- Oct 17, 2022
- 494
- 87
- 28
MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————
Snakeblink feels bruised all over, like he's been physically battered by the river. He's soaked to the bone, still shaking a little from exertion and adrenalin, too keyed-up to feel the cold or the watered-down blood slowly trickling from his face. He wants to lie down and sleep for a thousand years; perhaps at the bottom of the river, since it wants to swallow him whole so badly.
But there's no time. There's still too much to do — too many left to be found and brought back to safety, alive or dead.
They all make for a sorry sight, although Beefang's assigned missions have turned their sad procession to the beech copse into a kicked-hive of activity as cats hurry back and forth with bundles of moss or fresh-caught prey. Many of them sustained injuries in their attempts at helping others through the flood; others were not so fortunate as to get off so lightly. Moonbeam has her work cut out for her. And with their herb stores so depleted, most if not all of them washed away…
There is no fixing this. But maybe they can wrestle some sense of order from the chaos.
(His mind screams with fear with nowhere to go, anger with no target, but he cannot, will not, listen. Not as long as there's still work to do.)
Clearing his throat, Snakeblink straightens himself and raises his voice above its habitual hiss: "All those who have been wounded in the evacuation, gather here and state your injuries," he calls, gesturing to a patch of tall grass in the copse that seems comfortable enough to sit on while moss for nests is gathered. He has the crawling, uneasy feeling that he's overstepping, and his eyes seek Moonbeam even as he goes on, "Make yourself known if you cannot move; do not strain yourselves."
A grimmer thought crosses his mind and he inclines his head, continuing in a more somber tone, "We are still missing quite a few of our clanmates. Please come to me if you know of any who— who will not return. We will organize vigils for them." And cross them off the list, lest Ferngill's search parties exhaust themselves looking for cats who now swim with their ancestors.
But there's no time. There's still too much to do — too many left to be found and brought back to safety, alive or dead.
They all make for a sorry sight, although Beefang's assigned missions have turned their sad procession to the beech copse into a kicked-hive of activity as cats hurry back and forth with bundles of moss or fresh-caught prey. Many of them sustained injuries in their attempts at helping others through the flood; others were not so fortunate as to get off so lightly. Moonbeam has her work cut out for her. And with their herb stores so depleted, most if not all of them washed away…
There is no fixing this. But maybe they can wrestle some sense of order from the chaos.
(His mind screams with fear with nowhere to go, anger with no target, but he cannot, will not, listen. Not as long as there's still work to do.)
Clearing his throat, Snakeblink straightens himself and raises his voice above its habitual hiss: "All those who have been wounded in the evacuation, gather here and state your injuries," he calls, gesturing to a patch of tall grass in the copse that seems comfortable enough to sit on while moss for nests is gathered. He has the crawling, uneasy feeling that he's overstepping, and his eyes seek Moonbeam even as he goes on, "Make yourself known if you cannot move; do not strain yourselves."
A grimmer thought crosses his mind and he inclines his head, continuing in a more somber tone, "We are still missing quite a few of our clanmates. Please come to me if you know of any who— who will not return. We will organize vigils for them." And cross them off the list, lest Ferngill's search parties exhaust themselves looking for cats who now swim with their ancestors.
——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely