He feels it, knows it, the moment the bushels of holly come into view. Something is amiss, a fact that She screams at him with dangerous vivacity. His only acknowledgement of those words is a disinterested hum. Fireflypaw, bless his weary soul, couldn't hope to be so keen to such a thing; disconnected both from the pearl of his vision and the earth in all her grandeur. It comes with time– this awareness, no matter what Dawnglare may hope to do. This one lingers just a moment, meanwhile his apprentice slips beneath the leaves. Eyes slitted, ears flat; his gait slows into a crawl. A feathery tail slithers a whisker above the sorrowful ground, and the dust moves strangely there. Blue eyes blink owlishly wide. It stinks of sickness.
At the wails sounding inside, Dawnglare is on course once again, slipping beneath the jutting leaves. He is met by the sight of moon - face twisted into a grimace, a leap from their nest as if it were full of ants. Dawnglare cannot help but crack a smile, but it's gone, as quickly as it comes. Pale paws drift atop a smattering of herbs. A sniff gives him an overwhelming feeling of nausea, sickness' smog curling tight around his nose. Out of place, and now, stripped of its goodness. Nearly too quickly to be possible, his head snaps towards the den's entrance. In search of a suspect, he is perfectly still.
Fireflypaw's problems are all his own. A dawn - striped head and love mark breach the surface once again. His whiskers quiver– a keen nose twitches accusingly against the open air. " You smell like rot, " he hisses it to no one– but it's someone, someone he can smell.
And– quivering not-so-far by, isn't there? The earth rumbles in anticipation as his bounty is neared. Crouching low, low... No matter how low, they could not avoid the burn from the stars. Dawnglare looms like an impatient shadow. His nose wrinkles upon the sight of them, ugly in their own unique ways. " You look infested, " he says to one, voice almost dipping into pity. The other one is wrong in practically every conceivable way. The thought of them trouncing about his den makes him nearly ill. " I think mother cried, when you were born. "
He taps a claw to the earth, as if considering their fates. " I should feed you to dogs, " he muses, and his now - wide gaze seemingly invites them to prove otherwise. His paw reaches to bat at the little grey thing, wondering if it even had the bone structure to keep itself upright.
