- Dec 18, 2022
- 534
- 230
- 43
──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── It is an ill ambience in the badger set. Though many are recovering, sniffles, coughs, and wet breaths rise to the den's ceiling and join the dying gasps of last yellowcough's victims. Somewhere in the dirt is Quietcrow's final whisper, and each lung's creaking exhale before then. Is it simply the wind on the moors that Wolfsong hears, or the collective knell of every WindClanner to die in this badger's pit? He wonders, too, if any winds from the distant mountains of his birth travel far enough to reach their wayward children here, if it is only during leafbare that they are strong enough to remind Wolfsong of the world he left.
He would follow Sunstar over and through every horizon if he asked— and even if he didn't. Ever a loyal shadow, but one that has failed too often. His sickened, fatigued mind sinks deep into a miasma of smoke and writhing flame, recalling in agonizing color the whites of his son's terrified eyes as he died. His Bearflight, his moss-hearted boy who lives in the stars and forgets pain and expectation.
Wolfsong shifts uncomfortably. The grasping vines that wind his ribs tightly closed may simply be the yellowcough, or perhaps the thorny, questing reach of a tired medicine cat's many regrets. Once, he was a formidable creature, wasn't he? He stalked battlegrounds with a free laugh, tossed his head in the face of every warrior that sought his pain. Now he bends over heaving chests, packs bleeding sides with herbs and cobwebs, dulls the points of his claws with every dandelion offered to ease the ache.
Precious, invaluable knowledge. It does him little good now, shivering in a deepening dark that blots out every silhouette sharing this dismal space with him. He must fight, but he realizes with the horror of a mouse waylaid by a swooping owl that he has forgotten how. Weak, contemptible creature, an insult to the generations that lived and died so that he could be born, to the many nights a young Sunnvar kept watch over a fevered Ellisif. Pathetic.
StarClan would take him all the same if he died. They would not mind his fragility— but they should. But if they did, where would his son's spirit have gone? Who would take such a gentle soul, incapable of harm? Certainly not the spirit peaks where Wolfsong's mother hunts.
He turns over again and curls into a tighter shape. Somehow, Sunstar has forgiven his failures. He doubts that wisdom. Forgiveness may bring peace, but what has peace ever done for Wolfsong but caused complacency? Without peace, perhaps he would not have doubted the omen of the fires. Perhaps Bearflight would still be alive. Perhaps Wolfsong would not have amused his coddling, and he would be a formidable warrior guarding their home.
His sole eye squeezes shut tightly. He knows that would not have been his son, but it does not soothe the chorus of possibility that torments him, the endless futures that may have been. What a miserable scrap of fur Sunstar has tied himself to. He does not know what remains of the warrior who boldly followed without fear, but it was not yellowcough that killed him.
He would follow Sunstar over and through every horizon if he asked— and even if he didn't. Ever a loyal shadow, but one that has failed too often. His sickened, fatigued mind sinks deep into a miasma of smoke and writhing flame, recalling in agonizing color the whites of his son's terrified eyes as he died. His Bearflight, his moss-hearted boy who lives in the stars and forgets pain and expectation.
Wolfsong shifts uncomfortably. The grasping vines that wind his ribs tightly closed may simply be the yellowcough, or perhaps the thorny, questing reach of a tired medicine cat's many regrets. Once, he was a formidable creature, wasn't he? He stalked battlegrounds with a free laugh, tossed his head in the face of every warrior that sought his pain. Now he bends over heaving chests, packs bleeding sides with herbs and cobwebs, dulls the points of his claws with every dandelion offered to ease the ache.
Precious, invaluable knowledge. It does him little good now, shivering in a deepening dark that blots out every silhouette sharing this dismal space with him. He must fight, but he realizes with the horror of a mouse waylaid by a swooping owl that he has forgotten how. Weak, contemptible creature, an insult to the generations that lived and died so that he could be born, to the many nights a young Sunnvar kept watch over a fevered Ellisif. Pathetic.
StarClan would take him all the same if he died. They would not mind his fragility— but they should. But if they did, where would his son's spirit have gone? Who would take such a gentle soul, incapable of harm? Certainly not the spirit peaks where Wolfsong's mother hunts.
He turns over again and curls into a tighter shape. Somehow, Sunstar has forgiven his failures. He doubts that wisdom. Forgiveness may bring peace, but what has peace ever done for Wolfsong but caused complacency? Without peace, perhaps he would not have doubted the omen of the fires. Perhaps Bearflight would still be alive. Perhaps Wolfsong would not have amused his coddling, and he would be a formidable warrior guarding their home.
His sole eye squeezes shut tightly. He knows that would not have been his son, but it does not soothe the chorus of possibility that torments him, the endless futures that may have been. What a miserable scrap of fur Sunstar has tied himself to. He does not know what remains of the warrior who boldly followed without fear, but it was not yellowcough that killed him.
-
— ★★★☆☆ 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: Thanks to Starlingheart and his own pregnancy, he's better prepared for the arrival of kits, but any complications will need a little faith and a lot of luck. -
— ★☆☆☆☆ 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.
