- Aug 20, 2023
- 30
- 5
- 8
Chervilkit saw how the scourge of yellowcough infested into the hearts of the clan and, most lamentably, the children. As though a predator of the night, it slithered through the swamp's murk and stole at the hearts of her kin. The molly hardly remembered what her life was like before yellowcough, as if it had consumed even her glass-thin memories and left not the skeleton to remember it by. Perhaps it had always been a part of her, a misfortune that had been bestowed to her by the virtue of being alive. Sickness was a greedy and conscienceless beast, like the glittering-fanged foxes and the bright-eyed badgers. She figured she was just its prey, an inevitable conclusion to come face to face with the salivating, inviting teeth of her own demise. It was this contemptible, terrible sickness that had seized her in its arms and blanketed her in a nightly veil of a discomforting dream.
Like Shadowclan's unspoken secret, she lie upon the tongues that only uttered pity and empty platitudes in her wake. Aptly, she sidled around the camp like a broken piece of the shade, as though too ashamed for the sun to see it had fallen from what little grace it held onto. On her way to the fresh-kill pile, she bumped into another warm body, though it was a soft, feathery brushing of fur rather than a harsh, clattering collision. A dull, moss-green gaze swam upon Flintpaw, who was of the numerous faces she had spotted in the sea of patients in the medicine cat den. Little Ghost had never been good at remembering things - most times, information fought to surface from the greater sea of honey and mist, a sweet yet murky soup that lay its nest in her brain. Still, she recognized him from her distinctive multi-colored eyes; blue and green, like the rolling moors of Windclan as woven by elders' tales.
A small, pitious smile crawled onto porcelain features, like the warmth of the winter sun, a gradual yet rising force that stood upon the mounds of snowfall and indescribable white. When faced with a stranger, she always found it pertinent to smile, even if she wasn't happy in the moment. Littlebird told her that cats liked it when one smiled at them. "Hi, Flintpaw." She mewed to the cat who had, like so many others, left her behind. Saying the 'paw' in her name could not help but to dredge of twangs of jealousy in an otherwise unblemished heart. She still bore the iron-wristed chains of her birth name, of which she felt she would never be free from (freedom must be earned, she figured, but to what ends must be met were a mystery to the overgrown kitten).
@FLINTPAW