Post by Phoenix on Dec 14, 2019 21:48:36 GMT -5
He was miserable, but what else was new. Many moons ago, the indignities of old age had arrived in full force, and with the changing of the season, what had started off as unbearable became infinitely more infuriating. Thinning fur did little to protect him from the leaf-bare chill. Old bones ached from the cold. His joints complained with very movement, and seasons of relative inactivity had reduced him from lean to practically skeletal. A ragged cough had quickly become a constant and incredibly unwelcome companion. Death waited for him just around the corner – he could feel it lurking there – and he suspected that the only reason it hadn’t claimed him already was to appease its own sick sense of humor: he was a failure with most aspects of life, so why should he not also fail at dying.
Utterly hilarious. Excuse him if he failed to laugh.
Days dragged on at the snail’s pace with which he dragged himself out of his warm nest every morning to hide in another part of camp. It had become a daily routine, though one that he loathed just as much as everything else these days. Even after all these moons, his oaf of a former apprentice did his best to engage him in unwanted conversation and keep him updated on the matters of his life – and no matter how many times Ratfur hit him over the head with sledge hammer sized hints that he was not in the least bit interested, Oakblaze persisted with the tenacity (and obnoxiousness) of a tick. Avoidance, then, had become his main strategy. That was one thing the elder could do right, and the solitude that came with isolating himself to a shadowy corner of camp was an added bonus.
Though Oakblaze was by far the worst, he had no desire to engage anyone in any sort of conversation at any time. He would much appreciate it if they would simply let him wither away in peace without an audience. Imagine his dismay – though there was hardly any vitriol behind it, for disappointment was as constant companion as his rattling cough – when, once again, life seemed determined to not fulfill his requests.
Green eyes watched, wholly unamused, as two of the spawn of Blackwolf’s spawn approached him. It never ceased to amaze him that not only had his old tormenter managed to procreate but that the lazy lump of fur who called himself his son had also managed to pass on his genes. The she-cat in question, one Lilyfrost, was clearly missing more than a few brain cells, but so was Bonetail. Those who said opposites attract clearly never met them.
(Even more horrifying was the thought that Oakblaze had also managed to spawn some offspring who he had had the dubious displeasure of meeting far too soon after they were born: an Acorntail and the now-deceased Mousefeather. The latter had been named in honor of him – his grimace must have seemed enough like a smile for the proud father to not notice his distaste – but at least she had a modicum of intelligence. He almost felt for her, the unfortunate she-cat who had inherited more brain cells than her parents and brother put together, and on the few occasions that they did talk by themselves, he had found himself appreciating her sarcasm and dry sense of humor. But as he had found over the painful moons of training her father, intelligence had a way of not lasting long around the idiot tom.)
Nevertheless, here was living proof that Blackwolf’s lineage was unfortunately alive and well in NightClan – and that the inclination to bother him was apparently hereditary. Honestly, did they have nothing better to do with their time than to subject him to their undesirable company?
Two bits of prey dropped to the ground in front of his paws, and unamused green eyes moved from the bearers of unwanted companionship to the happier consequence of their visiting. He was never one to turn down free food – and for him, that was all food since his hunting abilities were much like his dying abilities in that they were horribly nonexistent – unless it was—
A frog.
Even better, two frogs. How delightful. Green eyes moved from the dried up amphibians at his paws to stare at the she-cats who had brought them. He hated frogs.
“I was perfectly fine on my own,” He drawled by way of greeting, a bony paw pushing the offending prey items further away from him. “You may leave now. And take these with you; I’m not hungry.”
Utterly hilarious. Excuse him if he failed to laugh.
Days dragged on at the snail’s pace with which he dragged himself out of his warm nest every morning to hide in another part of camp. It had become a daily routine, though one that he loathed just as much as everything else these days. Even after all these moons, his oaf of a former apprentice did his best to engage him in unwanted conversation and keep him updated on the matters of his life – and no matter how many times Ratfur hit him over the head with sledge hammer sized hints that he was not in the least bit interested, Oakblaze persisted with the tenacity (and obnoxiousness) of a tick. Avoidance, then, had become his main strategy. That was one thing the elder could do right, and the solitude that came with isolating himself to a shadowy corner of camp was an added bonus.
Though Oakblaze was by far the worst, he had no desire to engage anyone in any sort of conversation at any time. He would much appreciate it if they would simply let him wither away in peace without an audience. Imagine his dismay – though there was hardly any vitriol behind it, for disappointment was as constant companion as his rattling cough – when, once again, life seemed determined to not fulfill his requests.
Green eyes watched, wholly unamused, as two of the spawn of Blackwolf’s spawn approached him. It never ceased to amaze him that not only had his old tormenter managed to procreate but that the lazy lump of fur who called himself his son had also managed to pass on his genes. The she-cat in question, one Lilyfrost, was clearly missing more than a few brain cells, but so was Bonetail. Those who said opposites attract clearly never met them.
(Even more horrifying was the thought that Oakblaze had also managed to spawn some offspring who he had had the dubious displeasure of meeting far too soon after they were born: an Acorntail and the now-deceased Mousefeather. The latter had been named in honor of him – his grimace must have seemed enough like a smile for the proud father to not notice his distaste – but at least she had a modicum of intelligence. He almost felt for her, the unfortunate she-cat who had inherited more brain cells than her parents and brother put together, and on the few occasions that they did talk by themselves, he had found himself appreciating her sarcasm and dry sense of humor. But as he had found over the painful moons of training her father, intelligence had a way of not lasting long around the idiot tom.)
Nevertheless, here was living proof that Blackwolf’s lineage was unfortunately alive and well in NightClan – and that the inclination to bother him was apparently hereditary. Honestly, did they have nothing better to do with their time than to subject him to their undesirable company?
Two bits of prey dropped to the ground in front of his paws, and unamused green eyes moved from the bearers of unwanted companionship to the happier consequence of their visiting. He was never one to turn down free food – and for him, that was all food since his hunting abilities were much like his dying abilities in that they were horribly nonexistent – unless it was—
A frog.
Even better, two frogs. How delightful. Green eyes moved from the dried up amphibians at his paws to stare at the she-cats who had brought them. He hated frogs.
“I was perfectly fine on my own,” He drawled by way of greeting, a bony paw pushing the offending prey items further away from him. “You may leave now. And take these with you; I’m not hungry.”
--
Taxx Ghost the Undead Goddess
Leaf-bare 4: The sky is overcast and frigid winds blow down the mountains, in stark contrast to the day before.
