- Dec 17, 2022
- 438
- 114
- 43
Raccoonstripe’s thoughts are dark today. He’s preoccupied with blood—he keeps tasting it in his mouth, feeling the iron and salt of it on his tongue. When he raises a paw, the white is red and leaking. He can’t shake the feeling that there’s flesh between his paw pads; he can’t get the memory of the RiverClan she-cat’s shriek out of his head, Lakemoon’s enraged hiss as she slid between them.
He can’t stop thinking about Graystorm, and no—no, that one isn’t his fault, but sometimes it feels like every death is his fault.
The tabby deviates from his patrol, lost in thought and immune to the low chatter of his Clanmates. He wants to be alone—he needs to be alone. He can still hear them shuffling about the undergrowth, but Raccoonstripe attempts to block them out. He will hunt. He will be useful. It’s the only thing he can do to cleanse his mind, rain-rinse the invisible scarlet that dries, sticky, in his fur.
It’s a fool’s endeavor. He hears a twig snap, and his head jerks up, ears forward. Berry-bright eyes stare back at him; the boar’s enormous nostrils flare, in, out, hot with anger. The lead warrior’s ears flatten, and he hisses, long and low. It’s already angry—and that sends it into fight or flight mode. And it chooses fight—it knows the cat, no matter how fierce in battle, is no match for him.
Raccoonstripe realizes his folly too late, and he springs into action, paws thrumming on the forest floor as hoofbeats trample the forest floor behind him. He can’t outrun it—it catches up to him in a matter of seconds, and searing pain tears across his hind leg. He stumbles, falls and rolls to his flank. He emits a shriek of fury and pain, just as blood—the scent, the taste, it’s his now and it’s in the air—begins to drench the lower half of his body.
He rolls forward, just enough to peer at the damage done—his leg is not broken, but the piercing tusk of the creature had sliced straight through his thick pelt and into his flesh. If he’d had thinner fur, if he were just a mouselength closer to the boar, he could have had his leg shattered or torn away entirely, and he knows this. He pants, his flanks rising and falling rapidly, as he realizes what he’s done—doomed himself. Someone will find him, as they’d found Graystorm.
I’m sorry, Howlingstar, Berryheart.
“I’ll say hi to Graystorm for you,” he pants, clenching his jaw after the words escape his mouth. The boar’s breath is rancid steam against his face. He steels himself for the end.
/ please wait for @HOWLINGSTAR
He can’t stop thinking about Graystorm, and no—no, that one isn’t his fault, but sometimes it feels like every death is his fault.
The tabby deviates from his patrol, lost in thought and immune to the low chatter of his Clanmates. He wants to be alone—he needs to be alone. He can still hear them shuffling about the undergrowth, but Raccoonstripe attempts to block them out. He will hunt. He will be useful. It’s the only thing he can do to cleanse his mind, rain-rinse the invisible scarlet that dries, sticky, in his fur.
It’s a fool’s endeavor. He hears a twig snap, and his head jerks up, ears forward. Berry-bright eyes stare back at him; the boar’s enormous nostrils flare, in, out, hot with anger. The lead warrior’s ears flatten, and he hisses, long and low. It’s already angry—and that sends it into fight or flight mode. And it chooses fight—it knows the cat, no matter how fierce in battle, is no match for him.
Raccoonstripe realizes his folly too late, and he springs into action, paws thrumming on the forest floor as hoofbeats trample the forest floor behind him. He can’t outrun it—it catches up to him in a matter of seconds, and searing pain tears across his hind leg. He stumbles, falls and rolls to his flank. He emits a shriek of fury and pain, just as blood—the scent, the taste, it’s his now and it’s in the air—begins to drench the lower half of his body.
He rolls forward, just enough to peer at the damage done—his leg is not broken, but the piercing tusk of the creature had sliced straight through his thick pelt and into his flesh. If he’d had thinner fur, if he were just a mouselength closer to the boar, he could have had his leg shattered or torn away entirely, and he knows this. He pants, his flanks rising and falling rapidly, as he realizes what he’s done—doomed himself. Someone will find him, as they’d found Graystorm.
I’m sorry, Howlingstar, Berryheart.
“I’ll say hi to Graystorm for you,” he pants, clenching his jaw after the words escape his mouth. The boar’s breath is rancid steam against his face. He steels himself for the end.
/ please wait for @HOWLINGSTAR
[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]
