- Jun 21, 2022
- 215
- 73
- 28
There's an alarming discovery in the medicine cat's den.
Beesong is putting away the herbs he'd been out collecting when he smells it. Spiderfall. His paws slow in their sorting, brows furrowing against widened eyes. Spiderfall has been here. Why? What business did he have in here? To visit? The warrior has never shown any interest in Ashpaw or Pumpkinpaw.
Admittedly, the medicine cat has always been... put off by Spiderfall. There is this wrench in his gut whenever he is around the other tom, as if his own body is trying to warn him of something. But Beesong has never seen any physical evidence, so he'd never questioned it further, simply opting to avoid Spiderfall to the best of his ability. Even still, Beesong scours his herb storage, scrutinizing each and every leaf for any sign that they'd been tampered with.
He finds nothing odd about his herbs. But the unrelenting sensation of, something is wrong, will not leave.
And now, their paws carry them out of the den before they could think, murmuring a hushed, "I think I've dropped some herbs on the way home; I'll be back," to Ashpaw before they duck out of the hollow. They need to talk to Spiderfall.
They invite the warrior out on a walk with them, the lie that they'd feel safer with a warrior chaperone slipping from their tongue as easily as water does from a duck's back. It's believable, they think, with the twoleg infestation RiverClan is troubled with. They say that they need to clear their head, that being cooped up in a den that smelled of herbs isn't good for the sinuses. All as deceitful as the calmness that masks their expression, the smile that they offer Spiderfall. It is practiced and poised, unwavering even as their heart begins to pound in their ear once they've left the sanctuary of camp.
The walk begins with idle small talk; the weather, how the prey's been running, what herbs they've collected recently. It is steady and calculated, as if they are lulling their prey into a false sense of security. And they hope that they are truly the predator and not the prey.
After a pause in the conversation, Beesong finally asks, "Did you visit recently? The medicine den, I mean." There is not a hint of accusation within their voice. The cinnamon tabby smiles, as innocent as a fawn, blinking up at the taller feline.
@SPIDERFALL.
Beesong is putting away the herbs he'd been out collecting when he smells it. Spiderfall. His paws slow in their sorting, brows furrowing against widened eyes. Spiderfall has been here. Why? What business did he have in here? To visit? The warrior has never shown any interest in Ashpaw or Pumpkinpaw.
Admittedly, the medicine cat has always been... put off by Spiderfall. There is this wrench in his gut whenever he is around the other tom, as if his own body is trying to warn him of something. But Beesong has never seen any physical evidence, so he'd never questioned it further, simply opting to avoid Spiderfall to the best of his ability. Even still, Beesong scours his herb storage, scrutinizing each and every leaf for any sign that they'd been tampered with.
He finds nothing odd about his herbs. But the unrelenting sensation of, something is wrong, will not leave.
And now, their paws carry them out of the den before they could think, murmuring a hushed, "I think I've dropped some herbs on the way home; I'll be back," to Ashpaw before they duck out of the hollow. They need to talk to Spiderfall.
They invite the warrior out on a walk with them, the lie that they'd feel safer with a warrior chaperone slipping from their tongue as easily as water does from a duck's back. It's believable, they think, with the twoleg infestation RiverClan is troubled with. They say that they need to clear their head, that being cooped up in a den that smelled of herbs isn't good for the sinuses. All as deceitful as the calmness that masks their expression, the smile that they offer Spiderfall. It is practiced and poised, unwavering even as their heart begins to pound in their ear once they've left the sanctuary of camp.
The walk begins with idle small talk; the weather, how the prey's been running, what herbs they've collected recently. It is steady and calculated, as if they are lulling their prey into a false sense of security. And they hope that they are truly the predator and not the prey.
After a pause in the conversation, Beesong finally asks, "Did you visit recently? The medicine den, I mean." There is not a hint of accusation within their voice. The cinnamon tabby smiles, as innocent as a fawn, blinking up at the taller feline.
@SPIDERFALL.
