Snakeblink makes for a poor fighter, skill-wise, but he has the battle sense down to an art — if he has honed it to an edge in a thousand different situations, none of them calling for such finely-tuned tactical anxiety. The only issue with it is that, with his background level paranoia multiplied tenfold by actual battle, it takes forever to settle back down, leaving him on edge and easily startled for days after. Were he privy to the nature of blood pressure, he’d bemoan the fact that his goes through the roof at the slightest provocation. Others may not see much of a difference, but he does.
Unfortunately one cannot help being mortal, with the limits that come with the condition: there is such a thing as too keyed up. Recent tragedies have left him unable to sleep, which he has made little efforts to remedy; constant activity to keep his mind off darker thoughts has been his preferred method, which in turn has only made him more tired and less able to sleep.
He, simply, has not allowed his brain to calm down from the adrenalin high. It shows: his paws shake when he tries to weave reeds, his eyes feel gritty as riverbed sand, and his reflexes — his so-called battle sense — have dulled as his poor overworked bones struggle to keep up with the frantic demands of his mind.
So when he feels a larger presence looming behind his back, warm breath brushing against his spine, he doesn’t — cannot — bolt. His brain is halfway through camp screaming bloody murder when it trips over his fight-or-flight response and faceplants gracefully onto the third, worst option that is freeze. Never too good at catching up with the rest of him, all that his poor muscular system manages to do with this mess of contradictory instincts is a kind of full-body shiver, tensing up for an attack which…
Never comes.
He blinks sluggishly as he feels the faint pricking sensation of something being threaded into his short fur. He twists himself into a knot trying to see what it is, nearly braining himself and Houndstride in one fell swoop as he turns around too quickly and comes a whisker-width away from slamming his head straight into the other’s nose. Wait, Houndstride? He goes still as that information computes and watches, dumbfounded, at the elegant heron feather sticking up from his back. The feather the chocolate tom had just tucked into his fur. For some reason.
Who goes around accessorizing people behind their back? (He would. He has.) Snakeblink shakes his head to clear off the sleepy confusion sticking to him like spiderwebs. Maybe Houndstride just dropped his feather and it happened to land there. That would explain it.
The movement dislodges the feather precariously balanced on his short pelt and it flutters to the ground in a graceful spin. Despite his belief that this is a silly misunderstanding on his part, Snakeblink cannot curb his impulse to snatch it out of the air, cradling it in his paw and bringing it close to his chest protectively. It’s only so it doesn’t get stained, he rationalizes. It would be a shame to dirty such a pretty feather.
(He isn’t one to accessorize: his fur, as demonstrated, is too short to comfortably accommodate decorations, and he isn’t prone to vanity besides. It’s always seemed like something others do, something nice to look at but which doesn’t concern him. He prefers to decorate his den when he can, with soft things and pretty baubles, although like many of his clanmates he lost that little indulgence in the flood. Still, it’s… nice to look nice. Besides, Houndstride either dropped it or put it there; either way Snakeblink doesn’t see why he should give it back. Finder’s keeper.)
Oh. Houndstride is talking. He expects that will clear up the situation: the tom will ask for the feather back — his paw curl a little closer at the thought — or explain why he put it there to begin with.
But no, Houndstride instead muses about herons; there’s a note to his voice that Snakeblink can’t identify, almost admirative as the larger warrior holds the spectacle of a fishing bird in his mind’s eye. Snakekillers, he calls them, and Snakeblink can only stare at him in befuddlement.
And he thought he was overworked. He fears Houndstride is much worse off than him, if this little speech is any indication: the tom is making no sense. Unless this is a sign of something more sinister. Hadn’t his mother spoken, once, of a cat who had started spouting nonsense before falling dead on the spot? His throat closes with a burst of panic, wondering if this is the case here.
He turns fully towards the tom, trying to remember the portent of such a condition that his mother had mentioned. He’s not slurring his words, which is what she remembered best, so perhaps he’s fine? Speaking in non-sequiturs isn’t a sign of illness, after all, otherwise Snakeblink himself would have needed to be confined to the medicine den long ago. This might just be trauma taking its toll; a brief mental break.
"What are you saying, Houndstride?" He asks, narrowing his eyes and wishing he had paid more attention to his mother’s grim stories of sudden death.
(Part of him wonders if this is Houndstride’s way of threatening him. After all this is what Snakeblink would mean, were he the one to say these words; that or a warning. What murder-worthy offense might he have committed near the warrior, he wonders? But although his heart skips a beat at the thought, even his sleep-deprived mind can’t consider it entirely realistic. He remembers the tom’s wry humor when bantering with Darterwing, the acerbic tone of his somewhat strained discussions with Smokethroat. Houndstride would be more frank if he were actually threatening him, right? Right?)
He’s always struggled to read Houndstride, is the thing. Brief insanity or open threat: both are equally likely when it comes to this cat. The chocolate warrior keeps his feelings too close to his chest, or not at all: honestly, he’s not sure. Again: he can never tell. There’s just something about the way he speaks and acts that try as he might, Snakeblink cannot wrap his head around. And stars know he’s tried. All too many hours have been wasted staring at him, trying to distinguish irritation from wry amusement, melancholy from deep thought.
Tilting his head, he turns the words in his mind, trying to find some hidden meaning to them. "Some herons have been known to choke on their prey. I wouldn’t call it a victory on the snake’s part… but neither can the heron be said to have won, can it?" He muses in a low voice, trying to gain insight on the other’s thought process. He smirks, hit by sudden curiosity. "Tell me, Houndstride… would you sacrifice your life to win? Or are you like the snake, uncaring of your survival as long as you take your enemy with you in death?"
Roaming past Houndstride, his eyes accidentally meet those of an idle bystander— a cat named Heronflight, he realizes with a start. Could it be…? A heron, a snake killer… A threat or a warning… Oh, of course. The list of cats who would gladly see Snakeblink dead is long and long-standing, but if one was actively planning for his demise… Yes, Houndstride would speak up over this, he thinks. Like jumping into freezing water for a nine-lived cat, like throwing himself between a fox’s teeth for apprentices: the tom cannot stand aside while others are in peril. He glances away from Heronflight, hunching his shoulders and inclining his head in a slight bow towards Houndstride, and whispers with great sincerity:
"Thank you for this. Are there any other birds I should be on the look-out for?"
Conspiracy loves company, after all.
