no strangers to the frigid wetness that came with their coastal home. They were stronger than that.
Though not technically of Wharfclan blood, Orca felt right at home here on the shores. How could they not? Their real origins will forever remain a mystery, but their adoptive father Convoystrike is all the family they would ever need. Orca had been an apprentice when they'd realized that their father wasn't the longest whisker on the snout, and that they hadn't *really* hatched from an egg, not that Orca would ever tell Convoy their true thoughts on it. He was nice. Loving. Protective. Everything a father needed to be, and that was enough for Orca. They left their longing for the truth of their birth well in the past. The waves crashed against the cliffs, sending sea water spraying up to Orca's perch. They didn't flinch.
Orca had never doubted that no matter where they came from, they were Wharfclan to the bone. Their clanmates were their family, of course, The feel of sand under his paws and the smooth taste of fish had always been Orca's favorite things in the world. Aside from swimming, that is.
Orca lived to swim.
On land, their long body always felt clumsy and awkward, their long limbs giving a spidery impression, like a young tree that hadn't quite grown enough leaves yet. So many of his clanmates were sleek and strong-boned, with thick luscious fur protecting them from the worst of the ocean's chill. Next to them Orca looked like an oversized apprentice who hadn't filled in yet. Orca twitched an ear at the thought.
In the ocean, however, Orca couldn't feel more confident. Their long, sharp frame let him cut through the water like a fish. Their legs were no longer gangly and uncoordinated, but perfect for pushing through the currents, every flick of a paw propelling them through the water. Nothing gives Orca a greater pleasure than diving into a high tide and feeling their body rise and fall with the waves, eyes open just enough to detect light, but still open enough to feel the sting of salt water. If it weren't for the whole "breathing air" thing, Orca might never resurface.
And so, even in the dead middle of leafbare, Orca sat on the dark rocks a dozen tail lengths above the surface of the ocean, gazing into the depths of their love. The dark water below collided with the cliffs with such force it seemed to be waging war. The young black cat stood, finally, shaking out their pelt but never taking their focus away from the crashing waves.
They took a deep breath, closed their eyes, and dove in.