BURNING MIDNIGHT OIL [ lost ] Mar 19, 2016 19:07:41 GMT
Post by lord wolfscream✰ on Mar 19, 2016 19:07:41 GMT
Small paws trot aimlessly along, as if Fruitpaw has no real control of them, and instead they are guiding her themselves. She feels as though she is being pulled along, like an invisible vine is braced against her haunches and is tug, tug, tugging her forward. Her surroundings seem to be quieted like in leafbare, when all is covered in a thick layer of snow and the sky above muted by heavy cloud cover. However, much opposed to this, the grass underpaw is strong, green sprigs, the dirt a bit malleable as if softened like it is in the wet season. Greenleaf, she thinks to herself as she moves onward in the uncomfortable silence.@lost
Just ahead, she can spy the glittering surface of the river. A willow tree sags towards the water with its gentle fluttering leaves and curving stems, roots gripping the edge of the bank as if it is scared to fall in. Silly tree, she muses, if you stood straight, then you'd no chance of falling in.
Stalks of wiry rush stretch to her left, their little lavender-colored bulbous heads swaying lightly. Further along she sees a clump of watermint along the bank, opposite of the willow. She notes that their stem is a dark bruised color with broad leaves alternating to the top where the plant is crowned with a cluster of tiny, light purple flowers. Next to them is a group of tall horsetail shoots, each section of their towering stalks about a couple whisker-lengths apart. Casting odd eyes along the river edge, she traces to the where the willow's root begins. A bushel of marigold flowers blooms at the base of the drooping tree, the bright yellow petals stark against the backdrop of jagged bark.
Fruitpaw cannot remember learning any of their names.
On her next step, pain surges through her from her paw, and she tries to yowl but no sound hits her ears. Her paw pad throbs, still, and she lifts it from the earth. She cranes her neck, looking with a frown at the thick thorn that is embedded in the fleshy part of her paw. It's deep, and red wells around it, the smallest droplet traveling down the length of the thorn. It comes to a head and drips to the ground with an audible pat, and Fruitpaw watches a second crimson dribble pat and another pat. She whimpers soundlessly, taking the base of the thorn between her front teeth and reeling her neck towards her body whilst pulling her injured paw in the opposite direction.
It comes loose after a brief struggle, Fruitpaw spitting the offending thing out of her mouth before returning her bi-colored irises to her paw pad. Blood flows freely now, bubbling up and trailing down her pink and black skin in a tiny stream that weaves around the contours of her pad not unlike the twisting shapes of the willow tree's roots.
"Can chew marigold to a pulp, apply to stop the bleeding. Or horsetail, in a pinch."
Fruitpaw's mottled ear twitches at the voice, not recognizing it, not able to pinpoint its direction. She jerks her head up to see who is speaking, but everything is pitch dark now, as if the sun has burned out completely. Panic sets in her in a creep along her spine, but another insisting and warring feeling attempts to soothe her.
"A spider though, will prove the most useful. Their homes, their web can stop even the largest wound from profuse bleeding."
Fruitpaw's eyes fly open, starting in her nest with a ragged gasp liken to if she had breached the river's surface. Her paw pulses, makes her shudder, and as her pupils adjust to the darkness in the den, she sees the very same thorn she'd only just plucked out sticking out of the underbelly of her paw. A dream, she thinks, repeating what she had done only moments ago, or, what felt like only moments. The small she-apprentice pushes herself upward with all her weight in her remaining four paws, large thorn pinched between her teeth.
She picks her way around the sleeping bodies of her denmates, all but tripping over some, but eventually she emerges into the silvery light of moonhigh. Eyes of yellow and green glance upward, searching the luminescent dots of Silverpelt with a little sigh. Sometimes, her visions could come at the worst possible moment, like when I'm fast asleep, though she admits inwardly that perhaps this had been a rather corporeal one and, extremely realistic as her sore paw helpfully reminds her with another throb.
Two guards are posted at the camp entrance but other than that, RiverClan's camp is quiet. Fruitpaw shudders, half from the sting in her paw, and the other because the silence reminds her too much of her dream. But, listening closely, she can hear the gentle flow of the water that hugs their home, and she is lulled back into security. Thorn in mouth, the tortoiseshell turns with a hop and looks in the direction of the medicine cat's den. Marigold, she closes her eyes briefly, picturing golden petals, or horsetail, imagining thin green shoots. Then, an image of sticky, dew-covered white tendrils flashes in her mind, spiderwebs, however...
"Nettleheart is sure to have spiderwebs." She whispers to herself amidst the thorn in her mouth, limping towards the healer's den.
Fruitpaw stands before the yawning entrance, squinting to see just inside the large slumbering form of RiverClan's medicine cat. She hesitates, not really wanting to wake his slumber, it being so late. A slight breeze, however, changes her mind as it ruffles against her mismatched colored fur, cools the blood on her elevated paw pad and consequently pushes her to enter the den.
Setting her offender, the thorn, at her side, she then calls quietly, "Nettleheart?" A jet black nose twitches, her sense of smell very nearly assaulted by the scent of herbs. All the rich and earthy scents, the sweet whiffs, some with more of a tang; but Fruitpaw cannot help but think some of them familiar. Because of my dream, maybe... She hypothesizes while hopefully waiting for the big bracken-colored tom to stir.