- Apr 21, 2023
- 100
- 35
- 28
That night had come and gone and Brookstorm acted as if it never happened. Eagle eyed Clanmates could tell the minute changes in her routine - her nest shifting to the near opposite side of their willow woven den, her meals sat alone, her over abundance of volunteer work and patrol indulgement. Yet all the same, those who kept their noses in their own business would say nothing was different. Brookstorm was preferential to those who couldn't care less of the drama of their Clanmates. She could casually hunt, and now even swim with the warmer weather, without being bombarded with questions of her brief whirlwind of a relationship.
But every day she wakes up sick. She can't eat more than a few morsels a day and what she does manage to hold down threatens her dignity constantly. She knows she is not pregnant (it's simply impossible,) so what is this? Empathy, maybe, for the lover she cast aside and the children she sired but refuses to acknowledge? Guilt for abandoning them all despite pleading with the tortoiseshell to never do that exact thing to her? She's exhausted but she can't sleep, she's starving but she's uninterested in food. Her mind is wartorn, sad that she ruined a good thing, angry that she let any of this happen, afraid of what will occur next.
She's prowling through reeds and sparse undergrowth, following the trail of a little songbird that's pecking at the seeds scattered about. Brookstorm eases her weight from one paw to the next - however, unfortunately, she lands a step on a slightly-too-slippery-leaf, of which unceremoniously shifts her weight off balance, causing her to fall face first to the ground, and her bird to fly off. Brookstorm, outside of an initial yelp of surprise, hardly says much of anything at all. She had imagined that most of her hunting patrol had already gone ahead, or even lingered by the river several fox lengths off, when Lichentail arrives and gives her a look. It's one she's seen a thousand too many times, one that she returns blankly before pushing herself to her paws.
Her ears ring when she notices Lichentail's maw moving - their voice is far off, and Brookstorm takes a moment to try and decipher what the deputy said. What's wrong with you? Maybe. Or perhaps, What's up with you? as if the minor difference means much at all. The silence between them is only filled with the reminder that the last time they spoke like this, Brookstorm made demands, and Lichentail sternly reminded her of who was in charge. The blue moggy grimaces at the memory, her teeth clenched together. She sees her deputy, but she also still sees the other as her former mentor - an odd friend, even, though she'd never admit it.
"Robinheart," she says the name as if it burns her tongue - too quickly, too sharply. "She told me that... she's with kits, I -" Brookstorm fumbles, uncertain if she's dizzy with her own reminder or dizzy because of all of her personal neglect. She eases herself to sit, keeping her stonefaced expression as well as she can. "What... what am I supposed to do?" She looks to Lichentail for help and guidance because outside of them, she has no one. After all, she believes that Willowroot would sooner ream her than support her (oh how true that is - and how wrong she is to believe Lichentail will not.)
But every day she wakes up sick. She can't eat more than a few morsels a day and what she does manage to hold down threatens her dignity constantly. She knows she is not pregnant (it's simply impossible,) so what is this? Empathy, maybe, for the lover she cast aside and the children she sired but refuses to acknowledge? Guilt for abandoning them all despite pleading with the tortoiseshell to never do that exact thing to her? She's exhausted but she can't sleep, she's starving but she's uninterested in food. Her mind is wartorn, sad that she ruined a good thing, angry that she let any of this happen, afraid of what will occur next.
She's prowling through reeds and sparse undergrowth, following the trail of a little songbird that's pecking at the seeds scattered about. Brookstorm eases her weight from one paw to the next - however, unfortunately, she lands a step on a slightly-too-slippery-leaf, of which unceremoniously shifts her weight off balance, causing her to fall face first to the ground, and her bird to fly off. Brookstorm, outside of an initial yelp of surprise, hardly says much of anything at all. She had imagined that most of her hunting patrol had already gone ahead, or even lingered by the river several fox lengths off, when Lichentail arrives and gives her a look. It's one she's seen a thousand too many times, one that she returns blankly before pushing herself to her paws.
Her ears ring when she notices Lichentail's maw moving - their voice is far off, and Brookstorm takes a moment to try and decipher what the deputy said. What's wrong with you? Maybe. Or perhaps, What's up with you? as if the minor difference means much at all. The silence between them is only filled with the reminder that the last time they spoke like this, Brookstorm made demands, and Lichentail sternly reminded her of who was in charge. The blue moggy grimaces at the memory, her teeth clenched together. She sees her deputy, but she also still sees the other as her former mentor - an odd friend, even, though she'd never admit it.
"Robinheart," she says the name as if it burns her tongue - too quickly, too sharply. "She told me that... she's with kits, I -" Brookstorm fumbles, uncertain if she's dizzy with her own reminder or dizzy because of all of her personal neglect. She eases herself to sit, keeping her stonefaced expression as well as she can. "What... what am I supposed to do?" She looks to Lichentail for help and guidance because outside of them, she has no one. After all, she believes that Willowroot would sooner ream her than support her (oh how true that is - and how wrong she is to believe Lichentail will not.)
