{$title} warning !! graphic discussions of sickness, mentions of death
—————————————————— 'Till I can't run no more ✦
It had gotten worse. Whether it be from the hunger that settled like a stone in his stomach, or the stress of the many, many kittens now crowded around him, or even just happenstance, Timber had gotten worse. Of course, not that he'd let anyone see. As though his very life was on the line, the tom hid the hacking coughs, the constant drip of mucus that all but strangled him, and that strange buzzing in his head he just couldn't seem to shake. He still busied himself, of course—the sun had set long ago, but the tom still found himself out in the territory. What prey he could scent often evaded him easily, and so he had begun to take much longer days out in the field.... but with the catching of a small, filthy mouse, he bowed his head in exhaustion. It would have to do for the night.
He didn't think of much as he shambled home with uneven steps, didn't think of anything particularly new anyway. 'It was going to be fine', he'd tell himself, 'I'm going to be fine.' He couldn't bear the thought of anything more than that, and so he ignored the possibility. The chocolate tom didn't have the time for anything more, not with dozens of hungry mouths and watchful eyes waiting for him back home. He didn't even have time to think about it as another set of coughs wracked his weary body, forcing something awful and phlegm-y into his mouth. Dropping the mouse, Timber spat the offending thing into the grass, not caring to take notice of how the rusty-colored thing glinted in the moonlight, nor how the metallic taste made his mouth salivate. The tom ran a dry tongue over his teeth, swallowing with some difficulty to force the rest of it down his throat. "I'm fine..." Timber muttered hoarsely to himself, an empty affirmation as he trudged on, the mouse that he had caught forgotten within the weeds.
The tom all but collapsed into the scraps of moss that he called his nest—amidst all the refreshing of the other's moss and that terrible feeling of losing grip on tasks usually well-known to him, he must've forgotten his own. It hardly mattered anyway. Something between his paws caught his attention, and he curled around it protectively, instinctively. He had assumed it was Saffronkit (who had likely found some other warm place to sleep for the night), and hadn't noticed the particularly ragged nature of it, nor that it was missing an eye, nor that it was decidedly not alive. Timber curled up with Fleafire's old stuffed thing anyway, drifting off into something that was feverish and troubled.
- this is a pfap!!! please wait until @Stoatstream responds :)
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✦—Shadowclan Caregiver | 30 Moons
✦—He/Him
✦—"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
✦—A large chocolate tabby with pale gold eyes
#9A775A
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