Post by feeling kinda blue on Feb 14, 2016 17:44:59 GMT
To say Batwing was in a horrible mood was a huge understatement. To put things articulately, Batwing was in a murderous mood but his body wasn't having it. Trudging away from the marshes, the scrawny tomcat looked horrid. His black-brown fur was splattered with mud from paws to shoulders, the steady rainfall slicking his fur to his narrow sides and making his bony shoulders and hips protrude. You could nearly count his ribs despite the fact that he ate regularly. The water dripped from his ears and whiskers, slunk down his spine and off his tail, mud squelched between his once white toes as he walked. Streaks of half-washed blood littered his shoulders from Newtclaw's attacks and pinpricks of pain were scattered over his small body from the fight he'd had with his brother less than an hour ago. His bones and muscles protested from Newtclaw's attempted squashing of Batwing's person, his ribs sore but not broken and his mouth filled with the metallic taste of family blood.
All in all it wasn't an unfamiliar place for Batwing to be, roughed up post-fight with someone in his family but it sucked every time. His small size defeated Batwing when he faced off against the titans that made up his father's family tree and usually left Batwing slinking off to lick his wounds like a pathetic old rogue. He'd abandoned his hunting too, left the prey to rot while Newtclaw took over Batwing's former hunting ground on the marshes. Flexing his claws in the rain-softened ground, Batwing whisked his tongue around his lips. Old blood settled on his tongue, a nice reminder that he'd at least taken a good bite out of Newtclaw's shoulder when the black and white cat tried to smother Batwing. Small victories.
'Mousedung,' Batwing thought, amber eyes narrowed as he stalked through the pines and cedars that made up ShadowClan's territory. He was sore and cold and soaked through but going back to camp wasn't an option. Sparrowpelt would ask questions, especially when Newtclaw came dragging in with blood running down his shoulder. Sparrowpelt would tell Rosestar and Rosestar would stick her ugly snout where it didn't belong. So...here was Batwing once again slinking through the mud and the muck to go lick his wounds. Slithering around like the snake Newtclaw always insisted he was. Fabulous.
Still...no one had ever accused Batwing of being dignified. That got kicked to the curb on day one when Batwing learned the score. The world was out to bite his tail off and if he didn't watch his back no one would.
An old fox den, long abandoned, laid hidden under a tangled knot of cedar roots. It was out of the way of most common hunting tracks and suited Batwing's purposes for today. He slid in the mud a bit as he slithered his scrawny body down the old tunnel but he was able to fit and for the most part the den was sort of dry back away from the entrance. Moons ago, when he'd been an apprentice, Batwing had found it was sometimes helpful to have a hideaway outside of camp for situations like this when fessing up to injuries was annoying or dangerous. So, though the den had been unused by a fox for quite a while, there was relatively fresh moss and lichen available for Batwing to curl up in. Curling in on himself, limbs folding up against his belly and frame becoming impossibly small, Batwing kept an eye on the entrance. The tunnel was short so he could see a slice of rainy sky and the churned earth from where the fox had once dug out the den mouth. He kept his back to the far wall so no one could see him unless they were right up on the den.
Without meaning to Batwing dozed off, amber eyes drifting shut, shivering slightly, coated in mud and rain, blood smeared across his muzzle and streaked down his shoulders. Outside the den the rain drizzled on.
Notes: yay!
Word count: 649
Tagged: @twotone
