private a dog always finds its way back home ☾ slate

[DOEBLAZE]

Somewhere in the moving and bandaging and stumbling, she'd ended up in a nest next to Slate. The medicine den is packed relatively full, including her own apprentice, at whom she occasionally steals guilty looks. Still, though, given their own strained relationship, you would've thought Dawnglare wouldn't have made this particular choice. A green eye watches the rusted lead warrior warily, the webbed bandages across his back and leg matching her own. He has never liked her, not once, and she suspects he more than likely had been the source of the rumors positing that she hadn't earned her position at all.

Once, she had wanted to prove herself to him—to him and all the other Slates of the world, determined that a kittypet like her would never be good enough. The clips are gone with half her ear, the kittypet smell long washed from her pelt, the naivete to the world's horrors circling the drain as she lay here. All that remains is a name that sours and dies on her tongue. If she's proven herself, she wishes she hadn't, not if it had come at the cost of all that she had loved. What is there left for her now? What purpose for her, except to rot away in the medicine den? Her children do not want to speak with her. Her Clanmates have little faith in her. Her mate is dead.

"He can't favor me now, can—" Her rasping voice cracks and gives way partially through the sentence. "—can he?" Bobbie's scraped tone is bitter, sardonic. As numbness has left her, a low and bitter misery, a pointlessness in her own existence, has taken its place. "That should make everyone happy."

// @SLATE !!

"speech"

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[SLATE]

The lead warrior had been perfectly fine in closing his eyes and simply pretending that the lilac tabby to his right did not exist. The smell of Dawnglare's herbs usually nauseating, Slate inhaled their aroma deeply in an attempt to block out the stench of blood and... her. Slate's thoughts were distracting enough, thinking about how he would never talk to the golden-furred tom again, thinking about how WindClan was probably planning to fetch their slain warrior and potentially retaliate, thinking about how it was now Orangeblossom's turn to step up as leader, and thinking about how he was able to do virtually nothing for weeks.

Needless to say, a lot was racing through that blocky noggin of his as he sat and pondered solemnly. A shredded ear flicks as a raspy voice breaks the heavy silence. It is unusually dull, void of any sweetness or innocence that once accompanied it. There is no doubt that she is emotionally numbed, probably still processing the fact that Blazestar is gone forever. At least she did not seem to be weeping uncontrollably, polluting the already stuffy den with her cries. Slate does not plan on sparing any sympathy for the wounded she-cat, however. The leader had been an important figure in the lives of every SkyClanner; his loss would surely be acknowledged and mourned across the forest as well. Who was Bobbie to turn this into an opportunity to spite him?

"Stop makin' this about you." Blazestar had children who were also mourning his loss; former apprentices who had lost a mentor, as well. Friends who would never bask in his radiant warmth again. Then again, practically all of SkyClan had a friend in Blazestar; perhaps to Slate, he was more of a role model. Of course, to Slate, it seemed virtually impossible to achieve the greatness that Blazestar had possessed. The Ragdoll tom had been humble and wise yet ferocious and self-sacrificing in the name of his home. Many cats, especially kits, wished to live life like he had. Very little would do so.

It grows like a fire, the distress underlying his tone — the more he speaks, the more he realizes how grave the situation is. "Blazestar is dead to a WindClanner's claws. Now we're without a leader; Sootstar and her cronies could come chargin' in any time. They'll kill Ora first." A pause, briefly, "Orangeblossom." Everyone seemed to look at him weirdly when Slate used the nickname that he had picked up when they were younger.

Slate's orangeish gaze drifts off momentarily, landing on the leader's den that sat just across the way. His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly — a thought crosses his mind, though there is certainly no chance he would be elaborating to Bobbie. He shakes his head, looking away and grumbling, "'n I can't do anythin' 'cause I'm stuck in this stupid den in this stupid nest next t' you." The charcoal tom twitched the end of his bushy tail and laid his head down onto his paws, staring ahead as he went silent again.

After several beats, the mass of fur parts his maw, "We'll all—" Miss him. He stops himself, as if admitting that he would miss Blazestar in the slightest would somehow diminish his rugged reputation. Slate didn't necessarily want Bobbie to spot a crack in the wall, a passing moment of weakness that she could hold against him. After searching for a more suitable way of putting his thoughts, Slate mutters, "It's... hard to believe." To be quite frank, he's uncertain. He's... anxious, even. It doesn't help that Slate is doomed to bedrest for what seems like ages, either. Orangeblossom needed the help of her warriors, now more than ever, and he was about as useful as a moldy chunk of moss. All Slate could do now is sit in his nest and grumble to Bobbie — never in a hundred seasons would have imagined himself in this situation.

₊ ⋆ * ⊹ ₊ ☾ —— 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙨𝙩𝙪𝙘𝙠, 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙖𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚

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  ✰ SLATE
  —— he/him; lead warrior of skyclan; former rogue
  —— bisexual; single; not looking
  —— hulking, scarred charcoal-black colored maine coon with amber eyes
  —— "speech", thoughts, attack
  —— link to full tags; @ on discord for plots.
  —— penned by beatles

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