TW: Death Territory ShadowClan WindClan can you even handle the heat ☾.⭒ — gorp

[Fleapaw]

-

Fields loomed ahead swaying restlessly. Her nostrils still reeked of iron. The place where Cicadabuzz had been attacked wasn't around here, but she could still see that curdled black stain. Fleapaw stood at its edge, amber eyes narrowed, leg throbbing beneath the tight wrap of cobwebs and herbs. She ignored it. The first few days had been excruciating—now it was just another thing to grit her teeth through.

They went without you. A whisper in the back of her mind reminded.

Cicadabuzz. Coalstrike. Stoatpaw. Jadethorn. Hollowmist. Off on some noble herb raid that ended in failure. Maybe she should've been relieved not to have gone. But it wouldn't have stung so bad if Stoatpaw weren't involved. Her best friend got dragged into that mess and hadn't been the same since. Stoatpaw was good—kind—making her do stuff like that wasn't right. She could've done it. She would've without batting an eye. Didn't matter how big their warriors were, RiverClan didn't scare her.

They got torn up over what? A bunch of fucking herbs? There were things worth dying for, and a bunch of dirty plants were not it.

Fleapaw scanned both directions. No monsters screamed past. Her jaw tightened, and she darted across the blackstone. Her injured leg lit up like fire, but she didn't slow, not until she hit the other side and dropped into a ditch to catch her breath. The world spun for a moment before it steadied. She sucked in a breath.

Fleapaw slunk low between unfamiliar undergrowth. If Cicadabuzz could lead a heist, then so could she. WindClan territory was different. The scents, the shadows, the texture of the wind—it wasn't like the pocosin. But she moved like it was hers anyway, nostrils flaring as she soaked it all in. Her body was off kilter, leg dragging with each step, but she kept on, pushing herself.

The rustle of grass snapped her focus sharp. The floppy-eared apprentice turned, pupils narrowing. A squirrel crawled across the ground, tail fluffed up, whiskers working as it chewed on something. It hadn't seen her yet.

She crouched, belly brushing the grass. Pain lanced through her hock, but she ignored it, inching forward like she was taught, toes splayed to dampen her steps. Fleapaw got close and then...

The squirrel darted—fast—but not fast enough. She snared it between her paws, claws snagging fur and muscle, and downed with a sharp bite to the neck. The squirrel went limp in her jaws. Fleapaw moved upright, chest heaving, the squirrel dangling from her jaws. A satisfied grin curled through bloodied fur.

Rolled a 1d20: 19 → Great Success!
Rolled a 1d10: 4 → Moderate
Rolled a 1d7: 6 → Squirrel

I've become so numb, I can't feel you there

FLEAPAW

10 MOONS
SHE/HER
- Undersized cinnamon solid with folded ears. She's thin but stubby with very messy fur.
"SPEECH" - crimson | 'THOUGHTS/EMPHASIS' - crimson

Fleapaw values family the most with survival at a close second. In conversations, she is blunt, fun-loving, and clever. She is guided by her desires which often leads her astray. Despite her abrasive personality, she cares deeply for those she loves and will do anything to protect them. Due to her experiences, Fleapaw is corrupt and has minimalistic, if any, morals. She does not care for the warrior code and its restraints. Neither does she believe in StarClan. Growing up in a kitten mill, being separated from her mother, and ending up on the streets have deeply affected her view of the world.

Become so tired, so much more aware