- May 5, 2023
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// tw for very very brief and vague suicidal ideation
The trek home is many things. Stumbling over her paws, dipped in blood halfway to the shoulder, copper flaking off her muzzle. A death march, a funeral procession; someone will no doubt bury him in hallowed earth soon enough, but she doesn't want to be there for that. She doesn't want to be there for anything.
She's half leaning on someone, half being carried by them, droplets of blood still rolling from the ruined mess of her face. She couldn't tell fur from flesh if her life depended on it, and it very well might—she stumbles and whoever she's supported by hoists her up again with a small oof. Her paws are numb, heart barely fluttering, empty as a tomb. The gaping faces and kits quickly ushered away mean nothing to her, the pelts she should recognize through the red still smearing her vision.
Her mind is not kind enough to give her the grace of denial, only blankness. Blazestar is dead.
At least she had gutted the moor-rat who did it.
The trek home is many things. Stumbling over her paws, dipped in blood halfway to the shoulder, copper flaking off her muzzle. A death march, a funeral procession; someone will no doubt bury him in hallowed earth soon enough, but she doesn't want to be there for that. She doesn't want to be there for anything.
She's half leaning on someone, half being carried by them, droplets of blood still rolling from the ruined mess of her face. She couldn't tell fur from flesh if her life depended on it, and it very well might—she stumbles and whoever she's supported by hoists her up again with a small oof. Her paws are numb, heart barely fluttering, empty as a tomb. The gaping faces and kits quickly ushered away mean nothing to her, the pelts she should recognize through the red still smearing her vision.
Her mind is not kind enough to give her the grace of denial, only blankness. Blazestar is dead.
At least she had gutted the moor-rat who did it.
"speech"