- Dec 18, 2022
- 534
- 230
- 43
── .∘°°∘. ── //please wait for @SUNSTRIDE :)
He does not often dream deeply and vividly; his sleep-sight is usually forgotten upon waking, and odd, aimless images when he does remember. To dream in such haunting color— only his memory-fed nights boast that gluttony of sensation, of smell and taste and sound as real as the herbs he now sorts. Distractedly, which is why he distances himself from categorizing to sit in the nest he shares with Sunstride. He stares at the far wall, at the small, dark stones buried in varying layers. He stares and remembers walking through WindClan's camp at the cusp of dawn, the sky overhead heavy with full, rounded clouds and the cool warmth of the sun forcing out the stars.
Wolfsong has wondered whether he awoke and wandered without fully waking, but when he had asked Sunstride, whose sleep he often disturbs, he had not left their nest.
He had, for some reason, found himself standing before the nursery entrance. Wolfsong believes it was early newleaf: his breath left white trails, and the gorse bush, typically decorated by kittens with the brightest flowers, was bare— for a time. A steady warmth bloomed from the nursery, surging over his face, and what was once a dense silence split into voices that, while unintelligible, were unmistakably youthful. Above, the sharp, jagged limbs of the bush gave a great shudder. They swayed back and then stilled, as though holding their breath, before the heat and the laughter seemed to reach a crescendo and petals spilled from every branch. They drowned his paws, thick as the sowing storms of newleaf.
He blinks them away. The medicine den's dark wall returns, and he recognizes his name in his mate's voice. Wolfsong turns toward him, holding his eyes with his own. "Come with me," he says without preamble, brushing by to step out into camp. He does not waste his steps, blazing a path to the nursery through fellow WindClanners. There, he pauses outside, staring at the gorse bush. Flower stems drape over its spindly legs, some wound more artfully than others.
And he understands what restlessness has chased his sleep in the last few days, what the portents within his dream lead to. A soft exhale leaves his parted jaws. He does not look at Sunstride when he says, "I will not move into the nursery when the time comes. The medicine den has room enough, and I know you will never be far." He does gaze at him now, his sole eye crinkling knowingly at the corner.
He does not often dream deeply and vividly; his sleep-sight is usually forgotten upon waking, and odd, aimless images when he does remember. To dream in such haunting color— only his memory-fed nights boast that gluttony of sensation, of smell and taste and sound as real as the herbs he now sorts. Distractedly, which is why he distances himself from categorizing to sit in the nest he shares with Sunstride. He stares at the far wall, at the small, dark stones buried in varying layers. He stares and remembers walking through WindClan's camp at the cusp of dawn, the sky overhead heavy with full, rounded clouds and the cool warmth of the sun forcing out the stars.
Wolfsong has wondered whether he awoke and wandered without fully waking, but when he had asked Sunstride, whose sleep he often disturbs, he had not left their nest.
He had, for some reason, found himself standing before the nursery entrance. Wolfsong believes it was early newleaf: his breath left white trails, and the gorse bush, typically decorated by kittens with the brightest flowers, was bare— for a time. A steady warmth bloomed from the nursery, surging over his face, and what was once a dense silence split into voices that, while unintelligible, were unmistakably youthful. Above, the sharp, jagged limbs of the bush gave a great shudder. They swayed back and then stilled, as though holding their breath, before the heat and the laughter seemed to reach a crescendo and petals spilled from every branch. They drowned his paws, thick as the sowing storms of newleaf.
He blinks them away. The medicine den's dark wall returns, and he recognizes his name in his mate's voice. Wolfsong turns toward him, holding his eyes with his own. "Come with me," he says without preamble, brushing by to step out into camp. He does not waste his steps, blazing a path to the nursery through fellow WindClanners. There, he pauses outside, staring at the gorse bush. Flower stems drape over its spindly legs, some wound more artfully than others.
And he understands what restlessness has chased his sleep in the last few days, what the portents within his dream lead to. A soft exhale leaves his parted jaws. He does not look at Sunstride when he says, "I will not move into the nursery when the time comes. The medicine den has room enough, and I know you will never be far." He does gaze at him now, his sole eye crinkling knowingly at the corner.
-
— ★★★☆☆ WOUNDS: You're (mostly) in safe paws. You'll know if he's less experienced if he asks for your permission to try a treatment. No wound can scare him away from knowledge.
— ★★★☆☆ INFECTION: He can prevent most infections. If you feel feverish, let him know— he'll hum thoughtfully over herbs and sniff your wound before saying, "With your blessing..." -
— ★☆☆☆☆ ACHES & PAINS: If you complain to him of pain, he'll ask where. If it's a headache, you'll likely feel a bit better. For anything else, "Try this, if you'd like, and tell me how you feel."
— ★☆☆☆☆ BROKEN BONES: At best. he can ask you to remain lying down in the den. He may try to distract you with conversation while he considers what herb to feed you. -
— ★★★★★ TRAVELING HERBS: Going somewhere? No worries; Wolfsong knows just what you need to stay hale and healthy during your journey. The rest is up to you.
— ☆☆☆☆☆ KITTING: He doesn't remember what it was like to be born. Coincidentally, that is the extent of his familiarity with kitting. At least he won't leave you without moral support. -
— ★☆☆☆☆ POISONS: It's best if you avoid eating anything unfamiliar to you— it's probably just as unfamiliar to Wolfsong. The best he can do is offer you yarrow and sit with you.
— ★★☆☆☆ ILLNESS: If it's white or greencough, you'll likely recover. Otherwise, prepare for odd concoctions and the usual request that you consent to a little trial-and-error.
