Quote:
Originally Posted by mirefern
[[open post!]]
Lusk creeps from within the confines of the healer's abode, reeking of dust and decay, medicinal undertones stinging at the nostrils of the fellow syndicate cats that brush by him, never close enough to really touch his broad form. None of them are recognizable, all strangers under his warped gaze. It fails to unsettle him, regardless of how alien the surroundings are when your main source of navigation happens to be your sense of smell.
It's a brief, fleeting thought, but the faces of long-since passed cats burn their way into his mind, dissipating after a second. He can't smell them, isn't sure if he'd even be able to after so long. He tells himself it's fine. None of them were friends to begin with. Neomora, Hazel, and who was it...? He can't recall the name of the tom who'd spent moons alongside him within the healer's den, his only aid whilst the syndicate still had cats attacking others from clans, larger in numbers, and for what? Some sense of pride? He'd be having none of it.
He supposes, at the end of it all, his frustrations stem from the fact that he just doesn't find himself all that fond of fighters -- and likely never will.
Curling his tail over his paws, he settles into his own thoughts, basking in what's left of the early fall sun. |
Hamlet had grown older now, and the trainee still remembered when he was first assigned to Arrow, when he didn't know what to do except to be a healer, when his assignment was all he knew, and his outlook on life was rather innocent and open-minded. He would be alright with anything, as long as he got away alive, as long as the tom decided to keep thinking positively about himself and others. He was kind, and loved every single cat who walked out into the clearing. He bounced around and brightened everyone's day up just a smidgen- but now...
His sisters were gone. Peach was gone, and a new Commander had taken the stage, one he didn't trust. He didn't talk to anyone nowadays, staying cooped up in his den most of the time, thinking it a waste to talk to others. He'd realized how easy it was for other cats to die here, and how he couldn't get attached to anyone- it was weakness. He'd never really made any friends, any more connections than he had to make. He met Hannibal- and then ran away.
"..." Striding into the clearing quietly, there wasn't much the tom could say for himself as he headed towards the fresh-kill pile, his stomach rumbling from hours of sorting herbs by himself, cooping up inside of his den and hiding away from the real world. His eyes caught sight of Lusk, and something clicked in his mind- a familiar face? Walking over to where the cat was, he sat close to them- both Lusk and his trainer, Arrow, his tail flicking in a greeting as he set a piece of prey down in front of him.
"...Hello." He mumbled, taking a bite of the vole he'd laid out in front of him.