[Fawn]

49 Moons || Senior Warrior || NightClan

Weasels were nasty, nasty little beady-eyed pieces of maggot-food, if anyone asked Blackwolf's opinion about it. He hadn't really cared enough to have an opinion, but that was before he'd encountered a particularly stealthy weasel try to steal a piece of fresh kill he'd recently buried, and he'd dealt with it as any proper warrior of NightClan would. Of course, he hadn't walked away from it entirely unscathed. Weasel teeth, apparently, was just a little larger than feline teeth, and the creatures were almost unnaturally fast. Even for someone as experienced as he was, the weasel had managed to outmaneuver him enough that it succeeded in leaping onto his back and clamping its jaws on the back of his neck.

What happened next was fatal—for the weasel, obviously. Despite being the victor of the battle (he'd dumped the dead weasel on the fresh kill pile already), there was still blood in the air, hot and sticky against the jet black fur on the back of his neck where the weasel's teeth had punctured him. It didn't seem serious, but the reason he was so experienced and had made it to senior-warrior status was that he didn't fool around when it came to his own health.

Besides, he had a couple of squealing kits and a mate who'd thrash him from here to the Dark Forest if he didn't go get checked out. Begrudgingly, Blackwolf made a beeline for the medicine cat's den, mismatched eyes projecting seriousness, though a smirk flitted across his muzzle when a respected warrior got caught in his peripherals and they exchanged greetings on the way over. Obsidian paws came to a halt before the entrance, his jaws parting to scent the stale cavern air directly in front; was Featherpaw in? If given the choice, Blackwolf would have preferred the more novice healer to the sister of NightClan's leader, Smokefur. It wasn't that he suspected her of being a lousy medicine cat, it had a lot more to do with an unorthodox order Ravenstar had given him when the medicine cat had refused to eat.

That hadn't exactly made his list of 'favorite lifetime memories', and he very much doubted it had made Smokefur's either. ...Hadn't another cat been there? Oh yeah, Ratfur... Even if Ratfur had been the one with paws small enough to stuff a piece of fresh kill down the healer's throat, Blackwolf had a hard time recalling the tom's presence at all.

Whatever.

"Anyone home?" He catcalled into the darkness, his claws still sunk into the hope that Featherpaw might appear before him instead of the silver and black tabby he wasn't on the best of terms with.

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Word Count: 446 Words
Tags: @poptart

[Deleted]

    Blackfur was correct in assuming Nightclans' senior medicine cat remembered their unpleasant history together, she had worked hard to assure they had never had any alone time since. Both would have been happier to let Featherpaw handle his condition, however neither was lucky enough for that to be possible today. Although she was reserved Smokefur would never let a clanmates' wounds go untreated, even if he had force fed her in the past. Strangely enough she didn't harbor the ill will towards the companion he brought to help, the medicine cat found it odd that shoving prey down her throat was the only work she had ever witnessed Ratfur doing. "What can I do to help you Blackwolf?" She asked as she wandered out from deeper parts of her den, along with her wafted the stale scents of herbs mingling with the damp smell the cave harbored. She inspected his wounds poking around his fur with her nose, checking for sore spots before he could even answer, even if he didn't want his wounds treated she would see that it was done before he left. The wound that held her attention ran along the senior warriors back, and she noted that it seemed quite serious.



    "Would you care to lay down so I can inspect the wounds on your back?" She wasn't giving him much leeway to speak, she wanted the situation resolved quickly so they could both get on with their lives. Preferably one without much interaction between the two of them. She hoped he was too prideful to stick around the medicine cat den, even if his wounds warranted it. Smokefur didn't care for the idea of her biggest enemy in the clan hanging around where she slept and worked, she knew it would effect her efficiency as his presence inspired fear deep inside her.

Fawn

[Fawn]

49 Moons || Senior Warrior || NightClan

An explosive mixture of temper and apprehension flashed in mismatching eyes, the blue and gold hues seeming brighter in that singular flare of emotion. It passed with a blink, and Blackwolf lowered onto his stomach, shoulders tensed as he exposed any cat's most vulnerable spot, his head bowed, teeth clenching inside a black muzzle as Smokefur was allowed to check the wound. The last thing Blackwolf wanted was for a cat he didn't like who didn't like him to be prodding around his already bleeding neck. "It was a weasel," his meow was gruff, but he felt that was vital information or something, and it was in his best interests to be forthright with her, even if visions of the she-cat finishing what the weasel started were threatening to edge their way to the forefront of his mind.

For once, he was grateful she wasn't Ravenstar. A cat who crossed Ravenstar and had been in this position with her instead of Smokefur probably wouldn't be walking away afterwards. No, the silver she-cat he was dealing with had been chosen by StarClan, and from what he could tell of her over the many moons they'd both been serving their Clan, she was capable of showing a compassion and kindness that her volatile sister couldn't always manage. Blackwolf's tail, carried low, swished once against the ground like a serpent, sweeping across the musty cavern floor and stirring up herb-scents in the process. Blackwolf was torn between making small talk, and keeping his mouth shut so he didn't distract her—though she dealt with wailing kits and frazzled parents on a day to day basis, a brief conversation shouldn't be enough to throw the medicine cat off her game, not that he was planning on testing that.

Deciding that silence would serve him better than chatter, Blackwolf concentrated on keeping still, anticipating the unpleasant but necessary sting of poultices being rubbed into his neck.

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Word Count: 319 Words
Tags: @poptart