- Dec 18, 2022
- 527
- 209
- 43
──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── //cw for some brief violence/injury (pls lmk if it needs other tags!)
The breeze lifts cricket-song above the grassy sea, and the stars in a cloudless sky blink sweetly like drowsy kitten eyes between pink-tongued yawns. Moor flowers greet the wind with a tipping of their velvet-ringed heads and toss their gentle fragrance into the boundless air. He breathes it in. His lungs blossom. Callused paws leave faint impressions in soft soil eager for the sowing, and each step takes him deeper into the wide meadows and farther from the idle sounds of camp. In the distance, a mouse's cry— and then the powerful flurry of wings as an owl no doubt leaves with its quarry. Wolfsong waits a moment, crouched, for its moonlit shadow to disappear from view, and afterward he continues his steady trek.
At the horizon, the sun stirs purple, but the moon remains fixed firmly at its apex. It is not so odd a sight. Wolfsong sits to watch the dawn, unhurried and relaxed as the cool wind musses his thick fur. Soon, no doubt, the birds will begin speaking across the treetops at WindClan's border and the first hunting patrol will fan out to chase rabbits for a breakfast feast.
Instead, the breeze dies. The grass stiffens and the stars overhead sharpen, too harshly bright to glimmer. The crickets are silent, and as he turns in place, he is all that moves, all that breathes, until he realizes that the sunrise has not done the same but, in stark contrast to the moors, hurtles. Where the sky was once strewn with soft pinks, there is now only fire: angry, seething, the light bloats the horizon and somehow draws even closer, breaking its own confines to spill out onto the heath like burning rain. And then a howl, pained, raging, and Wolfsong's heart refuses to beat, hiding behind his ribs like a rabbit in thick foliage. Not a wolf, and not one of the yapping little beasts following twolegs, but some in-between creature. It staggers, screaming, out of the wall of smoke, the whites of its eyes flaring and its paws sending wildflowers up in a swell of scalding heat.
Wolfsong runs. Whether it's the fire or the hound biting at his tail and heels, he doesn't know and doesn't look, but he isn't faster. The blaze in his periphery begins to swallow more and more of the corners of his vision until Wolfsong is left with a narrow strip of moorland, at its end the yawning gorge. He skids to a panicked halt at its edge, small stones dislodged and bouncing off of the jagged sides to land in the water below. And still the dog comes for him. He whirls to face it and lunges, and it is not bravery but a desperate fear that spurs his fangs in a bid for flesh. When he strikes true, it burns. Charred fur sticks to the roof of his mouth and he chokes on smoke, gums throbbing, and when he rears back to strike again, he sees not the dog but Sunstar, burnished pelt blackened with soot and his jaw slack, crimson smeared high on his face. The marks left by Wolfsong's teeth stare back accusingly, weeping, and he claws at his tongue until he wakes with a heaving gasp, tears soaking half of his face.
The breeze lifts cricket-song above the grassy sea, and the stars in a cloudless sky blink sweetly like drowsy kitten eyes between pink-tongued yawns. Moor flowers greet the wind with a tipping of their velvet-ringed heads and toss their gentle fragrance into the boundless air. He breathes it in. His lungs blossom. Callused paws leave faint impressions in soft soil eager for the sowing, and each step takes him deeper into the wide meadows and farther from the idle sounds of camp. In the distance, a mouse's cry— and then the powerful flurry of wings as an owl no doubt leaves with its quarry. Wolfsong waits a moment, crouched, for its moonlit shadow to disappear from view, and afterward he continues his steady trek.
At the horizon, the sun stirs purple, but the moon remains fixed firmly at its apex. It is not so odd a sight. Wolfsong sits to watch the dawn, unhurried and relaxed as the cool wind musses his thick fur. Soon, no doubt, the birds will begin speaking across the treetops at WindClan's border and the first hunting patrol will fan out to chase rabbits for a breakfast feast.
Instead, the breeze dies. The grass stiffens and the stars overhead sharpen, too harshly bright to glimmer. The crickets are silent, and as he turns in place, he is all that moves, all that breathes, until he realizes that the sunrise has not done the same but, in stark contrast to the moors, hurtles. Where the sky was once strewn with soft pinks, there is now only fire: angry, seething, the light bloats the horizon and somehow draws even closer, breaking its own confines to spill out onto the heath like burning rain. And then a howl, pained, raging, and Wolfsong's heart refuses to beat, hiding behind his ribs like a rabbit in thick foliage. Not a wolf, and not one of the yapping little beasts following twolegs, but some in-between creature. It staggers, screaming, out of the wall of smoke, the whites of its eyes flaring and its paws sending wildflowers up in a swell of scalding heat.
Wolfsong runs. Whether it's the fire or the hound biting at his tail and heels, he doesn't know and doesn't look, but he isn't faster. The blaze in his periphery begins to swallow more and more of the corners of his vision until Wolfsong is left with a narrow strip of moorland, at its end the yawning gorge. He skids to a panicked halt at its edge, small stones dislodged and bouncing off of the jagged sides to land in the water below. And still the dog comes for him. He whirls to face it and lunges, and it is not bravery but a desperate fear that spurs his fangs in a bid for flesh. When he strikes true, it burns. Charred fur sticks to the roof of his mouth and he chokes on smoke, gums throbbing, and when he rears back to strike again, he sees not the dog but Sunstar, burnished pelt blackened with soot and his jaw slack, crimson smeared high on his face. The marks left by Wolfsong's teeth stare back accusingly, weeping, and he claws at his tongue until he wakes with a heaving gasp, tears soaking half of his face.
-
— ★★★☆☆ 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 and his own pregnancy, 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.
