Post by Fawn on Jul 18, 2014 14:40:58 GMT -5
⇒Medicine Cat of LightningClan⇐
My name is death and the end is here.
The light of dawn made the sparse, dew-laden vegetation of the mountainside glint and glimmer like the gossamer wings of a dragonfly. It was cool against the medicine cat's legs as he strode, a dark shadow flitting across the land with no appreciation for the natural beauty of his surroundings.
Had he glimpsed a maggot voraciously eating it's way through the bodily remains of a cat or creature long departed, perhaps then he would've stopped and surveyed it the same way someone else might look at a sunrise. It did not so much fill him with warmth as it did with that burning, insatiable hunger towards his craft, the aggressive pursuit of knowledge that allowed him to toss aside all hints at a moral compass.
Morality was a thick, iron chain meant to hold him back, keep him in some sort of place that was invariably marked 'good', but he had broken free of those chains long ago; no one need realize he wore them only for show. His manacles were unlocked, but worn for the sake of inconspicuousness.
The epidemic had left him tired and with dwindled supplies in dire need of replenishing; for all the 'horror' of this past leafbare, Rookfrost had considered it, among other things, his most eventful when he paid no mind to the nuisance so many cats had made of themselves throughout. He spent little time consoling those whose loved ones had passed on; he tolerated no pacing outside his den, no desperate attempts at barging in to check on the sickness's latest haul. Did that stop them from trying?
Of course not.
When a precious bundle of fur was on the verge of the black void, those cats closest to it only grew more frantic, more desperate, more un-accepting of the inevitable.
Rookfrost did not dwell upon this; he didn't need to. One of the greatest follies of his kind was their inability to accept even the most basic laws of nature. For all the good their fart-bound 'ancestors' did, it did not stop cats from succumbing to things far more predatory and efficient than foxes or badgers or that hulking lynx in the mountains. Disease could not be reasoned with. It was not sentient. But it was beautiful, terribly beautiful.
In quick motions, Rookfrost severed the stalks of goldenrod, both used to the herbal taste on his tongue and the plant's signifying aroma, taking two short steps back to lay the stalks down one atop the other in a tidy pile. It had seldom been used in his dealings with the greencough epidemic this leafbare, as wounds of the kind of magnitude where goldenrod was required were uncommon, but it had been used nonetheless.
What was on the dark healer's mind as he stalked amongst the dry scrub clustered on the mountainside? Was it something akin to a haunting sort of glee over the Clan's dwindled numbers (and perhaps a few deaths in particular)? Or did he contemplate some far off, foreign concept only another industrious, cerebral mind such as himself would understand?
It could quite possibly be all of these things, difficult as it was to say. Rookfrost's icy gray eyes were filled the same way a puddle, frozen in winter, was filled; the contents were dark, difficult to distinguish, but the fact remains the same.
If anyone were to fall in, they'd be shocked at the seemingly subzero temperatures.No wealth no ruin no silver no gold. Nothing satisfies me but your soul.
