- Jan 5, 2023
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A week. A week since that raid. He has spent much of his recovery asleep, resting, dreaming, blissfully unaware of the outside world. Occasionally, thirst would drive him to his paws, send him to the sun-warmed pool for stolen moments of soothing solitude. Once or twice, he would even join a border patrol, if only to get some exercise, albeit not too much to re-open his wounds. Still, as time continues to pass, he only seems to hurt more. Sore, stiff-limbed, tired. Tigerfrost knows he's healing, knows his scabbed over wounds are slowly growing new skin. He wonders how bad the scars will be, new to cover the old, perhaps.
The morning is pleasant and warm, and he sits just outside the medicine den, mossy remnants of his nest still clinging to tangled, dusty hued fur. The Lead Warrior hasn't groomed in awhile, and he wonders just how messy his coat appeared to the rest of WindClan. At least I'm not covered in blood, Tigerfrost reasons with a flick of his tail against the dry soil.
Slowly, carefully, the tabby begins the slow process of cleansing his fur, running his barbed tongue through knots and tangles. Occasionally, he has to pause to avoid his wounds, tiredly combing through his own fur inch by inch, wherever he can reach. He doesn't expect to be disturbed, but he supposes it's bound to happen. Perhaps afterward, he could check up on Weaselclaw. That poor fool seemed to have been wounded just as badly, if not worse, than Tigerfrost himself. Along with Scorchstreak. It was quite amazing the three of them made it out of alive, and it was only through each other's coordination and team-work that they had lived at all. But, of course, Tigerfrost is much too prideful to admit such things. WindClan had won that fight, after all.
He wonders what will happen at the next gathering. Would Cicadastar even show up after his outburst at the last one? Would StarClan strike the great rock a second time? Perhaps they'd actually get to hear the other clan's news for once, although Tigerfrost isn't entirely certain he cares enough for anyone outside of WindClan.
The morning is pleasant and warm, and he sits just outside the medicine den, mossy remnants of his nest still clinging to tangled, dusty hued fur. The Lead Warrior hasn't groomed in awhile, and he wonders just how messy his coat appeared to the rest of WindClan. At least I'm not covered in blood, Tigerfrost reasons with a flick of his tail against the dry soil.
Slowly, carefully, the tabby begins the slow process of cleansing his fur, running his barbed tongue through knots and tangles. Occasionally, he has to pause to avoid his wounds, tiredly combing through his own fur inch by inch, wherever he can reach. He doesn't expect to be disturbed, but he supposes it's bound to happen. Perhaps afterward, he could check up on Weaselclaw. That poor fool seemed to have been wounded just as badly, if not worse, than Tigerfrost himself. Along with Scorchstreak. It was quite amazing the three of them made it out of alive, and it was only through each other's coordination and team-work that they had lived at all. But, of course, Tigerfrost is much too prideful to admit such things. WindClan had won that fight, after all.
He wonders what will happen at the next gathering. Would Cicadastar even show up after his outburst at the last one? Would StarClan strike the great rock a second time? Perhaps they'd actually get to hear the other clan's news for once, although Tigerfrost isn't entirely certain he cares enough for anyone outside of WindClan.