ShadowClan Medicine Cat's Den

[elio]

｡ﾟﾟ･｡･ﾟﾟ｡
ﾟ。 Mossfreckle (ShC)
　ﾟ･｡･ﾟ they/he ~ medicine cat

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ The High Priestess ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

❦ Mossy hues reminded fixated on the starry sky as a halfhearted rumbling purr slipped form his white twinged maw at the nervousness which tied the honeyed ginger toms tongue in knots and shuffled his large paws in tippy taps that sent lose soils skittering in whisper soft dances across the jumble of rocks and roots that comprised the entrance to the medicine den which sprawled like a lolling tounge from hits lichen shrouded mouth, ”You are quite handsome yourself, lad,” the herbalist chirped before rising on lanky legs, silken pelt rippling in the balmy summer breezes. Mossfreckle dipped into a mountainous peak as his spine extended upwards and his white tipped paws pressed resistantly into the ground as thorn like claws slipped nonchalantly to wrench hard as they snagged within the moist earth and tugged against the pressure… not a dream… part of him knew he had woken but when you mind killed you a million times one could never be too sure the line they walked between living and dying - a danse macabre - and the work of the waking, bitter reality, for once in a blue moon the medicine cat suppresses a yawn of genuine sleepiness as the haze of fatigue that so commonly blanketed him finally decided that now was the time it would carry him off to elusive slumber, ”I am heading back to if only until the sun rises more,” the oriental yawned as he uprighted himself and cast a half lidded gaze over a lightly muscled, freckled shoulder at Hillstrider, ”You are welcome to stay or go, Hilly,” he said clearly but somewhat slurred by the plague of sleep that now made him heavy and blurred his vision as he leapt half graceful and half clumsily over the rivulet that split the burrow in half before he took up his residence in front of the herb storage and snuggles up within the moss and down of his nest letting his dreamscapes consume his star hewn mind once more.

{ @Mica ~ Hillstrider }

[Daragca]

​​​​
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons
Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2
The Dancing Bird

It was somewhat of a stumble the way Owlthroat walked into Mossfreckle’s den. Not his usual overly confident saunter, his ink splotched coat no longer adorned with white brilliance inbetween. But deep scarlet red, from head to paw. It looked quite worrisome, but of course the majority of the blood didn’t belong to him. Instead, belonging to the fox, he’d clamped down his crooked yellow teeth and torn its throat clean out.

Owlthroat, a moniker well deserved. Never one to shy away from the carnage, but the red devil had taken the two by surprise. Newtbelly had performed well in the fight and there was a smug sense of satisfaction that came with that. His very own apprentice finally putting his claws to some sort of productive endeavour. What would Tuftedtusk think, relationships were somewhat new to him. The occasional fling here or there but he was of the age now to settle down. But with that marked unfamiliar territory, would Tuftedtusk come and see him in this state? Be embarrassed by his antics, worried or perhaps seethe with pride. Only time would tell.

Strong scents clogged his nose, Owlthroat had never been a fan of the healer’s den, nothing personal just bad memories. Starclan awful putrid scents, that teased his eyes into watering. Mossfreckle must have gone noseblind spending all this time in here. Then there came the question of wasting resources, a graze or scrape he shrugged off. Left nature to do its work.

The ebbing flow of blood from his side told him different, wasn’t one he could simply leave unattended. Alongside this dying from an infection after fighting a fox would be severely disgraceful, the thought choking in his maw. He glanced behind him, anticipating Newtbelly only a few tail lengths away then cleared his throat.

”Mossfreckle?” The tom’s unadjusted eyes strained to the darker corners of the den, attempting to make out a familiar shape. His voice rung low, but masked the pain thoroughly enough. He’d be out of this place in no time.

The fox had been an easy piece of work, but it worried him how his skin split open as easy as he’d carve prey. Feeling like a god being faced with sickening mortality, and what did he have to show for it? A snivelling brother, a few decent apprentices. At his age his legacy was nowhere near what he’d like it to be, it needed to be powerful. Awe-inspiring, but most importantly his name needed to carry on through time. Owlthroat stunk of hubris, egotistical and cold to the touch.

How would he leave his mark?

[​​ @elio ]

[sleepyyjax]

Newtbelly
he/him | Agatha Kitty, Shadow Fiend | 17 moons

header: @/daragca
content: injury detail, animal death

Despite his wounds being far less severe than Owlthroat, the tom felt himself limping far harder. Never had he felt such a pain, burning its way through his shoulder and ribs like a parasite. A lie down in the medicine den would be welcomed. As they entered camp, he tossed the lone rat onto the prey pile - all he had to show for their troubles. Well, at least the fox had been banished, limp body a warning sign to future trespassers. Maybe they hadn't brought much back with them, but in looks alone their entrance was impressive, no?

Had he been alone, he'd be dead by now - he knew that. But he wouldn't let it eat him up as he limped through the clearing. He'd simply get stronger, faster, he had time. No cat expects a warrior to be a fox slayer, he reminded himself - though Owlthroat thankfully was one.

As they entered the den, various scents assaulted his nose. Believe it or not, he'd never been here before. In his 17 moons he'd escaped any sickness or injury, and he'd never wanted to enter for any other reason.

Owlthroat called out to Mossfreckle. He figured he wouldn't say anything at all for now, after all, what was there to say? One look at the two of them should be enough. Owlthroat's fur dripped scarlet, rarely was its usual pale colour visible, if at all. Newtbelly wasn't quite as affected. White paws were stained right through, blood streaked up his legs, shoulder bitten straight into (thankfully, not torn as he'd feared), and his side gashed. His first scars. He felt far too old to just only be obtaining them - despite that, he did feel a sense of pride. Sure, he didn't have Owlthroat's ferocity, the ability to tear a throat out, but he'd escaped a fox with only two injuries. That had to be impressive, right? Even if he owed it to Owlthroat.

@elio
@Daragca

[Mica]

Hillstrider
ShadowClan Warrior
he/him | 21 moons
[Big fluffy orange tabby with yellow eyes]
Purrks: Heightened Perception (Hearing)
⋆˖⁺‧₊☽ The Sun ☾₊‧⁺˖⋆
· · ────────────── · ·
[Mossfreckle - @elio ]
· · ────────────── · ·
Snrk--huh? Admittedly, Hillstrider had fallen asleep on Mossfreckle's shoulder and completely missed the rest of the conversation--including the bit where Mossfreckle called him handsome. The orange tom twisted to see Mossfreckle padding back into the den, an invitation still on his lips. "Woah, wait for me!" Hillstrider called quietly, stumbling to his big paws and following the medicine cat into the den where he curled his large frame around the smaller oriental's and buried his head in Mossfreckle's shoulder, falling sound asleep not long after.