Pipe, Little Feather, 19th century, Minneapolis Institute of Art: Art of Africa and the Americas

red stone; t-shaped; rim of bowl has decorative chip carving; upper half of bowl has four angular rows of flute carving. Pipestone Size: 4 1/4 x 7 11/16 x 1 1/8 in. (10.8 x 19.53 x 2.86 cm) Medium: Catlinite

Littlefeather - A cheerful and optimistic she-cat. Not many things seem to get Littlefeather down, she always seems to have a spring in her step and it isn’t uncommon to hear her purring- she even frequently purrs in her sleep. Littlefeather always looks forward to the future - she can’t wait to see the surprises StarClan brings her way and she is ready for whatever they throw at her. Littlefeather is very popular in WindClan - she’s always willing to talk and she livens up any patrol, 15/10

Snowfern - A serious and proud she-cat. Snowfern likes to run a tight ship in RiverClan - she wants to make it clear to the other Clans that RiverClan isn’t a clan they want to mess with - she greats take pride in her clan and wants to do everything in her power to ensure it thrives. Snowfern works her warriors hard but she is also fair - and so although her clanmates do grumble about their workload at times most have nothing but the highest respect for her - and will always follow her orders without question, 15/10

Littlefeather @thefeatherofhope

Hand on Your Heart (654)

@thefeatherofhope

A Stark Naked Surprise (9691) It’s been a blazing hot summer in Kings Landing and Margaery finally convinces Sansa to let her hair down and accompany her and her friends to the beach for the day. But upon arrival, to Sansa’s horror and embarrassment, it turns out to be nudist beach. To make matters worse, who should they bump into whilst there? None other than Joffrey and his bodyguard, Sandor Clegane. Naked. Both of them very, very naked. Sansa cannot help herself sneaking peeks and of course mentally comparing the two.

@thefeatherofhope

Bathing the Hound (13665)

A Curious Little Bird (21411)

His Maiden (998)

No one knew where the feather came from.

It appeared one balmy summer evening, twirling with the breeze and delighting the child whose cheek tickled as it flew past. Little arms stretched out to try and catch it, but no one could predict which direction it would go. Only the wind knew, and other than a slight whistling as it blew, it gave no clues.

The little feather danced harder even as bigger hands cupped it and gave it to the little ones. It shifted this way and that as a hand held it aloft. This time, it blew against the wind. It tickled the feather when it was brushed along one chubby cheek, delighting in the new sensation. The air rang with peals of unrestrained laughter.

Night came, and the little feather lay on top of the cool wooden nightstand. It was more bedraggled than it had been, it felt tired but sated at the enjoyment it elicited. The fun had been exhilarating, but the little feather had never felt such unrestrained freedom.

It sagged a little - the soft lullaby the child listened to crooning it to sleep. Before he knew it, the mother had gently cast him out of the window where he landed on the soft grass, crackling from the heat of the day. Stunned to find himself in the wilderness again, the little feather lay still.

There was no wind to blow him away, no breeze to take him places. The little feather was resigned to his fate. He couldn't move himself - he had no choice but to wait.

Before he knew it, dawn was peeking from the horizon. A wet object snuffled him away from the ground, now dewy with precipitation. He found himself partially inhaled inside one moist nostril before he was yanked away and thrown into the breeze.

A small cloud of dust carried him off. The wind created by cars zooming along the street conveying him to and fro. The little feather flew for what felt like hours, though in truth, it was only a few minutes.

And so, it happens. Over and over, the little feather finds itself getting picked up, played with and tossed away. The novelty began to wear off, and the little feather was tired of the constant activity.

Craving some silence, the little feather dreamed about the days before he'd drifted that balmy summer. He didn't know where he was, but he'd been among others of his kind. He'd belonged. He'd felt connected to something bigger than himself.

Now, he felt untethered, subject to the whims of the wind, with no possibility of going against the direction it blows.

Finally, the little feather - now battered and weary - lost its wispiness and beauty. It no longer looked fluffy, nor attractive. Its barbs had furled inward, clumping together, dark and soiled.

As it neared the end of its life, it found itself into the compost. And as it disintegrated into the soil, the little feather looked back into his life, and realized that despite the weariness, the uncertainty, and sometimes, the fear, he had lived a full life. He'd travelled, gone to places the other feathers had only dreamed about, and he'd brought joy to others.