- Oct 17, 2022
- 493
- 87
- 28
MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————
// mention of death and general grim vibes
His throat hurts.
Moonbeam has applied some vague mix of poultice and cobwebs to Snakeblink's shoulder and various injuries to staunch the blood flow, and she gave him something for the pain -- but something about the way Gentlestorm bit him, tearing into the flesh like a dog, and the tender spot of his body that he sunk his teeth into… The pain seems broader than it should be, extending burning tendrils down his paw and up his neck, his whole body straining at careless movements. The first day, he could do little but lay there and mumble hoarse apologies to Moonbeam for taking up so much of her time. Now he must simply be very, very cautious, and not move with too much haste -- and not speak, either, because moving his jaw repeatedly pulls at the wound on his face, and even the cold paste spread over the raw flesh cannot numb the sting of it.
How does Lichenstar manage, with her mangled voice? His throat itches already, like his constant chatter has become a beehive that buzzes angrily at the indignity of being stuck in his chest.
Being nest-bound had not helped that feeling, though it certainly helped his wounds settle: he feels shaky, hardly fit to be outside, but not like he might shatter at the slightest breeze. He hopes Moonbeam will not try to bit his head off for what he has chosen to do with that newfound strength, that is to say: busy work.
Leafbare has encroached upon leaf-fall and stolen hopes of an easy season away with a snap of its icy maws; it worries him, like the conflict with ThunderClan worries him, like mutters of Iciclefang's code-break worry him, like the loss of their clanmates in the battle for Sunningrock worries him (though that last one feels more like teeth worrying at his heart; a mournful kind of anxiety, which sometimes feels like the only emotion he's capable of feeling with any sort of ease.) Keeping his paws busy is the one way he's found that reliably helps with processing these niggling thoughts.
This particular task is not arduous, which he hopes will make Moonbeam more merciful when she finds him. It's somewhat gruesome, though: in search of more insulating material for their dens and their nests as the weather turns to the worse, his mind heavy with thoughts of the dead, Snakeblink has taken to dragging the empty, deserted nests out of the warrior's den to take them apart, setting the still-fresh nesting materials aside so they may be used to keep the living warm. He's bent over his grim cleaning, his injured paw resting over the nest so it doesn't slip, his other one meticulously separating downy feathers from dry needles and crumbling moss. It still smells faintly like the cat that used to sleep there; he is careful not to recognize who it was.
His throat hurts.
Moonbeam has applied some vague mix of poultice and cobwebs to Snakeblink's shoulder and various injuries to staunch the blood flow, and she gave him something for the pain -- but something about the way Gentlestorm bit him, tearing into the flesh like a dog, and the tender spot of his body that he sunk his teeth into… The pain seems broader than it should be, extending burning tendrils down his paw and up his neck, his whole body straining at careless movements. The first day, he could do little but lay there and mumble hoarse apologies to Moonbeam for taking up so much of her time. Now he must simply be very, very cautious, and not move with too much haste -- and not speak, either, because moving his jaw repeatedly pulls at the wound on his face, and even the cold paste spread over the raw flesh cannot numb the sting of it.
How does Lichenstar manage, with her mangled voice? His throat itches already, like his constant chatter has become a beehive that buzzes angrily at the indignity of being stuck in his chest.
Being nest-bound had not helped that feeling, though it certainly helped his wounds settle: he feels shaky, hardly fit to be outside, but not like he might shatter at the slightest breeze. He hopes Moonbeam will not try to bit his head off for what he has chosen to do with that newfound strength, that is to say: busy work.
Leafbare has encroached upon leaf-fall and stolen hopes of an easy season away with a snap of its icy maws; it worries him, like the conflict with ThunderClan worries him, like mutters of Iciclefang's code-break worry him, like the loss of their clanmates in the battle for Sunningrock worries him (though that last one feels more like teeth worrying at his heart; a mournful kind of anxiety, which sometimes feels like the only emotion he's capable of feeling with any sort of ease.) Keeping his paws busy is the one way he's found that reliably helps with processing these niggling thoughts.
This particular task is not arduous, which he hopes will make Moonbeam more merciful when she finds him. It's somewhat gruesome, though: in search of more insulating material for their dens and their nests as the weather turns to the worse, his mind heavy with thoughts of the dead, Snakeblink has taken to dragging the empty, deserted nests out of the warrior's den to take them apart, setting the still-fresh nesting materials aside so they may be used to keep the living warm. He's bent over his grim cleaning, his injured paw resting over the nest so it doesn't slip, his other one meticulously separating downy feathers from dry needles and crumbling moss. It still smells faintly like the cat that used to sleep there; he is careful not to recognize who it was.
——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely
- Material gathering thread! homeboy is in camp, recycling nests no longer in use for materials. Rolled a 17, found insulating materials worth 2 points. Feel free to say the nest he's currently taking apart belongs to any of the cats who died at Sunningrock!
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— Snakeblink • he / him. 57 ☾, riverclan warrior
— a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
— gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
