- Dec 30, 2022
- 357
- 93
- 28
Darkness rolled across the moorland sky, scattered with stars like chips of ice against black velvet. Beneath it, in equally contrasting hues, stalked Badgermoon: he had been unable to sleep, plagued by restless, itchy paws and unpleasant memories writhing through his mind. When he did manage to find a few moments of rest, nightmares harried him, snapping at his heels like ravening dogs. Eventually he had given up on sleep entirely and pushed himself upright, picking his way out of the mass of sleeping cats and exiting camp on soundless paws. In the openness of the moor, he felt better, if only somewhat. He elongated his stride, preparing to lope across the land until he felt exhaustion drag at his body and silence his restless mind. StarClan's eyes were on him, and that knowledge was comforting.
Badgermoon's paws drummed against the earth, which had already relinquished its hoarded sun's-warmth to the cool night. A breeze swept along, like most days and nights, and he imagined that it was fueling his pawsteps, sending him sailing ever-faster over the undulating ground. Certain memories he worked assiduously to bury chose moments of tiredness or sorrow to resurface with a vengeance, feeling like so many razor-sharp claws, cutting straight to the marrow and chilling his heart. They came in flashes at times like this one, when he was alone, without purpose, and already beleaguered by a churning sea of emotion - which, of course, he was ill-prepared to deal with. He remembered, and earnestly wished he didn't. He remembered, and the remembering was like drowning. He remembered...
...a tiny kitten, whose nose was crusted with greenish fluid and whose every breath rattled in her chest...
...eyes that loomed, that burned, that scraped clean like a dog cleans a bone...
...the taste of cat's-blood singing on his tongue, for the very first time...hot, liquid, abundant...
An unexpected twist in the wind brought a scent to his nose. Badgermoon's pounding steps came to a jolting halt, his head twisting to try to catch more of the scent. A fist tightened around his throat, snapping his breath in two. The deputy changed course and pursued the scent-trail, which appeared to be leading him to...the Horseplace? The Horseplace was full of bizarre scents, but this one...this one was something different. That was...it wasn't...surely, it couldn't... he kept walking, and despite himself, kept remembering. He remembered...
...raised voices overflowing into full-throated yowls, frustration turning into anger and anger into a blind rage...
...a tomcat's broad back before him, thick fur rippling over powerful shoulders, the cat's face hidden from view...
...a choked cry of surprise beneath a starlit sky, as if someone had been snatched from their nest...
The scent-trail reached its zenith at the corner of the Horseplace, where it met the Thunderpath, and one deep inhale was all it took to do two things: one, to confirm Badgermoon's suspicions and worst fears; and two, to indicate that the scent came from beyond the Thunderpath, perhaps originating all the way from Highstones. He took a deep, shuddering breath and extended a paw: the scent pulsed most strongly beneath a small heap of torn-up grass. He had to know what lay underneath. He had to know...he had to know. What choice did he have? I've never had a choice. And when I do, I make the wrong one. with a savage strike, Badgermoon dispatched the plant matter obscuring the scent's source, scattering the grass like confetti. A sharp hiss escaped him as he beheld what lie underneath, as if a thousand gorse-thorns had at that moment pierced his flesh.
All that lay upon the ground was a trio of swan feathers and a clump of cat's-fur, bedecked with a few pinprick spots of blood. They bore no scent of other Clans, and patently posed no threat to the cat who stood above them, his sides heaving as he stared down. Then in a blur of motion, he fell upon the feathers, ripping and tearing with claws and teeth, intensely inhaling the scent while he did so. For a time, madness took him, and he felt its passage through his mind and body like the sun's travel through the sky. When at last it lifted from him, when nothing remained of the feathers but white flecks and the clump of fur had been eradicated, Badgermoon stilled himself. Above him, the darkness was shot through with pale light, foretelling the dawn that was soon to unfurl across the moor. Rising slowly, his body wearied from its efforts and his mind thick and swarming with memory and fear, he dug a small hole and buried the fragments.
When at last the scraps were buried and the dirt on top had been smoothed flat, he rose unsteadily to his feet and began the long trek back to camp.
Badgermoon's paws drummed against the earth, which had already relinquished its hoarded sun's-warmth to the cool night. A breeze swept along, like most days and nights, and he imagined that it was fueling his pawsteps, sending him sailing ever-faster over the undulating ground. Certain memories he worked assiduously to bury chose moments of tiredness or sorrow to resurface with a vengeance, feeling like so many razor-sharp claws, cutting straight to the marrow and chilling his heart. They came in flashes at times like this one, when he was alone, without purpose, and already beleaguered by a churning sea of emotion - which, of course, he was ill-prepared to deal with. He remembered, and earnestly wished he didn't. He remembered, and the remembering was like drowning. He remembered...
...a tiny kitten, whose nose was crusted with greenish fluid and whose every breath rattled in her chest...
...eyes that loomed, that burned, that scraped clean like a dog cleans a bone...
...the taste of cat's-blood singing on his tongue, for the very first time...hot, liquid, abundant...
An unexpected twist in the wind brought a scent to his nose. Badgermoon's pounding steps came to a jolting halt, his head twisting to try to catch more of the scent. A fist tightened around his throat, snapping his breath in two. The deputy changed course and pursued the scent-trail, which appeared to be leading him to...the Horseplace? The Horseplace was full of bizarre scents, but this one...this one was something different. That was...it wasn't...surely, it couldn't... he kept walking, and despite himself, kept remembering. He remembered...
...raised voices overflowing into full-throated yowls, frustration turning into anger and anger into a blind rage...
...a tomcat's broad back before him, thick fur rippling over powerful shoulders, the cat's face hidden from view...
...a choked cry of surprise beneath a starlit sky, as if someone had been snatched from their nest...
The scent-trail reached its zenith at the corner of the Horseplace, where it met the Thunderpath, and one deep inhale was all it took to do two things: one, to confirm Badgermoon's suspicions and worst fears; and two, to indicate that the scent came from beyond the Thunderpath, perhaps originating all the way from Highstones. He took a deep, shuddering breath and extended a paw: the scent pulsed most strongly beneath a small heap of torn-up grass. He had to know what lay underneath. He had to know...he had to know. What choice did he have? I've never had a choice. And when I do, I make the wrong one. with a savage strike, Badgermoon dispatched the plant matter obscuring the scent's source, scattering the grass like confetti. A sharp hiss escaped him as he beheld what lie underneath, as if a thousand gorse-thorns had at that moment pierced his flesh.
All that lay upon the ground was a trio of swan feathers and a clump of cat's-fur, bedecked with a few pinprick spots of blood. They bore no scent of other Clans, and patently posed no threat to the cat who stood above them, his sides heaving as he stared down. Then in a blur of motion, he fell upon the feathers, ripping and tearing with claws and teeth, intensely inhaling the scent while he did so. For a time, madness took him, and he felt its passage through his mind and body like the sun's travel through the sky. When at last it lifted from him, when nothing remained of the feathers but white flecks and the clump of fur had been eradicated, Badgermoon stilled himself. Above him, the darkness was shot through with pale light, foretelling the dawn that was soon to unfurl across the moor. Rising slowly, his body wearied from its efforts and his mind thick and swarming with memory and fear, he dug a small hole and buried the fragments.
When at last the scraps were buried and the dirt on top had been smoothed flat, he rose unsteadily to his feet and began the long trek back to camp.
