sensitive topics RETROGRADE — collapse

[CRAPPIEPATCH]

CW: medical distress, negative self-talk about chronic illness


The day starts like any other. Crappiepaw wakes up a little while after the other apprentices, their nose clogged due to the way they slept the night before. They stand up, feel the pressure on their sinuses lift just a bit before pressing back in just as hard as before. With their paws under them, the tortoiseshell apprentice trudges over to the prey pile—they’ve been told that they need to have breakfast before they go hunting. They’ve been told that if they don’t eat, they might get nauseous or faint.

But they realize the prey pile doesn’t seem to exist at the moment, depleted as it is—waiting for other apprentices and warriors to return to fill it with their catches. The clan can’t afford for Crappiepaw to wait around for someone else to return with food that will probably just be given to some grungy old cat who hasn’t hunted in almost thirty moons.

Going hunting on an empty stomach, with a whistling nose that’s difficult to breath through and a pounding sinus headache, is a bad idea. They’re doing well, kind-of-tracking some kind of small creature, when it hits them in full. Their vision blurs for a moment, and their lungs burn. I really should have eaten something.

They tip their head back—breathing through their mouth is the only way to get air, it seems—and their sides heave with the effort of just continuing to draw breath.

"Something’s wrong," they gasp, trying to catch the attention of a medic, a warrior, any clanmate, anyone. But their mentor is a few fox-lengths away now, probably stalking their own prey. "Help…" Their voice is rough and wet, slightly garbled by the mucus they can feel at the back of their throat.

What if this is how they die? Suffocating because their nose finally stopped working?

Bitterness rises to the forefront of their thoughts, the idea that this is all so unbelievably unfair. They aren’t even ten months old yet! They were supposed to become a warrior, get a fancy name, do all the cool things that healthy, happy warriors do. Yet here they are, sprawled across the dirt in a clearing so far away from camp, with no one around except their shitty mentor who can’t even do their job right. Can’t keep Crappiepaw safe. Crappiepaw can’t even rely on their own mentor. They try to move, to shift their paws underneath them, and the world tilts on its axis. The pounding behind their eyes grows worse, and their vision blues into almost-nothing. I think I’m dying, they think at last, before sliding back down onto their side.
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[ FORTUNE LOVES THE BOLD ]​

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[WASPRATTLE.]

Stranger. Newcomer. Out of place. So out of place, wasn't he?

Not that he minded. And not that he would mope. No, he's dedicated to his own acclimation; and this, he knew, takes time. It's not a routine he can fall into so easily, a line of faces he can simply slip in between. The guidelines were nebulous, the lines undefined, and it was his duty to find them. His, and his brother's− He would not assume help from any other. Would not dare to do such a thing.

And so, he finds himself wandering this place (at least, wanting to. And, gracious, Cicada makes time-). Familiarizing. Committing ever reed and willow to his memory. It's a long process, but one he is more than willing to pursue Along the beaten trail, vaguely, with his nose, he can recognize others ahead. Or perhaps they had been in the past; will be in the future? The scent is there, minnow-tang, freshwater bile. Odd at first, but acclamation has come quick− Acclamation, though... the gasping breath is not quite so familiar.

He perks, a questioning glance cast to his brother, and his ears angle forward. Steady gait forward... Steady, but not light. His approach should not be a secretive one. Though, he can't help but slow as he nears, uncertainty settling in his mind. And even as the body slumps, he just...

Careful creep forward. Gangly limbs perched as he peers down at the fallen. "...Are you alright?" he asks. No, certainly not. He never quite understood those words in situations so plainly... not; but it is common, and so... correct. A fallen comrade precedes nudgings of help, he knows. But this is a stranger, and not all strangers appreciate such things unsolicited. This too, he knows. That in mind, his crawl ever-closer ceases, and instead, the man withdraws. Blank-faced-freeze. Locked in place. What−?

