- Sep 2, 2023
- 190
- 56
- 28
Dual-toned eyes blink slowly, carefully, as Falconpaw stares at the entrance to the den that lies only pawsteps away. His mentor came down with the illness a few days ago, and she thought she could push through it, but the symptoms have only been getting worse, a spark that's grown into a flame. He's found himself in a difficult situation, an apprentice temporarily with no mentor well enough to take him out on his usual training sessions. But the sickness winding its way from cat to cat doesn't give anyone the right to laze about. In fact, their under-the-weather clanmates being unable to work or hunt means that the burden of keeping the clan fed falls even more heavily upon the shoulders of every cat. He may not have someone to train with today, but surely either his mentor or some other warrior has something for him to do. So he slips into the den to, bracing himself against the scent of undeniable sickness. It's a risk, being so close to his ill clanmates, but he'll be fine, he thinks. As long as he doesn't touch anyone, he won't get sick, so he isn't terribly worried for his own safety. He finds the cat he seeks within moments, eyes darkening at the pitiful sight that she makes. He greets the cat with a murmur of her name, and settles onto his haunches before the nest that she lies in.
His mentor, looking for the first time like something less than a powerful, unstoppable warrior, coughs out a hacking breath and asks him if he could fetch her some more moss for her new sick-nest. His chest aches with sympathy for her, surely having had a terrible night attempting to sleep on her nest of scratchy, thinning moss. "Yes, of course," he agrees, dipping his head in deference to the older ThunderClanner. Gut-wrenching concern has dug its claws into his shoulders, forcing them tense and aching even as he stands still, gaze dropping to his own paws. "Is there anything else I can do for you? I could fetch some wet moss, as well." His offer is denied with a strained voice and a flick of her tail, and Falconpaw nods once, stiffly. "Got it." Feeling off-kilter, though he thinks his nerves are quite warranted, he turns and flees the den just as quickly as he'd entered.
The early morning sun has only just begun to peek over the horizon, the beginnings of its light filtering weakly through the trees. Exhaustion pulls at his paws, feeling heavy and awkward even as he sets off in the direction of the camp's entrance. Somewhere in the distance, a bird warbles cheerily, but where normally the young tom would crack a subdued smile at the sound, now it only feels out of place. The world is not right, in ways that he can explain and ways that he can't even begin to put into words. It feels wrong, the idea of leaving camp without his mentor at his side. He tells himself that this is what must be done to help her recover quicker, to ensure that their training sessions resume as soon as possible—but he's heard the hushed discussions of the plague around camp. Cats are dying, have died, and Berryheart may have discovered a cure but that doesn't mean the sick aren't suffering. She's only been sick for a few days now, and already she seems so feeble. What if she can't recover? Not a possibility. He grits his teeth together, wincing at the ache that it causes.
As he approaches the exit that will take him out into the forest, Falconpaw comes to a sharp stop, twisting on his paws to face the camp once more. A few cats are awake already as well, milling about or going about their own morning duties. "Would anyone... uh," his mouth snaps shut and cuts off his soft voice, words jumbling themselves together on his tongue, "hm, does... does anyone want to come with me to help find moss?" His face feels unbearably warm, embarrassment creeping up his spine. Why did you say it like that, he chastises himself, frowning deeply. It's a strange occurrence, one that seems simultaneously both disconnected from and deeply intertwined with the illness that's made its way into the clan. He never had this much trouble talking to his clanmates before, did he? But nobody really liked him very much, before the sickness, so maybe it's a fair trade. Straightening his short frame to its fullest height, the young tom rolls his shoulders absently, gaze casting around camp in seek of any clanmates who might accompany him on his task.
His mentor, looking for the first time like something less than a powerful, unstoppable warrior, coughs out a hacking breath and asks him if he could fetch her some more moss for her new sick-nest. His chest aches with sympathy for her, surely having had a terrible night attempting to sleep on her nest of scratchy, thinning moss. "Yes, of course," he agrees, dipping his head in deference to the older ThunderClanner. Gut-wrenching concern has dug its claws into his shoulders, forcing them tense and aching even as he stands still, gaze dropping to his own paws. "Is there anything else I can do for you? I could fetch some wet moss, as well." His offer is denied with a strained voice and a flick of her tail, and Falconpaw nods once, stiffly. "Got it." Feeling off-kilter, though he thinks his nerves are quite warranted, he turns and flees the den just as quickly as he'd entered.
The early morning sun has only just begun to peek over the horizon, the beginnings of its light filtering weakly through the trees. Exhaustion pulls at his paws, feeling heavy and awkward even as he sets off in the direction of the camp's entrance. Somewhere in the distance, a bird warbles cheerily, but where normally the young tom would crack a subdued smile at the sound, now it only feels out of place. The world is not right, in ways that he can explain and ways that he can't even begin to put into words. It feels wrong, the idea of leaving camp without his mentor at his side. He tells himself that this is what must be done to help her recover quicker, to ensure that their training sessions resume as soon as possible—but he's heard the hushed discussions of the plague around camp. Cats are dying, have died, and Berryheart may have discovered a cure but that doesn't mean the sick aren't suffering. She's only been sick for a few days now, and already she seems so feeble. What if she can't recover? Not a possibility. He grits his teeth together, wincing at the ache that it causes.
As he approaches the exit that will take him out into the forest, Falconpaw comes to a sharp stop, twisting on his paws to face the camp once more. A few cats are awake already as well, milling about or going about their own morning duties. "Would anyone... uh," his mouth snaps shut and cuts off his soft voice, words jumbling themselves together on his tongue, "hm, does... does anyone want to come with me to help find moss?" His face feels unbearably warm, embarrassment creeping up his spine. Why did you say it like that, he chastises himself, frowning deeply. It's a strange occurrence, one that seems simultaneously both disconnected from and deeply intertwined with the illness that's made its way into the clan. He never had this much trouble talking to his clanmates before, did he? But nobody really liked him very much, before the sickness, so maybe it's a fair trade. Straightening his short frame to its fullest height, the young tom rolls his shoulders absently, gaze casting around camp in seek of any clanmates who might accompany him on his task.
[ find me way out there ]
