the fish rots from the head. the infection festers and grows, trickling downwards like raindrops through a dense canopy.

it was the steady drip, drip, drip of the proverbial rot that drew rushwater in like a shark to blood. there were a lot of sayings about riverclan's stoic sleuth, many of which followed him to this day. most the seeds had been sewn by two specific individuals he cared not to name. he couldn't deny, the legacy gave him quite the amused chuckle now and then.

he'll smell your weakness. he'll eat you whole.

his ears were pricked alertly, tuned forwards like the dish of a satellite- hungry and poised to drink up every taste of information. indigo eyes fixated on the warm body who raised her voice at the deputy. each step carried purpose, meaning and his short pelt shifted with lean definition upon each stride. step by step, rushwater felt discontent rise in his hollow chest, it swelled and push against his ribs. the ghost of feeling replaced with a cool and level-headed apathy. it was a thin mask hardly keeping the fury boiling underneath hidden.

three.

"get out of camp," the pale-pelted deputy said. the distance between the broad-shouldered warrior and the conflict became as thin as the crescent moon still hanging subtly in the daytime sky.

two.

he heard goldenberry speak, "you can’t exile me, only larkstar can."
closer, now.

one.

"goldenberry," rushwater's words came out level as he intended. "i'd suggest listening to the deputy when she gives you a command," the smell of the med den was on them both. that in tandem with the earlier breath of word- she did all she could. -painted a rather clear picture. it did not take a genius to put two and two together.

"you've lost someone. you don't want to make it cost you your clan, too. leave camp. take a walk. kick rocks, even. calm down, clear your head and come back when you can use your brain- but stars be damned, you will not talk to birdsnow like you've got an ounce of sway or power here."

there's a harshness that the rasp in his tone brought, like chain on linoleum or claws on tree bark. rolling, rumbling and low. he spoke nothing but the truth, too, and, damn it, he was tired of the blame being cast about everyone who actually did anything around here.

"you've got three seconds, goldenberry, to comply with birdsnow's orders. do not make me count."