- Feb 16, 2024
- 84
- 16
- 8
After his patrol had returned from Shadowclan territory unsuccessfully, Privetfrost examined himself for any bodily destruction. Naivete of youth had the tomcat believe that he was infallible, as long as he could outwit who he fought. He would survive, and he would live through his injury. Of course, such wishful thinking of righteousness hardly accounted for how it felt to bear the wound. A serpentine scar adorned his rightmost flank, like a piquant pink tearing into the ever-encompassing night, stinging at the flesh that it now bedeviled and haunted. Salt-strewn warrioress had done that to him, had pulled forth the machinery that lie behind frazzled pelage. He hated to see it, if only for the reason that it made him appear ugly and unbecoming of Duskclan's rising star. Of course, he would also be commended by his elder peers, for there was nothing more valiant nor coveted than a way to tell of the fruits of past wars. This was no different, Privetfrost presumed. Duskclan had no healers to account for, as though solace sought within the salve stood as the easier way out, embittered by his own sense of pride that curdled and flowered within him. He did not need a medicine cat, he did not need to fall back upon any crutch to save him. If he needed such intervention, then he would have hardly made it past the nest as a mere starveling of the badlands. The young warrior licked at his scrapes in an almost-desperate manner, though each swipe felt like a thorn slid against naked skin, burning at where he dared to lay himself bare for only a moment. Ugh. He curled himself inwardly and attempted to flatten a scrap of fur along the cicatrice that would not stay down, no matter what. No matter how his tongue moved, it would never cease to stand upwards. That frustrated the meticulous tomcat more than any shortcomings of his battle.
