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This was miserable. Stretched out on the thin branch of a willow, the auburn-tinted feline attempted to soothe the ache in his limbs by reaching out, fighting the cold around him through deep breaths which condensed in the cold air. The sun had set over the horizon, dispelling any traces of warmth or wisps of solace in the harsh winter air, and Aristotle was near frozen. He'd spent nearly a week on the limbs of the willow, retreating to it's cold arms each night as he searched, longing and hopeful, for the embrace of sleep. It was so much different from his island home. There, underneath a tree each night, he was warm and more restful, only sometimes drenched by sudden rains; not even winter was so unforgiving. But, in WindClan? Where snow blanketed everything in sight in one dusty sheen, he was shivering every night, as well as most days. Unaccustomed to the weather was an understatement. Alas, the island was no longer, nor was it ever really his home, so he couldn't complain, anyway.
Snapping open his eyes, Aristotle reached one of his paws over to rub at the purplish shadows that had formed under his pale gaze, a tired growl rising quietly from his throat. It looked like another sleepless night was ahead of him. Blinking heavily, he allowed his arm to swing and hang down beside him before he'd realized, exhaustedly, that his paws had gone numb in the chilled air of the winter day's end. Steering his watery gaze toward the faint fire-lit glow of camp, right over that hill, he supposed that he should get up and move, get his stagnant blood flowing again, and hope that it might bring some semblence of warmth to his brittle frame. Shakily raising himself up on to all fours, the islander jumped down to the snow littered ground, and began the short trek to camp.
It was so much livelier in camp, despite the quiet hour. The moon shone over head, full and unrivaled by the twinkling stars nor the deep abyss of the inky sky. Most cabins had windows dimmed with inactivity, the cottage inhabitants resting in the night. Others, however, were still lit with the inviting glow of fire, which he longed to merely rest by. Everyone in WindClan had a cabin of their own, unless they so chose to share with someone, for the abundance of housing was remarkable. It was so... so difficult to wrap his head around. Aristotle was so used to the sands of the island, his freeness in never belonging, never having a cabin and always being alone. He'd never had anything. And, despite the gentle or offhanded chides that he too may have some sort of cottage to call his own, he often became uncomfortable with the notion of him being allowed to own anything so large and important. He may wish for warmth, sure, but him owning his own cabin was too strange. He often chuckled at such a thought.
His paws still numb, Aristotle silently turned his watery, half-lidded gaze to the ground in front of him, the corners of his mouth turning involuntarily, albeit subtly, downward. It was difficult to stay positive, he was so unused to the chill. Ah, but he was sure to warm up soon, what with him moving around; he kept that thought in the forefront of his mind, if nothing else.
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