- Dec 27, 2022
- 355
- 51
- 28
Elders are to be treated with respect and dignity, Gravelpaw has learned from their days among the cats of WindClan. Truthfully, they don’t harbor any specific fondness for the older, retired warriors. Gravelpaw only likes the elders who are friendly and treat them like something more than dirt. They like to think of themself as a patient cat, though; when they are tasked with aiding an elder in removing ticks, they offer no argument. It’s almost soothing to them, and they don’t mind the taste or smell of the bile-soaked moss.
Today, though, their task is anything but soothing. Frustration practically radiates off the black-splashed apprentice as he sits before one of the crankiest, most uncooperative cats in the entire clan. A positively ugly fine, with a dull coat and a tendency to scratch until he creates bald spots. Of all WindClanners, this elder needs the most help with the ticks and fleas; this elder has also snapped at Gravelpaw two times, now, and the child is very nearly at their wits’ end. In their mind settles the image of a sweet, kind, darling granny elder, all too content to allow Gravelpaw to use mouse bile as they see fit—but no, instead this scruffy, balding, contrary bag of bones is keeping them on their toes.
"Sit still," the monochrome feline chastises the elder, tail lashing fiercely in irritation. The old man shifts again, and Gravelpaw’s upper lip curls back in warning. It’s a gesture purely for show—they would never harm an elder, unless this old bag of bones actually bites them. Self-defense, and all that. "Would you like the ticks to eat you alive," they snap despite themself, lifting a paw to swipe at their twitching ear, "or will you let me get them off?" This is stressing him out. His chest feels a bit tight, his ear won’t stop twitching, and he can hear his breaths coming quicker. Shaking his head, he bites back a few choice words. Once his breathing has steadied a bit, he picks up the moss once more, gritting his teeth against the feeling, and goes to work.
Today, though, their task is anything but soothing. Frustration practically radiates off the black-splashed apprentice as he sits before one of the crankiest, most uncooperative cats in the entire clan. A positively ugly fine, with a dull coat and a tendency to scratch until he creates bald spots. Of all WindClanners, this elder needs the most help with the ticks and fleas; this elder has also snapped at Gravelpaw two times, now, and the child is very nearly at their wits’ end. In their mind settles the image of a sweet, kind, darling granny elder, all too content to allow Gravelpaw to use mouse bile as they see fit—but no, instead this scruffy, balding, contrary bag of bones is keeping them on their toes.
"Sit still," the monochrome feline chastises the elder, tail lashing fiercely in irritation. The old man shifts again, and Gravelpaw’s upper lip curls back in warning. It’s a gesture purely for show—they would never harm an elder, unless this old bag of bones actually bites them. Self-defense, and all that. "Would you like the ticks to eat you alive," they snap despite themself, lifting a paw to swipe at their twitching ear, "or will you let me get them off?" This is stressing him out. His chest feels a bit tight, his ear won’t stop twitching, and he can hear his breaths coming quicker. Shaking his head, he bites back a few choice words. Once his breathing has steadied a bit, he picks up the moss once more, gritting his teeth against the feeling, and goes to work.
[ DEATH OF A DREAM ]