We need oxygen to breathe ☾ Whitepaw

[Frightpaw]

*+:｡.｡ "You healing alright? " Frightpaw asks, not entirely sure how much she cares. Slipping into Cottonsprig and Calendinepaw's den, she blinks against the shifting of light before focusing on her heavily scarred sibling. Adoptive sibling. Disgust rolls in her stomach, but she can't tell you - nor does she care to figure out - why. After all, death comes for them all eventually, and if she judges him for killing a family member - blood-related or not - she'd have to take a serious look at her own actions. She frowns, remembering the tackiness of blood on her fur.

Placing a mouse down at Whitepaw's feet, she sits down beside him. She isn't sure what she should do here, so she just watches him closely. " A fox didn't do this " she guesses, raising a nonexistent brow, " and I doubt it was a Duskclanner " unless her father didn't actually have any strings to pull to keep his legitimate and illegitimate kits safe.

She waits for his answer. She isn't sure what the purpose of knowing is.

*+:｡.｡ Updated 9/21/24

• " Speech "
  
  
  GENERAL:
  ☾ Frightpaw
  ☾ DFAB— She/Her — Unsure
  ☾ 9 moons — Ages 1 moon every month real-time
  ☾ Windclan apprentice
  ☾ Sister to Deathpaw, Witherpaw, Grasspaw, Whitepaw and Midnightpaw
  
  
  
  COMBAT:
  ☾Physically easy | mentally medium
  ☾ Attack in bold #1b1e21
  injuries: None

 

[whitepaw]

Whitepaw glances up when Frightpaw enters, his remaining eye narrowing slightly against the light filtering into the den. He adjusts his posture, his scarred body tense even while resting. Her question lingers in the air, but he doesn't answer immediately, instead focusing on her expression. There's something there—what, he can't quite tell—that flickers briefly before vanishing. He recognizes it; it's not the first time he's seen that look since he—since it happened. "I'm healing," he says after a moment, his voice low, clipped. His tone doesn't invite further questions, but he knows Frightpaw well enough to guess she isn't going anywhere. The mouse she sets down by his feet doesn't go unnoticed, though he doesn't reach for it. The sight of it churns his stomach, as most food has since the incident.

When she guesses about his wounds, Whitepaw's jaw tightens. "No fox," he confirms, his words measured. He doesn't bother correcting her on DuskClan; there's no point. Let her think what she wants—it's easier than explaining. Her gaze on him feels heavy, too direct, too analytical. He doesn't flinch under it, though his ear flicks, the jagged stump of the other shifting as if in response. Why does she care? Does she even care? "You waiting for a confession?" he asks finally, his voice edged with quiet defiance. "I'm not going to justify it to you. Or anyone else." His eye meets hers, steady, though his chest tightens. There's a part of him that wants her to push, to demand answers, if only so he can get the guilt and despair roiling inside him out in words. But he doubts she will. Frightpaw isn't one for sentiment.

The silence stretches. He doesn't reach for the mouse. He doesn't look away.​