- Aug 4, 2024
- 73
- 15
- 8
The cool shade of the fern tunnel is a welcome reprieve for Howlpaw. It crouches low among the sprawling fronds, their feathered ends brushing over his fur as he settles in. The damp, earthy scent of the medicine den mingles with the sharp tang of herbs lingering nearby, and though the quiet hum of clan life is audible from here, it feels distant. He needs it to feel distant. Howl's shoulders ache from the strain of the recent battles; every bruise and scratch feels heavier here, but the stillness is more important than the discomfort. It presses its chin against the ground, amber eyes narrowing as they flick toward the faint light at the end of the tunnel. Cats come and go from the medicine den, but none notice him nestled in the undergrowth. Good. He isn't in the mood for questions or attention—not after everything.
The fight with the dog. The memory churns in his chest, making him clench his jaw. His claws sink into the soft earth beneath him as he recalls its massive jaws snapping just inches from his face, the sheer weight of it as it attacked him. He shouldn't have survived, he knows that. Yet here it is, breathing, sore but intact, while others have fought battles and paid far steeper prices. Howlpaw lets out a long, slow exhale, his breath warm against the cold soil. Why does surviving always feel like losing? It isn't just the dog. The ShadowClan battle flashes behind its eyelids when it closes them, the chaotic blur of snarling cats, blood-slicked fur, and the screeches of warriors in pain. He did what he could, fought with all of its might, and it wasn't enough. It had to be helped. Rescued, like some weak little scrap.
And now? Now there's this—hiding, avoiding the noise and the looks, the unspoken judgment he imagines in every glance his clanmates cast his way. They call him a troublemaker, an outcast, a wild thing, a feral animal. Maybe they're right. It bites at the corners of its thoughts like gnats, a steady itch of doubt it can't shake. Suddenly, a muffled sound from the medicine den breaks the quiet, pulling it back to the present. For a moment, its ears twitch toward the sound. It shuffles back a bit more, encased in the shadows of the ferns, amber eyes the only sign of its presence within.
[ @GENTLESTORM ]
The fight with the dog. The memory churns in his chest, making him clench his jaw. His claws sink into the soft earth beneath him as he recalls its massive jaws snapping just inches from his face, the sheer weight of it as it attacked him. He shouldn't have survived, he knows that. Yet here it is, breathing, sore but intact, while others have fought battles and paid far steeper prices. Howlpaw lets out a long, slow exhale, his breath warm against the cold soil. Why does surviving always feel like losing? It isn't just the dog. The ShadowClan battle flashes behind its eyelids when it closes them, the chaotic blur of snarling cats, blood-slicked fur, and the screeches of warriors in pain. He did what he could, fought with all of its might, and it wasn't enough. It had to be helped. Rescued, like some weak little scrap.
And now? Now there's this—hiding, avoiding the noise and the looks, the unspoken judgment he imagines in every glance his clanmates cast his way. They call him a troublemaker, an outcast, a wild thing, a feral animal. Maybe they're right. It bites at the corners of its thoughts like gnats, a steady itch of doubt it can't shake. Suddenly, a muffled sound from the medicine den breaks the quiet, pulling it back to the present. For a moment, its ears twitch toward the sound. It shuffles back a bit more, encased in the shadows of the ferns, amber eyes the only sign of its presence within.
[ @GENTLESTORM ]