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Every muscle in his body aches, every movement beckoning him to lie down, to rest his weary bones, but sleep is a fickle thing, sliding out of his grasp at once and drawing him in all at the same time. Next to him lies Scorchpaw, nearby Scorchstreak, and they're both okay - they're both fine, and he knows this, he really, really does. He knows it every time he's drawn from sleep, Scorchpaw's name in his mouth and her familiar form pressed against his side and waning fear in his chest. Through it all, Luckypaw does not panic, quick enough to return to his senses, the warm weight of his sister beside him enough to be grounding. When he awakes this night, all heaving breaths and wide eyes and already-fading memories of the darkness, he doesn't panic, not anymore than he already is, already has. The night air is sharp, almost enough to slice his lungs, but it means he's wonderfully, gloriously alive, not weighed down by the earth, and if he's alive, then that means Scorchstreak is alright, and Scorchpaw is -
Scorchpaw is not here. It's an innocuous-enough realization, and really, he recognizes that she shouldn't be expected to stay by his side at every fleeting moment, and yet this time, he does panic, convinced that his dream was real and that this is real and that they hadn't gotten out, that he had gotten out, that Scorchstreak and Scorchpaw -
There is Scorchstreak, right before him, and the rise and fall of her chest makes it clear that she's okay. That she's fine. The blind panic is starting to wear off now, Luckypaw's mind fighting through the foggy haze to wake up, all the way this time, and already it's supplying him with a litany of reasons why Scorchpaw might have gotten up. Maybe she'd had a nightmare, too, cheated out of a restful night of slumber; there's nothing to say she's not just clearing her head, like he probably should do. Sooner or later, she'll return, and he'd hate for her to think she'd woken him up with whatever she'd needed to do. Slowly, his head slips back down to his paws, tension draining from his form, though he knows he won't be able to sleep until she's back, safe and sound. Even then, who knows whether fear of slipping back into unwanted dreams or exhaustion will win out this night, considering he's already been so interrupted. It seems weariness is winning over wariness, though when the sound of another cat slipping out of their nest reaches his ears, Luckypaw's eyes snap back open (and when had they closed, he wonders?), trying to track the soft movements.
He's pretty sure it's Iciclefang, and as curious as he is about what she's doing up and about at this time of night, there's no reason for him to have any stake in her personal business; clearly, she doesn't want to be around others in this moment, for whatever reason that is. It's not until he picks up distant sounds, sounds he hadn't been alert enough to catch earlier, that he stirs anxiously again, the emptiness beside him feeling more and more stark. Was...Scorchpaw really okay, wherever she was out there? The sounds are muddled, distant against his sleep-thick form, but they didn't inspire confidence in him, leaving behind only a growing sense of dread. When neither Iciclefang nor Scorchpaw come slinking back after a few heartbeats (is he being too paranoid? Is that not enough time to wait?), he can't take it anymore; frost-nipped paws wind him out from the rest, somehow, even if it doesn't feel real in this moment. It had been cold before, cold ever since they had heaved themselves one by one up that cliff face, but it feels colder still as he slips through the dark, following the sounds with growing concern.
Before anything else, the hissing reaches him - hissing of cats, and hissing of a beast, something that immediately sets his fur on end and stops him dead in his tracks. It's not quite a bellow, not so fearsome to rattle through his bones, but the sound is still something that still haunts the edges of his consciousness at times, making his chest sting as though a claw had been dragged across it anew. Did badgers even live here? The only time he'd encountered one had been in the tunnels back home, and this place is so starkly different in every way he finds it hard to stomach; another sound, a yowl, this time, breaks his thought, shattering it into a hundred pieces as his blood runs cold. Okay, there's definitely a badger, and there's - someone's out there, too, and there isn't time to think anymore, not a fight is unfolding right before him. Faintly, he thinks to turn back, to warn the rest and maybe prevent some bloodshed (or worse), but then he remembers Scorchpaw, missing from his side, and he abandons that idea entirely, moving in with what feels like entirely too much confidence than the situation calls for. Confidence isn't the right word, though, he thinks, even as he rounds upon the horrible scene; it's less confidence, and more fear of what might happen if he doesn't keep pushing forward.
He'd been fortunate enough to stumble upon the tail end of the encounter, Figfeather circling and Slate finally driving the beast off, not that it's really any better than the alternative by much, since Luckypaw doesn't think he could have done anything to help. Even as the badger lurches away, sure to hole up somewhere and lick its wounds, he still doesn't move at first, fixated on the site where it had disappeared - it's not like the encounter he'd had, up close and trapped, but the metallic tang of blood in the air is still clear enough. Nobody's collapsing immediately, even if Slate's fur is starting to tinge red, and he knows he should turn around, seek out Magpiepaw for help, but it's this moment he finally spots Iciclefang, and behind her, Scorchpaw, and the world seems to still entirely as he stands there, gaping. All he can smell is blood and the musk of the badger, and it's gone, but Scorchpaw is here, how long had she been-?
Like the badger, he lurches forward, steps far clumsier than they should have been, but the icy fear that courses through him is more than enough to throw him totally off-kilter, as though it were the ground beneath him shaking and not his own paws. Practically ignoring the other cats present (later, he'd have to thank them, not just for helping Scorchpaw but for helping everyone still sleeping in camp), Luckypaw pauses only a few whisker-lengths away, and his nose is still clogged with the scent of blood so he has to settle for frantically checking over her, eyes blown wide as he searches for something, anything. "Are you - y-you're not hurt, are you?" There's no telltale bloom of red across her, no flesh ripped apart as far as he can tell, but he knows there's no chance of calming down until he hears it from Scorchpaw herself. Even then, he doesn't think he'll ever feel calm again, like his heart will continue to race for eternity and then some.
