- Jun 9, 2022
- 602
- 408
- 63
They needed more feverfew.
When his eyes fly open, Dawnglare did not question why dawnlight had yet to filter into his den. The exhaustion he felt was no greater than what has hung over him for a moon now. He would rest when he wished to rest. He would rise when he wished to rise. His body’s whims are a thing he has never questioned— and he saw no reason to begin now. Could he possibly worry for such a trivial matter, when there are— one, two— a swath of new infected taking up space in his den? Three— and he finds himself losing count.
Dark. It was dark. How was he meant to count in this light? Where the moon could shine more cleanly is where he should be. He ignores the way his legs felt too heavy— because they were his; lively, unblemished, a pristine white that only glowed brighter beneath the glow of the moon. The glow of the moon he was now under, and he fails to remember why.
They really needed more feverfew.
He is mildly alarmed, seeing the excess of cats sleeping outside of dens. But they would all need feverfew; cure for the burn that rakes its claws inside - out. A burn that– if he knew no better, he might think pulsed steadily within his own ears. Of course, he is immune to the petty gripes of sickness. The thought of it could make him laugh. He nearly does– but even now, he is conscious enough not to while the moon was a claw - sliver in the sky. His own claws curl around nothing.
Dawnglare pushes his way past the bramble. Only once, does he consider the threat of rogues. Feverfew was more important than that, wasn’t it?
When he returns, he is scalding; but he is victorious. His eyes gleam, and teeth clench around the bushel that is his bounty. It is no great harvest— the ever - setting chill made sure of that, but it is something. More than nothing. His backdrop is a warm, pink dawn, and the slow rise of the sun. His throat feels tight in a way it never has, but, perhaps that was better for the herbs, the weight of his breath could not diminish them any such way. Every scrap would be for them, and wouldn’t they be pleased? Wouldn't they scream their rejoice, and in it, he could quietly bask in his pleasure? Dawnglare pictures the thankful cries as he makes his way into camp, and— why are there so many strangers here?
He is dazed. Tufted ears are frantic in their flicking as the assess the situation. One, two— impossible to count. Three, four. The glassy sheen gives his eyes the appearance of a frozen lake.
Don’t you know this? You know everything. What you do not know, She will tell you. Isn’t that unfair, that advantage you have?
Dawnglare thinks it’s quite amusing. Feverfew acts as a natural muffle for his bubbling laugh.
Valentine looks to the sky, and he sees Mother’s eyes. Need She look at him, to pin him beneath her stare? He is brought back to a number of things, all at once. Twitch of a whisker. Drop of rain.
He is sick.
It hits him, all at once. Beyond filthy, a crawl beneath skin; worming beyond his fur and festering, this cursed plague. Not once has he fallen ill. It had been Her, then. He was beloved enough to have clear lungs. Pretty enough to watch with blank eyes, not understanding. Small enough to be kept from this thing— inevitability for all else. And once She left… Of course, he should be safe thereafter. Didn't that all make sense?
It could not all be for nothing. What an unfettered tragedy that would undeniably be. He is not sick. His head is clear. The shapes of the world were not foggy. The burn— a farce. Something desired his weakness so fully that it’d stoop to this, but he would never kneel. His laugh is triumphant! And he feels like he’s dying, dying. He is full of zeal! His bounty sees no bounds! And he tries not to rip at his own skin. None of these strangers could hope to hurt him! And he is crying, crying, crumpling to the floor with his bounty tumbling free.
When his eyes fly open, Dawnglare did not question why dawnlight had yet to filter into his den. The exhaustion he felt was no greater than what has hung over him for a moon now. He would rest when he wished to rest. He would rise when he wished to rise. His body’s whims are a thing he has never questioned— and he saw no reason to begin now. Could he possibly worry for such a trivial matter, when there are— one, two— a swath of new infected taking up space in his den? Three— and he finds himself losing count.
Dark. It was dark. How was he meant to count in this light? Where the moon could shine more cleanly is where he should be. He ignores the way his legs felt too heavy— because they were his; lively, unblemished, a pristine white that only glowed brighter beneath the glow of the moon. The glow of the moon he was now under, and he fails to remember why.
They really needed more feverfew.
He is mildly alarmed, seeing the excess of cats sleeping outside of dens. But they would all need feverfew; cure for the burn that rakes its claws inside - out. A burn that– if he knew no better, he might think pulsed steadily within his own ears. Of course, he is immune to the petty gripes of sickness. The thought of it could make him laugh. He nearly does– but even now, he is conscious enough not to while the moon was a claw - sliver in the sky. His own claws curl around nothing.
Dawnglare pushes his way past the bramble. Only once, does he consider the threat of rogues. Feverfew was more important than that, wasn’t it?
When he returns, he is scalding; but he is victorious. His eyes gleam, and teeth clench around the bushel that is his bounty. It is no great harvest— the ever - setting chill made sure of that, but it is something. More than nothing. His backdrop is a warm, pink dawn, and the slow rise of the sun. His throat feels tight in a way it never has, but, perhaps that was better for the herbs, the weight of his breath could not diminish them any such way. Every scrap would be for them, and wouldn’t they be pleased? Wouldn't they scream their rejoice, and in it, he could quietly bask in his pleasure? Dawnglare pictures the thankful cries as he makes his way into camp, and— why are there so many strangers here?
He is dazed. Tufted ears are frantic in their flicking as the assess the situation. One, two— impossible to count. Three, four. The glassy sheen gives his eyes the appearance of a frozen lake.
Don’t you know this? You know everything. What you do not know, She will tell you. Isn’t that unfair, that advantage you have?
Dawnglare thinks it’s quite amusing. Feverfew acts as a natural muffle for his bubbling laugh.
Valentine looks to the sky, and he sees Mother’s eyes. Need She look at him, to pin him beneath her stare? He is brought back to a number of things, all at once. Twitch of a whisker. Drop of rain.
He is sick.
It hits him, all at once. Beyond filthy, a crawl beneath skin; worming beyond his fur and festering, this cursed plague. Not once has he fallen ill. It had been Her, then. He was beloved enough to have clear lungs. Pretty enough to watch with blank eyes, not understanding. Small enough to be kept from this thing— inevitability for all else. And once She left… Of course, he should be safe thereafter. Didn't that all make sense?
It could not all be for nothing. What an unfettered tragedy that would undeniably be. He is not sick. His head is clear. The shapes of the world were not foggy. The burn— a farce. Something desired his weakness so fully that it’d stoop to this, but he would never kneel. His laugh is triumphant! And he feels like he’s dying, dying. He is full of zeal! His bounty sees no bounds! And he tries not to rip at his own skin. None of these strangers could hope to hurt him! And he is crying, crying, crumpling to the floor with his bounty tumbling free.
- OOC: TL;DR: suddenly fixated on his lack of feverfew, Dawn dazedly went herb hunting in the middle of night and has returned at dawn with very obvious yellowcough symptoms. He does not believe himself capable of being sick and is having a crisis crying on the floor after he's been awkwardly standing around and giggling to himself for a little bit </3
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