With toil came reward, he knew that well. Often work was what he did when he felt persuaded by the objective, particularly swayed by the knowledge that came as a reward. But with the new path he tread upon- if a path moons old could indeed be new- interest was no longer the deciding factor. As much as obligation tended to murder his willpower, he now served everyone but himself. This duty, this knowledge... it came with a price. While gathering this intelligence, he needed not be fickle. Whimsicality would only harm his progress.
Thank goodness, then, that today had brought with it passion for his tasks. Awakening at mid-morning and swiftly paying attention to those already within the den walls, Berryheart had faced the daylight and left on a mission. His stock of poppy seeds flagged- as did burdock, so forward did he forge, intent on finding both. As usual he took no caution; no-one was told, no-one was asked to accompany. When want grasped him, he gave into it alone and swiftly.
By the time he returned, the sky was overcast- frowning with the incoming threat of dusk. A cold day had ravaged the lands and Berryheart certainly felt it. His gait was slow, rusted by the frigid creep of frost upon his joints, and his nose was numb with the bite of the air. Worst of all, as he entered the threshold of the camp's walls, the fire-freckled tom's lungs began to ache with the effort of breathing.
Wheezing breaths gasped through his throat, crawling frantically- quickened, his composure was kept despite the more-deft movement of his paws. Forging forward, he swayed, dizzied by the lack of air he was taking in. Take it slow, he told himself, but it ached and ached and ached, and his paws felt as if they might drop off. Hoarseness frayed his inhalations, and the gathered herbs flittered to the ground as a crooked maw fell ajar in an attempt to get as much oxygen as possible. But the air felt as if it was lined with frost, and his throat felt unwilling to give him what he needed. Pathetic for a healer to be ailed in this way- he carried on his walk to his den, a display for all in camp to see.
Thank goodness, then, that today had brought with it passion for his tasks. Awakening at mid-morning and swiftly paying attention to those already within the den walls, Berryheart had faced the daylight and left on a mission. His stock of poppy seeds flagged- as did burdock, so forward did he forge, intent on finding both. As usual he took no caution; no-one was told, no-one was asked to accompany. When want grasped him, he gave into it alone and swiftly.
By the time he returned, the sky was overcast- frowning with the incoming threat of dusk. A cold day had ravaged the lands and Berryheart certainly felt it. His gait was slow, rusted by the frigid creep of frost upon his joints, and his nose was numb with the bite of the air. Worst of all, as he entered the threshold of the camp's walls, the fire-freckled tom's lungs began to ache with the effort of breathing.
Wheezing breaths gasped through his throat, crawling frantically- quickened, his composure was kept despite the more-deft movement of his paws. Forging forward, he swayed, dizzied by the lack of air he was taking in. Take it slow, he told himself, but it ached and ached and ached, and his paws felt as if they might drop off. Hoarseness frayed his inhalations, and the gathered herbs flittered to the ground as a crooked maw fell ajar in an attempt to get as much oxygen as possible. But the air felt as if it was lined with frost, and his throat felt unwilling to give him what he needed. Pathetic for a healer to be ailed in this way- he carried on his walk to his den, a display for all in camp to see.
[ PENNED BY PIN ]
