camp say enough, say enough ] rta

[whitepaw]

Whitepaw steps outside of the den, the crisp morning air filling his lungs. The familiar wind of the moors brushes through his fur, but instead of the usual comfort it brings, there's a heaviness that lingers in his chest. He stretches his legs, still a bit stiff from the many, many days spent curled up. Yellowcough had hit him hard—harder than he'd ever expected, even with his constant companion of sickliness and his frailer disposition. The weakness still clings to him, like a shadow he can't shake off. He feels it now, a tightness in his muscles, a fatigue in his bones, a breathlessness in his chest. He used to race across the open moorland, feeling like he could outrun the wind itself. But now, even standing here, the ground feels unsteady under his paws. His breath comes a little too fast, a little too shallow.

I should be fine by now, he tells himself, ears flicking with frustration. He had been told to take it easy for a while, but Whitepaw can't stand the idea of falling behind the other apprentices, especially ones who were made apprentices after him. His piercing yellow eyes scan the camp, searching for something to distract him, to prove he's still strong enough. He spots the fresh-kill pile, a rabbit half-hidden among the prey. Normally, he'd be eager to head out and hunt more, to bring back something even bigger. Now, though, the idea of a chase makes his legs tremble. He swallows hard, determined to push through the weariness. "I'm ready," he murmurs under his breath, half-convincing himself as he steps forward. "I'll be fine."

But as he starts to quickly walk across the camp towards the exit of camp, a dull ache spreads through his body. His legs feel like they're moving through thick mud, and his breath grows uneven. He pauses, frustration gnawing at him. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. He should be keeping up with his clanmates, not struggling to even cross camp. He shakes his head. No, he can't afford to show weakness. He straightens his shoulders, trying to hide the exhaustion weighing him down. Even if his strength is gone for now, he won't let anyone see how much it hurts to feel so small, so fragile.​

 

[SEDGEPOUNCE]

Though not immune to hardship, Sedgepounce has been blessed to have avoided Yellowcough two times over so far. He sees the way that his clanmates crawl from the Badger Sett—healed in the technical sense, but withered away by weeks or moons of low-appetite and wracking fevers and little to no movement at all. They are shells of themselves, most often. Haunted by still-thinned breaths in weak, shallow lungs, and the weary spirits of those that never made it out.

He watches the ghastly figures like Whitepaw take their first few days back out in the open and reminds himself to be grateful for his health.

From nearby—nursing a flare-up of tightness in his foreleg—a blot of concern brings Sedgepounce forward, smiling warmly as he pads closer. "Whitepaw," he greets, feigning a bright indifference. He looks like a gust of wind might knock him down, but for the sake of pride, Sedgepounce pretends not to notice. "Have you eaten? I was thinking about grabbing a meadowlark, myself." He punctuates the invitation with a nonchalant scratching of his ear.
​

 

[FEATHERSPINE]

The presence of Yellowcough, spreading insistent through his ðir's lungs, a contagion that threatened to plant the kiss of death upon any throat it could find, had predictably made Featherspine as ill-tempered and neurotic as ever. He strode with purposed, quickly - he never spent too much time in the company of anyone but Pinkshine, who he trusted to be transparent about any sickness. Others had a stupid, hateable habit of pretending they were alright when they were not, making their own lives worse and quickening the heartbeat of anyone else.

Whitepaw, perhaps, suffered too from that plague of idiotic nobility. Yellowcough was not the only disease that slumbered within him.

Sedgepounce brought a softer edge, something subtly kinder; in truth, Whitepaw was lucky he got there first, because Featherspine would have left no room for denial. To feel weak, there was nothing worse - but you would only whittle yourself down and tumble into the depths of fatality if you did not operate at perfection. "I would certainly recommend it," Featherspine commented, an ill-hidden grimace on sharp features.​

✦ penned by pin​