A note of urgency in usually-stoic features, he turns to Cicada; is nearly envious, with how easily decisions must come to him, as a leader. The question is written clear to see. Obligatory, in a situation like this, he would think. What do we do?

ooc translations

• @CICADASTAR wails!!!! mfw who is beesong ,,
  
• 
  

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[FISHFACE]

At times, it felt as though his cohorts were capable of understanding what went on inside somebody's head by giving their face a quick look-over. Fishface is without this proficiency. Lest someone wear their sentiments on their sleeve for all to see, the tomcat couldn't register the emotional contents of one's brain to save his own life. It has gotten him into tricky situations in the past, where a fatal misjudgement of character led to an exchange of improper words, and he knows he's all the more awkward of a person because of it.

But, Fishface doesn't have to be an expert face-reader to fathom that something is horribly wrong with Crappiepaw. Slender limbs carry him a handful of hare-leaps behind Rattling Wasp's flank, his olive-toned eyes riveted to the distressed apprentice's form. "Hold on, hold on," he stammers, thoughts aflutter as he assesses what's going on. Their voice is inarticulate, and it must be rendered moist on account of some sort of fluid build-up. But what? What might be the source of their plight, and how can he help? Of course he has no sweet clue what the problem is, as he's no- "Medicine cat! I've gotta grab Beesong."

He turns tail, sprinting off towards camp to retrieve the clan's healer. Crappiepaw needs help. Crappiepaw has to be rescued.

// tagging @BEESONG ;3 ​

 

[Minnowpaw]

( ♬ ) Minnowpaw would stand behind the others with copper eyes wide with fear and uncertainty. What was wrong with Crappiepaw? She carefully inched forward, her nose twitching and her ears flattening against her slim skull in further concern. Looking back up at the older cats around her, she would squeak in worry.

"W-what's wrong with them?" Being very careful, she would lightly nudge her denmates shoulder as she whimpered, "Beesong c-can fix them, right? They'll be ok?" ​

( BUT I WATCH YOUR EYES AS SHE; WALKS BY )

 

[Cricketpaw]

No one was giving the right level of panic necessary to the situation so he was here to do it for them, "CRAPPIEPAW IS FUCKING DEAD!" Cricketpaw wailed out in horror, his muddy brown form looming behind Minnowpaw as he took in the sight of the mottled tom on the ground. He was useless in this situation and someone had already run to get Beesong (Fishface? Most accurate name description he'd ever seen in his entire life) and there was that weirdo newcomer again just casually present (Wasn't he Cicadastar's brother? They had kind of the same long fox-like snouts) who didn't seem medically inclined either. What had slaughtered this apprentice? Was it the creeping cold? Was Whitecough about to spread through their entire clan?! His parents had told him all about that! About this sickness that could kill a cat as quick as a blink if not attended to and Crappiepaw might be its first victim. Was he contagious?! Could it spread through touch? "Minnowpaw, careful! You'll get the DISEASE on you!"

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[BEESONG]

beesong is quick to the scene after fishface sought him out. with coltsfoot in his grasp, the cinnamon tabby nudges his way through the crowd, his ear pinning against the sudden shout of cricketpaw. crappiepaw is fucking dead, the muddy apprentice cries, and beesong has to stop himself from shredding the herbs with teeth that wanted to grit against themselves. he can see that crappiepaw is still breathing, watching the apprentice's flanks closely, albeit it is labored. the coltsfoot is laid near crappiepaw. "they're not dead," beesong retorts to cricketpaw. "now stop causing a panic and give us some space." while cricketpaw is undoubtedly wrong about crappiepaw's current living status, he makes a good point about catching whatever disease strains the tortoiseshell's breathing in such a way.

"that goes for the rest of you as well," beesong glances over their shoulder to their clanmates with a sigh, before they give their undivided attention to crappiepaw. "you need to eat this; are you able to by yourself?" they tap a paw next to the coltsfoot.

while waiting for crappiepaw's response, beesong would look up at the sick apprentice's mentor with a narrowed eye. "did you know crappiepaw was sick?" they don't know how the npc wouldn't; this close to crappiepaw, they could hear the whistling of the young tom's blocked nose and see the glaze in his watery eyes. but some cats are obtuse as fuck, and wouldn't know common sense if it slapped 'em in the face.

and if the npc did notice, why the hell are they forcing crappiepaw onto patrols instead of telling him to see beesong?​