Herbs for a Hunter (Smokefur) Dec 10, 2012 22:44:49 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 10, 2012 22:44:49 GMT -5
The night is here and the day is gone...
Nettlefur's mottled tabby pelt slipped beneath the overhanging boulder, his vision failing for a moment as he abandoned the glaring white landscape behind him for the dark cavern that was NightClan camp. A scrawny, damp squirrel swinging in his jaws. It was fresh, but cold. The snow, chest high in some places, had stolen any warmth that his prey had previously held. It was all that he had to show for a full morning of hunting; prey was scarce. Frighteningly scarce.
Nettlefur dropped the squirrel in the almost nonexistent fresh-kill pile, and moved away before shaking. Slush and half-melted ice scattered across the floor of the cavern. He coughed, and his tail flicked in annoyance. The cough had been persistently working at him for six sunrises. Oh, he hated being ill. He'd decided that if it didn't clear up by this sunrise, he'd go to visit Smokefur. He despised feeling weak, but was wise enough to know that he could not fight this cough with sheer willpower, no matter how much he wished he could. Being out in the snow didn't help, but the clan needed to be fed.
He'd miraculously escaped any of Ravenstar's hunting patrols into TreeClan territory, and felt guiltily relieved about it. He respected his leader, but something felt profoundly wrong about prey stealing. Since kithood, he'd been taught the warrior code, and had always followed it reverently. The warrior code separated the clans from boorish rouges, and he believed it made them strong. But he was loyal to Ravenstar, regardless, and would hardly acknowledge his own doubts, let alone speak them aloud.
He shook himself again, this time more to rid himself of the notion of a corrupt leader than the lingering dampness of his pelt. He'd been going hunting longer, and more often, to make up for the pangs of guilt he felt for being happy about avoiding TreeClan patrols. Twitching his tail irritably, forcing away those thoughts, he padded to the medicine cat's den, and peered inside. The air smelled strongly of herbs, and he twitched his whiskers. The aroma wasn't particularly unpleasant, just exotic and a bit strange to him. He'd historically been a rather healthy cat, and had hardly needed any care for the medicine cat, aside from a few minor scratches. Nettlefur realized that he hardly knew the silver tabby she-cat that acted as NightClan's medicine cat, and felt a growing sense of curiosity.
The tom took a step inside, trying to suppress his cough. "Hello?" he called into the shadowy den. "Smokefur?"
... And the world spins madly on.
Word count; 431
Notes; Sorry, I lost my entire first post, which was over twice as long and indefinitely better. >.<