- May 16, 2023
- 88
- 13
- 8
⁀➷ [ CW: CONTEMPLATING MORTALITY/DEATH FROM ILLNESS, MENTION OF UNREALITY UNTIL ⁀➷☾⁺₊ ]
At some point, Foxglare had considered the real possibility that he would die here, in the darkness of the badger sett. Death had ridden close to him a few times more than the average cat, and perhaps at this point he had the acumen to recognize its face when it lingered in the shadows. It slunk alongside them to every battle, and padded slowly behind them on every patrol. It wasn't to say he was paranoid, not that he thought, in fact he made a point not to cower from it when it bared its teeth.
Never had it come so slowly, never had it lingered by his side for so long, never had it made him so scared. In battle, you didn't have much time to ruminate before snapping jaws caught you up, survival being a matter of luck and quickness of claw. The battle here lasted throughout the entire night, or so it felt. Survival meant focusing real hard on breathing, of ignoring the noise, the half-dreamt visions of slobbering dog-snouts and of camp-raiding murderers. Survival meant casting his thoughts out toward the ether, asking not to die, and having to mean it. Death told him that the unintelligible voices sounded oh-too-familiar, that he was already too late, that he'd let it happen, survival asked him to breathe through it anyways.
Survival asked him to want to survive, and to want to survive is to want something past surviving, it asked him to want... He wanted... He wanted...
⁀➷☾⁺₊
Eventually, it retreats, and Foxglare is left with himself. The fear still sits uncomfortably in the recesses of his mind, imploring him that there's something he wants.
He spends most of his time sleeping, and he figures it's coincidence that he hasn't seen her—clearheaded, that is—until now. He's sitting up, stretching under-used limbs with the near-silence of the sparse, sleeping patients and muffled outside-noise making his ears twitch.
She's here.
He figures it must be overcast outside, because the pale light that filters into the darkened room casts a moonbeam aura upon her figure. He spends a beat studying her, confirming first that she is real, that the shuffle of her paws hold weight unlike the opalescent, inscrutable Cottonsprig-esque figments that faded in and out of his sightline. "You're here..." his voice scratches with lack of use. He looks at her for another second, and through the still-sluggish fog inside his skull, he knows something must be very wrong, that there's some expanse of pain he has not yet seen but knows must exist to have placed her here in front of him. But still, seeing her real and in one piece , he allows himself a twitch of his whisker, "Cotton..."
At some point, Foxglare had considered the real possibility that he would die here, in the darkness of the badger sett. Death had ridden close to him a few times more than the average cat, and perhaps at this point he had the acumen to recognize its face when it lingered in the shadows. It slunk alongside them to every battle, and padded slowly behind them on every patrol. It wasn't to say he was paranoid, not that he thought, in fact he made a point not to cower from it when it bared its teeth.
Never had it come so slowly, never had it lingered by his side for so long, never had it made him so scared. In battle, you didn't have much time to ruminate before snapping jaws caught you up, survival being a matter of luck and quickness of claw. The battle here lasted throughout the entire night, or so it felt. Survival meant focusing real hard on breathing, of ignoring the noise, the half-dreamt visions of slobbering dog-snouts and of camp-raiding murderers. Survival meant casting his thoughts out toward the ether, asking not to die, and having to mean it. Death told him that the unintelligible voices sounded oh-too-familiar, that he was already too late, that he'd let it happen, survival asked him to breathe through it anyways.
Survival asked him to want to survive, and to want to survive is to want something past surviving, it asked him to want... He wanted... He wanted...
⁀➷☾⁺₊
Eventually, it retreats, and Foxglare is left with himself. The fear still sits uncomfortably in the recesses of his mind, imploring him that there's something he wants.
He spends most of his time sleeping, and he figures it's coincidence that he hasn't seen her—clearheaded, that is—until now. He's sitting up, stretching under-used limbs with the near-silence of the sparse, sleeping patients and muffled outside-noise making his ears twitch.
She's here.
He figures it must be overcast outside, because the pale light that filters into the darkened room casts a moonbeam aura upon her figure. He spends a beat studying her, confirming first that she is real, that the shuffle of her paws hold weight unlike the opalescent, inscrutable Cottonsprig-esque figments that faded in and out of his sightline. "You're here..." his voice scratches with lack of use. He looks at her for another second, and through the still-sluggish fog inside his skull, he knows something must be very wrong, that there's some expanse of pain he has not yet seen but knows must exist to have placed her here in front of him. But still, seeing her real and in one piece , he allows himself a twitch of his whisker, "Cotton..."
- OOC: @cottonsprig
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—meztli.sun.fox.foxpaw. foxglare
— he/him. 21mo moor-runner of windclan. Mentored by shalestripe. currently mentoring frightpaw. formerly mentored tigerpaw.
— a scarred, hulking white and golden tabby tom with gray eyes
— taciturn, vigilant, reserved, self-righteous, restrained, independent, humanitarian, unyielding
— “speech”, thoughts, attack
— penned by eezy
