- Nov 26, 2022
- 500
- 119
- 43
Slate might as well call the medicine den his second home with the number of times he's been doomed to rot in the herbal-smelling lair. A vicious cycle existed — fighting tooth and claw for SkyClan's safety but getting maimed so badly in the process that Dawnglare ( or Fireflypaw, in this case ) practically imprisoned him. Not being able to do anything but shift around in a makeshift nest and listen to camp gossip was excruciating, especially for Slate who easily grew antsy. It was not as if his stay was as lengthy as previous visits, but he felt his muscles growing weaker and his skills growing rustier by the day. The lead warrior tossed and turned all night and day, sunken amber eyes staring out into camp and longing to properly stretch his legs. Only a few more sunrises now, according to Fireflypaw.
Staring at the dusk sky through clusters of pine branches, with faint pink tones fading by the minute, Slate's focus was quickly grabbed by the white, long-furred figure approaching the medicine den. Slate's heart lurches suddenly ( or maybe it was his stomach ), spiking nearly every nerve — Orangestar's presence rouses his attention for perhaps the first time in days.
While she briefly spoke with Fireflypaw, most likely regarding her injuries, Slate rasped his tongue over his hefty paw and swiped it a couple of times over his forehead — a quick primping session could not hurt; many parts of his charcoal fur was still dried with blood, after all. His left ear, now ragged and torn, had especially been soaked at first.
A silent wave of relief, accompanied by a frenzied fluttering in his chest, washes over Slate when the ginger-patched molly decides to address him first. They had not truly spoken, not since before the fated patrol. "Orangestar," The lead warrior greets his leader with a nod of his head. Amber eyes momentarily flick to Orangestar's healing wounds; the gnashing teeth, the blood, the screaming, her lifeless eyes. She did not hurt now, she did not suffer now, but to know that she had her life literally torn from her in front of his very eyes... It haunted him, quite honestly. Slate could not stop thinking about it all, especially while trapped in the medicine den.
He should carry on as usual, he tells himself. The Maine Coon flicks his gaze back toward pools of earthy brown. "How are you feeling?"
Staring at the dusk sky through clusters of pine branches, with faint pink tones fading by the minute, Slate's focus was quickly grabbed by the white, long-furred figure approaching the medicine den. Slate's heart lurches suddenly ( or maybe it was his stomach ), spiking nearly every nerve — Orangestar's presence rouses his attention for perhaps the first time in days.
While she briefly spoke with Fireflypaw, most likely regarding her injuries, Slate rasped his tongue over his hefty paw and swiped it a couple of times over his forehead — a quick primping session could not hurt; many parts of his charcoal fur was still dried with blood, after all. His left ear, now ragged and torn, had especially been soaked at first.
A silent wave of relief, accompanied by a frenzied fluttering in his chest, washes over Slate when the ginger-patched molly decides to address him first. They had not truly spoken, not since before the fated patrol. "Orangestar," The lead warrior greets his leader with a nod of his head. Amber eyes momentarily flick to Orangestar's healing wounds; the gnashing teeth, the blood, the screaming, her lifeless eyes. She did not hurt now, she did not suffer now, but to know that she had her life literally torn from her in front of his very eyes... It haunted him, quite honestly. Slate could not stop thinking about it all, especially while trapped in the medicine den.
He should carry on as usual, he tells himself. The Maine Coon flicks his gaze back toward pools of earthy brown. "How are you feeling?"
- @Orangestar
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₊ ⋆ * ⊹ ₊ ☾