SING TO IT ALL AS IT SINGS TO ME — DREAM

[WOLFSONG]

──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── He has counted WindClan's store of lungwort so often he has lost track of his obsessive inspections. The first time he did so immediately after Sunstride brought him the news of the cure, and the second was instinctive after administering a dose. The rest of that day he spent gathering other herbs when he could, though much of it was with Cottonpaw's aid, without whom he knows he would not be faring half as well as he is. The third fourth, and fifth times he remembers with decreasing clarity, and he is not so wool-headed he believes lungwort will appear miraculously to steer them into safer waters; rather, he is concerned that some in WindClan may squirrel away a dose or two for their own safety.

He does not like distrusting his clanmates in such a manner, but he knows that they are survivors, that some in Gin's group were not merely roughened travelers like Wolfsong and Sunstride. So he counts, and his pregnancy has at least meant he is rarely far from the medicine den these days, with very few exceptions. He guards their stores with a sharp eye, and wonders, too, if the other clans do so similarly with the expectation of WindClan besieging them for supplies again. It...is not out of the realm of possibility.

More cats will be sick than he has lungwort for, and the air is not yet cool enough for it to flourish. But they do not have the time to wait, do they? No— no time at all.

The sky is well into the night when Wolfsong leaves his monitoring of Gravelsnap for his nest. Sunstride is there, of course, and he sleeps, but fitfully, as though his body expects to wake at any moment. Perhaps it is this damnable plague. Or perhaps he knows as I do that the kits' birth draws near, that they will no longer be kept safe within my belly. Slowly and a bit painfully, Wolfsong lowers himself down into his warmth, pressing close until his flame-brushed mate automatically curls around his back. He closes his eye and drifts into sleep, lulled by Sunstride's breathing and the small heartbeats below his own. ​

WOLFSONG of WINDCLAN FORMER ROGUE TURNED MEDICINE CAT. 38 MOONS, HE/HIM, NPC X NPC. MATES WITH SUNSTRIDE (07/05/2023). BIOGRAPHY, PINTEREST, & PLAYLIST.

medicinal expertise med. part ii med. part iii med. part iv

• — ★★★☆☆ WOUNDS: You're (mostly) in safe paws. You'll know if he's less experienced if he asks for your permission to try a treatment. No wound can scare him away from knowledge.
  — ★★★☆☆ INFECTION: He can prevent most infections. If you feel feverish, let him know; he'll hum thoughtfully over herbs and sniff your wound before saying, "With your blessing..."
• — ★☆☆☆☆ ACHES & PAINS: If you complain to him of pain, he'll ask where. If it's a headache, you'll likely feel a bit better. For anything else, "Try this, if you'd like, and tell me how you feel."
  — ★☆☆☆☆ BROKEN BONES: At best. he can ask you to remain lying down in the den. He may try to distract you with conversation while he considers what herb to feed you.
• — ★★★★★ TRAVELING HERBS: Going somewhere? No worries; Wolfsong knows just what you need to stay hale and healthy during your journey. The rest is up to you.
  — ★★☆☆☆ KITTING: Thanks to Starlingheart, he's better prepared for the arrival of kits, but any complications will need a little faith and a lot of luck.
• — ★☆☆☆☆ POISONS: It's best if you avoid eating anything unfamiliar to you— it's probably just as unfamiliar to Wolfsong. The best he can do is offer you yarrow and sit with you.
  — ★★☆☆☆ ILLNESS: If it's white or greencough, you'll likely recover. Otherwise, prepare for odd concoctions and the usual request that you consent to a little trial-and-error.

​

 

[STARCLAN]

darkness fades into light — wolfsong is woken upon a bed of frost - damp moss and jutting stone. it is cold here, though not to the touch. distant trees waver, the tendrils of wind sifting through ever - rattling leaves never to ruffle the living’s fur.. but he will feel it, like a cool breeze just behind bleary, waking eyes. sudden leafbare covers nearby rock in crusted ice, clinging to the jagged edges in long, pointed shards of freezing teeth. mountainous undergrowth surrounds them, flora frozen from the weather and preserved, shrouded in gleaming dust. mist swirls at pawheight, concealing wartorn claws and snaking up the length of wandering forelimbs as if pulling him forth. there is no sound ; like submersion, like ears stuffed full of cotton. if he stands, he will be too light on his feet. he is a visitor here, and the skies make that clear in the way his senses mute.

the windclanner will wake shrouded in a world of vapor and light, and as the medic gathers his senses and squints, it becomes clear there is a single feline standing stout, far in the mist — pure ivory, pelt dancing with loose stardust, gleaming tears of time dripping from long, rabbit vein whiskers. behind them, a cave comes into view ; tall, rocky walls in alabaster hues. ice stiffens the few blooms peeking through cracks in the chilling ground, the air thin and fragrant with the smell of sharp herb.. the moment wolfsong looks to examine his surroundings, the entity is closer in an instant ; dream - hazy and too - near where they loom over his sleeping form, colorless nose nearly brushing wolfsong’s own. their face is obscure, somehow, to the mortal despite their proximity ; an ever - shifting mass of muzzle and eye, never able to be examined too closely.

they are not important, not this time.

wolfsong rouses fully and blinding ears perk, thin tail lifting abruptly to signify friendliness, wisdom. while their expression is unreadable, always moving, they radiate something warm amidst the mountainous chill ; a childlike wonder, an eagerness brimming at their stardusted seams. once the medic lifts to full height, he would find them to be only the size of an apprentice, tipping their bleary head upwards where he will look over their mist - laden figure. the feline turns as if excited, moves as though their paws glide over the ground and the living could not see them anyway, as thick as the smog is. yet they give the slightest bounce on the heels of their pads, a little dance singing follow me, follow me. — and suddenly they are off, nearly seeming to dissipate into the mist as they trot along towards the bright maw of the cavern.

wild hounds wail in the distance and the feline moves faster, snaking along the narrow pathway where the rocky cavern gives way to a too - bright opening aside a divot in stone — sky filters in, painting the cavern’s darkness in shades of painful white - blue. the stranger whips around, and fixes their stare towards wolfsong.

follow?​