- Oct 9, 2022
- 35
- 2
- 8
In truth, Fogpaw knows he's privileged to have spent a good portion of the winter in the medic's den (even if it wasn't exactly a pleasant stay). He almost feels guilty about it but he tells himself that he'll make it up soon. Somehow. Now that he doesn't have to worry about the ice slipping up beneath his feet, he can get a better figure of just how much of a nuisance his front left paw will be. Just to see how his paw fairs when he's on equal footing with the weather again. Sure it's a little wet, but so was the marsh, and he's pleased with his progress. It's only recently that he was able to muster the strength to start putting more than a mouse's worth of pressure onto it again. It was a traumatizing experience, thinking that he was going to just sit and waste away in that crevice, his fate sealed, until that lout, Wolverinefang, showed up. He should be grateful-- he is grateful-- but it doesn't make Fog like him. It's to get away from he and Bone's lovey-dovey (ugh) yammering that he's out here now.
After a degree of stomping around not usual for the usually silent toed moggy (and with a degree of mud that'll take ages to pick from his thick pelt), he stops beneath a dew laden bush and sighs dramatically. Shoulders sagging, eyes heavy. He lifts his paw, stares at it. He was told that it could be permanent but he was hoping otherwise, even if it was slim. It's his own fault for running away so recklessly but he doesn't see it like that. He just thinks about how unfair it is, first his voice and now this. A flash of usually buried deep anger passes over his face and he slaps that paw across the soggy dirt only to grimace as his claw clips a mere rock. Fogpaw hisses, silently, a strange rumbling in his chest that fall deaf by the time it reaches his damaged vocal cords.
Well , that was stupid of him, yet he swallows down his doubt, wagging his paw to relieve the sting and casting his clay-colored eyes over the blooming newleaf. No, he won't let this be Shadowclan all over again. He won't duck away and become a ghost once more, his paw be damned. He'll become a proper Riverclanner.
Somehow.
@PIKESPLASH
After a degree of stomping around not usual for the usually silent toed moggy (and with a degree of mud that'll take ages to pick from his thick pelt), he stops beneath a dew laden bush and sighs dramatically. Shoulders sagging, eyes heavy. He lifts his paw, stares at it. He was told that it could be permanent but he was hoping otherwise, even if it was slim. It's his own fault for running away so recklessly but he doesn't see it like that. He just thinks about how unfair it is, first his voice and now this. A flash of usually buried deep anger passes over his face and he slaps that paw across the soggy dirt only to grimace as his claw clips a mere rock. Fogpaw hisses, silently, a strange rumbling in his chest that fall deaf by the time it reaches his damaged vocal cords.
Well , that was stupid of him, yet he swallows down his doubt, wagging his paw to relieve the sting and casting his clay-colored eyes over the blooming newleaf. No, he won't let this be Shadowclan all over again. He won't duck away and become a ghost once more, his paw be damned. He'll become a proper Riverclanner.
Somehow.
@PIKESPLASH