- Nov 17, 2022
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The days melt by with no end in sight. Ravensong dreams of large cats with fangs the size of a cat's skull. He dreams of lungwort frozen in a lake. He dreams of a strange world underground with spikes that rise from the ground like a mountain range. He dreams so much that sometimes he cannot tell whether he is awake or sleeping, or if he is even dead. This must be a sort of plane of existence where he is neither dead or alive. When Snakeblink comes to the den, sometimes he looks more gray than brown. Ratpaw turns more ghostlike than catlike every time he sees her.
When he wakes tonight, he catches the moon's reflection in his drinking pool. It is half-full tonight and if he were to go to the medicine cat gathering, he ought to have left several hours before in order to make it in time. Fever-laden muscles tense in protest. His claws scrabble at his nest as he tries to pull himself up, but he fails and sinks back down into despair.
He feels a phantom heat hang over him. Not yet. He tells it. Yellowcough is a cat made out of fire and ice. It has no eyes nor nose—it does not discriminate in its victims. It hangs over him like a vulture, taking pleasure in ripping every capacity he has in his body.
You are finite. (Yellowcough does not speak, but he knows what it wants to tell him). I exist above you. You have no hope.
Ravensong sighs and presses his cheek to the coldness of the ground.
Even if you eventually kill me with sacred leaves carried by chosen paws, my wounds will remain on your body until you leave this earth.
Ravensong wakes up. The crickets thrum in the reeds. Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove coos. Ravensong thinks of light brown tabby fur and his heart aches and squeezes. The sky is painted in orange and yellow. It reminds him of warbling amber eyes that begged him to run away on the night of the gathering. Morning has come. Only a second ago it had been moonhigh. Ravensong lays his chin on his paws and he cries without tears. The fever has burnt up all the water he has in his body, and his shoulders jut out above a ragged, dull coat.
"I miss you." He mouths. "Where are you?" He listens for a reply he will never get.
You are finite.
It is clear as day now—he needs to take on an apprentice.
When he wakes tonight, he catches the moon's reflection in his drinking pool. It is half-full tonight and if he were to go to the medicine cat gathering, he ought to have left several hours before in order to make it in time. Fever-laden muscles tense in protest. His claws scrabble at his nest as he tries to pull himself up, but he fails and sinks back down into despair.
He feels a phantom heat hang over him. Not yet. He tells it. Yellowcough is a cat made out of fire and ice. It has no eyes nor nose—it does not discriminate in its victims. It hangs over him like a vulture, taking pleasure in ripping every capacity he has in his body.
You are finite. (Yellowcough does not speak, but he knows what it wants to tell him). I exist above you. You have no hope.
Ravensong sighs and presses his cheek to the coldness of the ground.
Even if you eventually kill me with sacred leaves carried by chosen paws, my wounds will remain on your body until you leave this earth.
Ravensong wakes up. The crickets thrum in the reeds. Somewhere in the distance, a mourning dove coos. Ravensong thinks of light brown tabby fur and his heart aches and squeezes. The sky is painted in orange and yellow. It reminds him of warbling amber eyes that begged him to run away on the night of the gathering. Morning has come. Only a second ago it had been moonhigh. Ravensong lays his chin on his paws and he cries without tears. The fever has burnt up all the water he has in his body, and his shoulders jut out above a ragged, dull coat.
"I miss you." He mouths. "Where are you?" He listens for a reply he will never get.
You are finite.
It is clear as day now—he needs to take on an apprentice.
-
RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
— LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
— born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
— secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
— openly suffers from chronic migraines
— single, but "it's complicated"
