Post by just atlanta. on Jun 25, 2016 22:30:31 GMT
When you were a competent predator in a forest filled with weaker beings, it was easy to forget that some of those creatures were capable of fighting back.
Rowanfrost staggered under the weight of the hare he carried, a thing so huge that its hind legs dragged in the dirt no matter how hard the WindClan warrior tried to keep his head held up. His shoulder still stung viciously from where the blasted thing had whirled on him when he had caught it by the leg, sinking its considerable teeth deep into the meat of his shoulder. He had made it pay for that, though, and soon enough the rest of the Clan would be enjoying his kill. Feeling no small measure of smugness over what he knew to be an impressive catch, the dark ginger tom strolled into camp with his head and tail held high, the body of the hare still dragging in the dust beside him.
Dropping the fresh-kill down with the rest of the offerings, he forwent the taking of any prey for himself, instead making a beeline for Beetleberry’s den – the bite in his shoulder was beginning to throb, and worry tempered his earlier smugness as he gave the wound a few licks between steps to clear away the dirt that had been packed in. The last thing he needed was an infection, not when there were rogues hanging about. The medicine cat would know what to do, that much was certain; Beetleberry might have been a little too sugary sweet for Rowanfrost’s tastes, but he couldn’t deny that the tom was a fine and talented healer. So with his shoulder giving a twinge every step of the way, the WindClan warrior walked briskly across the camp to Beetleberry’s tucked-away home, following the sharp scent of the herbs that were stored there.
Peering through the leaves, Rowanfrost’s eyes darted about, hoping to find the other tom leeching from the shadows somewhere. When he didn’t spot him, he ventured further inside with a greeting call: “Beetleberry! I’d appreciate some assistance…if you can find the time.” The last bit was tacked on with a hint of sarcasm, a wry grin curling the corners of his mouth – call him a fool, but sometimes it was fun to test the medicine cat’s cheerful attitude with a bit of mockery.
tagged: skyy and her socks
comments: for the rowan/beetledeathplot! hope you don't mind that I got this started
Rowanfrost staggered under the weight of the hare he carried, a thing so huge that its hind legs dragged in the dirt no matter how hard the WindClan warrior tried to keep his head held up. His shoulder still stung viciously from where the blasted thing had whirled on him when he had caught it by the leg, sinking its considerable teeth deep into the meat of his shoulder. He had made it pay for that, though, and soon enough the rest of the Clan would be enjoying his kill. Feeling no small measure of smugness over what he knew to be an impressive catch, the dark ginger tom strolled into camp with his head and tail held high, the body of the hare still dragging in the dust beside him.
Dropping the fresh-kill down with the rest of the offerings, he forwent the taking of any prey for himself, instead making a beeline for Beetleberry’s den – the bite in his shoulder was beginning to throb, and worry tempered his earlier smugness as he gave the wound a few licks between steps to clear away the dirt that had been packed in. The last thing he needed was an infection, not when there were rogues hanging about. The medicine cat would know what to do, that much was certain; Beetleberry might have been a little too sugary sweet for Rowanfrost’s tastes, but he couldn’t deny that the tom was a fine and talented healer. So with his shoulder giving a twinge every step of the way, the WindClan warrior walked briskly across the camp to Beetleberry’s tucked-away home, following the sharp scent of the herbs that were stored there.
Peering through the leaves, Rowanfrost’s eyes darted about, hoping to find the other tom leeching from the shadows somewhere. When he didn’t spot him, he ventured further inside with a greeting call: “Beetleberry! I’d appreciate some assistance…if you can find the time.” The last bit was tacked on with a hint of sarcasm, a wry grin curling the corners of his mouth – call him a fool, but sometimes it was fun to test the medicine cat’s cheerful attitude with a bit of mockery.
tagged: skyy and her socks
comments: for the rowan/beetle
