Post by Fawn on Jan 31, 2016 21:30:25 GMT -5
⇒Medicine Cat of LightningClan⇐
The probability of survival had dropped considerably in the last five moonrises. With dwindling herbal supplies and a near complete absence of food to sustain the living, let alone the nearly-dead, to say the future was 'grim' was to color the truth with prettier words than it needed.
The future was diminishing, for the five cats presently under the astute, unrelenting care of LightningClan's healer. As much as his own scientific fervor sustained him, it became obvious even to the normally self-sufficient tom that he was severely understaffed. Even just one additional set of paws (provided they did not belong to a moron of the most intolerable kind) would greatly lessen the time it took him to do the menial chores that took him away from more pressing matters.
There was no immediate attempt to remedy his lack of a lackey; Rookfrost spared not a single moment on screening suitable candidates for the position of apprentice. Even to this day, he did not recall the name of every cat he was forced to inhabit their moorland territory with, and Rookfrost did not feel it necessary to denote any additional thought to who might have the talent in this particular field.
If Rookfrost had been looking for talent from the beginning, he would have found himself laughably underwhelmed. Of course, anyone who may very well have shown a proficiency in the bloodier, smellier, more agonizing side of healing, had obviously taken a different sort of interest in their fellow LightningClanners.
Out of the corners of icy, emotionally vacant eyes, the recognizable form of Nightstep padded in and out of view as the young, amorally indifferent warrior left with a hunting patrol. That cat in particular was... unsuitable. Rookfrost did not deign to take Whiteshade's favorite pet away from him; he could claim to know Nightstep in name only. Whether the young tom showed more of his master's penchant for bloodshed was yet to be determined. If the young cat was in any way unstable around the mortally wounded, then he was no good to Rookfrost whatsoever.
There was no time to linger, however, as a miserable throaty cough pulled the shadow-pelted healer away from the den entrance, gliding over the ground like a wraith to the side of the deeply afflicted. With eyes as pale and empty as the winter sky above, Rookfrost studied the buildup of crust around the cat's nostrils, the frailness of the body (starvation was, to say the least, detrimental to recovery) and the phlegmatic rattle in the chest with each racking cough.
Just behind, another sick body began coughing, and a small noise of displeasure slid from the tom's throat. He did not enjoy having to dance back and forth between his patients. Rookfrost pivoted to the shelves he had scooped out of the cold earthen walls of his den, retrieving two leaves of chickweed as the raucous coughing grew even louder.
Without rhyme or warning, a flame-colored pelt caught in the tom's peripherals like a mouse in an icy pool, and he fixed the small she-cat with a piercing, appraising look. She will suffice.
"You," he commanded. "Take this chickweed, chew it to a paste and feed it to—" Two or three seconds stalled before he unearthed the seldom-used name from the furthest archives of his mind. "—Rosefire. Do you understand?"
Rookfrost did not wait for a nod, instead he swept the she-cat inside with a decisive brush of his tail, disallowing for the opportunity to escape.
He did not have the time to be captious or particularly thorough. She was alive. She was quiet. Whether she was an apprentice or a warrior he did not immediately discern—instead, he was tending to Dovepaw in the corner, administering a separate chickweed paste to the white feline—and it did not matter. If her services proved sufficient, he would pry her from her mentor without a second though, grafting her into the lifestyle of a healer.
No scrutinizing glance was spared the ginger and white cat's way; he would find out soon enough if she could follow simple instructions. Idle paws were the devil's plaything, went some vague and nonsensical saying; in his den, idle paws were the healer's bane. If she knew what was good for her, she wouldn't linger too long mulling over her new involuntary status as his assistant.No wealth no ruin no silver no gold. Nothing satisfies me but your soul.
