private the secret // peonybreeze

[cottonsprig]

Granitepelt and his henchmen had not left Cottonsprig’s mind. Vulturekit had returned, virtually unscathed, but the rogues still took the life of one and the safety and security of them all. She wanders her homelands aware of the dangers and truly never too far from a patrol - but she will be damned if her new position doesn’t allow her new freedoms.

A scarily familiar scent floats through the winds. Badlands, but mixed with an unwelcome tinge of blood and sick. Cottonsprig furrows her brow and against her best judgment (which, let’s be fair, isn’t necessarily the best…) follows the scent upwind. Her paws carefully press down fresh grass as to not alert whoever she may find - but as she nudges aside tall stalks of freshly bloomed lavender, she sees him.

“Peonybreeze?” She says, and shock is evident in her tone. He had left with Granitepelt, but she hadn’t seen him yet in the mix of rogues that’ve attacked her home. Parts of her had hoped that he left, long before Heathermoon was murdered. But more of her wonders if he left because of the kill.

“You’re hurt,” she points out the obvious, but she stands still, ears folded slightly. “Peony, what happened?”

@PEONYBREEZE ​

 

[PEONYBREEZE]

Returning to the home that spat you out and does not want you anymore provides an odd kind of nostalgia. The mouth of the tunnel closes around him like a roof, dust and dirt all too familiar to the body that's been taught how to navigate through it; and yet none of it gives him shelter, not from his own heart. It is a roof that'd been weathered by time — it is missing its entire foundation.

And yet, Peonybreeze stays anyway.

The entire ordeal could not be called smart; the provocation of WindClan may have been encouraged by Granitepelt, but it is wholly too dangerous for a single feline to take on the brunt of the moors' anger. Peonybreeze has been experiencing it for the past half year just by principle. Perhaps the adrenaline running through his veins had given him enough of a high to continue his solo mission of 'being an annoyance'... and to his credit, it worked.

With every shift of his body, the wound pulls and agitates him further, so he's found a tunnel by the edges of the border to gather himself. Every tuft of grass dancing in the wind and every bounce in a rabbit's step makes him flinch — pain swallowing him whole each time —, entirely aware that he is reaching levels of paranoia now... but it has some merit to it, at least.

If a patrol finds him, he's done for. That lithe yet uncared for body would not outpace the moor runners who have not slacked on their training, even if Peonybreeze is in perfect condition.

Sootstar does not bless him with safety, even when he is in her rightful kingdom. WindClan finds him. The lavender shrubbery shivers, and from it emerges-

"Cottonpaw?" Peonybreeze's voice cracks as it comes up, like the insides of his throats are covered in spikes. The lashing of his tail and the baring of his teeth come to an abrupt halt; this is not a cat he could possibly raise a paw against, even if she is, by all accounts, his enemy too. She is older — the changes in her features are a stark contrast to how he remembers her, thanks to the distance that had grown between them. Should he call her Cottonfang instead? Or has the great StarClan bestowed upon her a different name, anything but the one her mother had given her?

The shock of it all dries any words up, and the seconds pass by him... it's difficult to grasp onto them and pull him back into the present. "Oh." He ought to say something. "Just paid my neighbors a visit."
​

 

[cottonsprig]

He's hurt. The thought reiterates in her mind. She stares at him incredulously, and all she can see is the way his wounds weep ichor down his pale lynx pelt. She doesn't fear the tom, despite moons of not seeing him and truly not knowing how the lonerlands have changed him... The way he greets her with the same surprise and confusion is enough for her - he wouldn't raise a claw to her, at least not now. His expression shifts from defensive aggression to near-defeat alone.

"You shouldn't do that," she murmurs quietly as she steps closer to him. Should he not lunge or step away, the small she-cat noses around his wounds, frowning at their condition. She hadn't brought anything with her, not anticipating that she may need to clean someone's injuries and prepare them a poultice while she's out and about - but Cottonsprig cannot stand the idea of sending him off like this, too. Infection is deadly. They know that now.

"Come with me?" She asks, ears folding to her head. She's instilling trust in a man that's all but a stranger now, just as he would be her. She dips her head towards him, slightly, "I know of a stream that runs just out of WindClan's reach. I can... I'll help you clean up, and stay clean. Please?" Heathermoon would be in shambles to see how Peonybreeze looks now, even worse to see Cottonsprig dismiss him to die in a fever-heat.

"Oh," she says, just as quietly. "It's... It's Cottonsprig now, Peony."​