- Oct 17, 2022
- 454
- 78
- 28
MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————
Despite Petalnose’s suggestion, Snakeblink did not take Carppaw along on that first hunting patrol into Shadowclan territory. How could he? She could barely stand, let alone walk: the wounds she suffered in that first attack on their camp were still angry and red, suffering from their medicine cat’s feverish state. As willing and eager he’s been to help Ravensong, Snakeblink has not gained nearly enough knowledge through exposure to help with the pain — he can only pray they don’t get infected.
They have only just returned from their excursion, only mildly successful; while the others turn to the Burnt Sycamore to share their bounty of rats with the exiles, Snakeblink turns his paws towards the Shadowclan camp.
It’s strange to slip through the brambles and be met with only mild resistance, his presence warily accepted as he jerks his head towards the rocky alcove that has been pointed out to them as the medicine den. He sympathizes with the eyes trailed on his back: he remembers what it was like to have Skyclan in their space; outsiders in their home. He slithers into the dim space with only a little unease.
The confined clearing smells of sickness and fever, underlaid with bitter herbs. Quiet paws carry Snakeblink through the huddled forms of ill cats, to those injured during the rogue raids: they have been placed to the side, as far away from the contagion as could be managed.
Here he finds Carppaw, her smoky pelt still stained with bloody rust from the deep gashes across her back. The sight tugs at his heart; a mix of regret and anger, at himself and the rogues. He wonders if anyone has been around to groom her, as she can hardly twist to do it herself. He knows most are too cautious to enter the den for risk of catching yellowcough; a caution he ought to have as well, but doesn’t. Surely her family, though, her grandmother?
He places the small lizard in front of her sick-nest, murmuring, ”Hello, Carppaw. We went hunting without you, in the end; I hope settling in was not too difficult in the meantime.”
They have only just returned from their excursion, only mildly successful; while the others turn to the Burnt Sycamore to share their bounty of rats with the exiles, Snakeblink turns his paws towards the Shadowclan camp.
It’s strange to slip through the brambles and be met with only mild resistance, his presence warily accepted as he jerks his head towards the rocky alcove that has been pointed out to them as the medicine den. He sympathizes with the eyes trailed on his back: he remembers what it was like to have Skyclan in their space; outsiders in their home. He slithers into the dim space with only a little unease.
The confined clearing smells of sickness and fever, underlaid with bitter herbs. Quiet paws carry Snakeblink through the huddled forms of ill cats, to those injured during the rogue raids: they have been placed to the side, as far away from the contagion as could be managed.
Here he finds Carppaw, her smoky pelt still stained with bloody rust from the deep gashes across her back. The sight tugs at his heart; a mix of regret and anger, at himself and the rogues. He wonders if anyone has been around to groom her, as she can hardly twist to do it herself. He knows most are too cautious to enter the den for risk of catching yellowcough; a caution he ought to have as well, but doesn’t. Surely her family, though, her grandmother?
He places the small lizard in front of her sick-nest, murmuring, ”Hello, Carppaw. We went hunting without you, in the end; I hope settling in was not too difficult in the meantime.”
——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely
