camp here we go // recovery, first hunt

[nightingalecry]

Nightingalecry had forgotten what it was like to breathe uninhibited, painless and effortless. Even now, as she brings a wayward pigeon back to camp, she hardly recognizes the difference. It's a casual return to normalcy, and though her body still has its occasional aches and pains, she's almost happy to return to work. Her mind stumbles and she needs more breaks than the healthy warriors - but she chalks that up to getting a -cough twice now. She'll manage, just as she did before.

She drops the bird on the fresh-kill pile, anticipating that a queen or even an elder will drop by to take it away. The silver tabby leans back to seat herself on her haunches, taking a breather before reporting to any more patrols.​

 

[FOGBOUND]

your entire existence gives me a headache, go stand over there .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Losing eyesight in one eye was a troublesome setback, but nothing Fogbound couldn’t handle. He was stubborn, maybe even more now that he relied on a singular hue to pinpoint running hares and compensating during sparring. An obvious weakness, one Fogbound couldn’t help but stiffen in disdain. Pity.

A ruby hue shifted upward, staring at the moor runner with peculiar interest, halting his mid-day groom with a twitch of his whiskers. “An excellent catch, my dear!” He called, watching the moor runner with a devilish grin. “How has the task of a mundane moor runner been?” He prodded further, words dripping like fresh honey. “Certainly not an easy task, recovering from such an illness. I’m sure.” ​

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thought speech​

 

[RATTLEHEART]

The experience of both having and recovering from yellowcough had been some of the worst of Rattleheart's life, and he couldn't express how grateful he was to the journey cats for his life being back in his own paws. It had been intolerable, being confined to the badger's set and then stuck in a nest, desperately waiting for his breath to return enough to patrol and hunt for the clan once more. Just thinking about it could still make him wince, and cause his chest to ache with guilt over inflicting the same ailment on Venomstrike.

He hadn't seen the moor runner in a while – partially intentionally – and he had to wonder if he had truly ruined things between the two of them.

The thought made his stomach churn, and he hastily made his way over to the freshkill pile where Nightingalecry and Fogbound stood, desperate for a distraction. The tunneler tilted his head at Fogbound's words, confused by the term "mundane." Were any of their jobs really mundane, when it came down to it? Though it was only a moment before he turned his attention to Nightingalecry's catch. "It is a good catch. I remember my first catch after I recovered from yellowcough... I was lucky I could actually get my claws on a rabbit." It had been a struggle, his lungs still holding the burn of illness even as he had bolted after the piece of prey days later.
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[ PENNED BY EO ]​

 

[SHALESTRIPE]

Maybe Shalestripe should count himself lucky to not have been among the death-rattled ill, but luck is too fortuitous a thing to credit for being work-hardy through the sweep of illness. He would much rather chalk it up to the simple quality of his being; he is as resilient as molasses in the fur, sticking to life like tar. These other cats are resilient too to still walk after a brush with death, but Shalestripe still thinks himself something special for never having tangoed with yellowcough in the first place. StarClan forbid he need breaks just to pull his weight after pulling the weight of countless others just a few quarter-moons before.

At least they were pulling their weight now — Shalestripe watches Nightingalecry drop her feathered meat on the pile with tame pleasure, but in the end, it's Fogbound's flannel-mouthed words that hook into him and reel him over. Shalestripe knows all about mundanity, and being a moor-runner wasn't it. "You're soundin' jealous, friend," the tom rattles, oily drawl coating his tone. "But I'd be jealous too 'f I was cooped up in tunnels all day. I bet you can't tell stones from shit down there." He flashes Fogbound a grin, then turns towards the fresh kill pile, and promptly pulls a meal off of it. Some skinny ouzel, good for little more than nest lining, but there's enough meat on the bones for a small meal.

When Rattleheart approaches, Shalestripe huffs at his story. "Good thing y' managed it. I was gettin' tired 'f feeding you all," he rumbles, not sparing any ounce of judgement from his tone. It was about time the sick recovered and started working again. WindClan needed all the healthy paws it could use, what with claiming Highstones — and maybe, someday, beyond. He doesn't know any of Sootstar's plans for the future, but he can dream. One day he'd walk the river and the bog and the forest just as easily as he walked these moors, just like he used to, and it would be all thanks to that little molly.

𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑, 𝐃𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐋!

• 
  
  — shale . shalestripe
  — he / him ; windclan moor-runner ; mentoring none
  — short-haired black smoke tabby tom with high white and amber eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — headshot by me, chibi by moonacre
  — penned by meghan; all opinions are IC!

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[SOOTSPOT]

Avoiding the sick during the outbreak had perhaps been the only way the little tom had avoided spending his days in the badger den alongside his aunt and sibling. In WindClan, he was certain sickness would have been the death of him, he had little faith in his medicine cat to do the right thing because, if it had been Sootspot meddling with herbs, he wouldn't have offered lungwort to half of the cats he interacted with daily. Soil from the tunnels still clung to the feline's paws as he moved towards the small group, his bright stare refusing to acknowledge Nightingale's catch, his words following a similar tale. She would've been one of the ones for whom he had conveniently run out of lungwort for; the child of a traitor, a dangerous thing to be. For the others, he held their stares amicably, even Shale, whose comment about Tunnelers was a grim reminder of how near-sighted the moor-runner population could be. "We can tell what, or who is mousedung well enough," he smiled towards Shalestripe, his tail lashing behind him at the comment.


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