MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT — swollen shoulder

[LAKEMOON]

LAKEMOON — me and the devil, walking side by side.
She was a stone, smooth, unbreakable, pure of imperfections. She had to be, as everything had crumbled around her in the span of only heartbeats. Perhaps a bit dramatic, she cannot help but criticize her own perspective. How easy it was to be hungry for blood, until it was self-sacrificial.
Yet, there was light gleaming over a foggy horizon- there always was. Lilybloom was going to live, even with one less eye to rely on, just as beautiful as ever, camp was going to be rebuilt for their return. One by one, everything was going to come together once more.
As of right now, however, narrowed azure eyes are fixated on the water vole in front of her, shuffling along the rivers bank. She avoids hunting on the shore opposite to those damned rocks, almost by instinct, so she is just far enough to avoid a Thunderclan patrol to pass by happenstance.
She bunches her limbs together, ignoring the throb in her shoulder like she has been for so many days now.
Then, she is soaring, a stretch of pale blue and ivory, pouncing upon her prey.
Yet, as her forepaw meets soil with a powerful thud, a burst of white-hot pain ricochets up her limb, bursting in the muscles in her shoulder with a force.
Neck already bowed to deliver the killing bite, the sudden agony causes her to rip back upwards, her head momentarily thrown back as her teeth clash together in a wince.
Frontal fangs are sunken into her tongue to keep herself from crying out, a habit born out of stubbornness.
She recovers, lifting the bottom of her aching limb while her other still remains on top of the vole, claws sunken in to prevent its escape.
"Shit!" She huffs in both pain and frustration as she can feel the throb transition into the tingling feeling of a swell.
This was not supposed to happen.

"speech"

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[SMOKESTAR]

"Far be it for me to cast judgement, but if you don't get that looked at by Beesong I will ensure you don't touch another patrol for the next three moons myself." Smokethroat knew the feeling, the need to work, the impulse to push yourself beyond your limits. He knew the feelings of useless deadweight that would bare down upon his back, push him into the earth and shame him for his lack of productivity; it was a weakness, his mind would burn into him. Yet the body knew what it could take and one should listen to it above their own flawed logic. He was not a healer, but he knew when to seek their guidance and he hardly thought much of bothering Beesong like he once did. It was better to handle the pains when they were small rather than work them up into something more severe.
The dark tom wandered over, the scar at his chest long enough to almost touch the one that now snaked across his belly in what could have been the end of him if it carved any deeper than it had. It had healed fine, the downside being his misery at having to rest in camp rather than see to it that things got done; arranging patrols had thankfully given him some focus otherwise but it was never enough for his restless paws and frantic thoughts; he needed an outlet. Once he'd been cleared he'd wasted no time in resuming his usual duties and perhaps it was a touch of bitterness that made him call it out as well. If he had to sit in camp and cope then Lakemoon had to as well; fair was fair.
"Good catch, I'll bury it for you and come back for it later. But you are going back to camp. I don't know where you got this brand of stubborness-" Houndstride? Probably Houndstride, "-but it looks better on me. Hop to it."
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[FERNGILL]

Fernpaw knew well the exhaustion of overexertion- struggling through his training, he'd always felt he had to work twice as hard. And sometimes even that would crash into a mangle of failure. Still, he'd never managed to work through an injury- how any cat did that was beyond him! Maybe he just had some... low tolerance for pain or something. Like, he felt it a little more than anyone else... or maybe Lakemoon was just the hardy sort, with muscles made of rocks and whatnot.

Smokethroat's scalding scold did not sail past Fernpaw's attention, despite how easily the boy was distracted. A wayward glance fell to the swollen flesh on Lakemoon's shoulder, and a visible wince darkened the ginger tom's features. "Yeah, that- looks like it hurts," murmured the bow, his frown failing to dissipate. Had she already seen Beesong? Surely they wouldn't be letting her out of camp with something that looked quite so bothersome...​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[CICADASTAR]

often was it that he could be found alone — a solitary hunt, melding into the shadows cast by billowing willow branches and leaves that riot against the newleaf breeze. the sound of babbling waters and singing thrush overhead momentarily quelling the what if what if what if that haunts his skull, drives him ever closer to where the wind stinks of hare and soil. something to distract him, something to carry his attention past the mantra of vengeance that echoes emptily in his head.. and if he had been only tail lengths away from his mate at any time, no one had caught sight of him enough to tell. as far as he was concerned, it was quite his own business. the river phantom does what he does best — moves stealthily through the undergrowth, melding with the river stone and reed. protection, protection. who was being protected? as ivory paws trail absently, unknowingly behind his lover, he did not spare the question a second thought. what if windclan returns? hare - brains, he would rip the pelt from their bones before they would touch him.

unsheathed claws collect dirt in their arches, a strangled yell suddenly casting throughout the riverlands enough to cause him sudden pause. a single raised paw. when pallid eyes lose sight of familiar white splotches in the moment he turns his head to scan the area around him, he is quick to slink forth, splitting the brittle reed. it takes only seconds to reveal them. lakemoon, fernpaw and smokethroat, all of which he gazes upon with a quiet surprise, a greeting. this is the first i am seeing all of you. believe me, believe me.. he makes short work of figuring what was wrong, the quickest downturn of dark brows turning upon the molly. his expression is void, lips a straight line aside from the jagged scar tissue lining his rubberblack maw. beneath her paw, outstretched claws encase a vole. a decent catch despite her injury, but smokethroat voices his concerns, voices a simple command afterward that he dips his head to as it reaches him, " you’ll only scare the rest away with all this limping and groaning. “ admonishing, well meaning as it was. they needed every warrior on their best, ready to spring at the breath of a call. they wouldn’t get there if the injured refused to let their bodies heal., ” and id work quick, before he takes you by the ear. “ to the molly, his gaze locking onto the misshape of her shoulder, pupils nearly pulled to its awkward swell. rest. rest, so you may heal. rest, so we may do it again. rest, again and again and again.

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
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• "speech"
  

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[BEESONG]

beesong appears like a phantom, ill-fated name summoning him from the reeds. a small patrol of warriors and fernpaw urge lakemoon to visit him for... something. a quiet hum announces his arrival, his eyes narrow into an expression of scrutiny as he rakes his gaze over lakemoon. no blood, but she holds one paw above the ground as if it hurts to apply weight to it, her face screwed up into an agonized expression that beesong's seen far too many times on patients. closer inspection reveals the swollen flesh of her shoulder, and the healer sighs. "how long's it been like this?" he jerks his muzzle towards lakemoon's shoulder. should i have noticed something was wrong before now? he's been so busy, too busy, with tending to the wounded after the sunningrocks battle and trying to restock his herbs for the inevitable war that cicadastar wishes to wage across the gorge... maybe lakemoon should've sought him out the moment she had trouble with her shoulder... or maybe he should've been paying closer attention, with the knowledge that some of his clanmates are too damn stubborn for their own good.

the furtive glance they send in cicadastar's direction speaks of their hidden guilt, like a child watching their parent from the corner of their eye in expectation of punishment. beesong swallows hard, jerking their gaze back onto lakemoon. cicadastar comments that smokethroat might drag lakemoon to their den by her ear if she doesn't hurry, and beesong might've laughed if they hadn't been too preoccupied with the worry of retribution. "no need. i can take her myself, since i'm here." smokethroat's surely needed for other things, with a majority of riverclan's warriors being wounded in some capacity from two battles in quick succession. they run through their stock of herbs that they've memorized by now... comfrey root for the swelling, dandelion as a painkiller. they should have enough for lakemoon.​