Open Camp GUARD YOUR HEALTH // patching up a den

[fillykit]

Fillykit. Her name is Fillykit. She is the daughter of... Monster - Monstergrowl. She is a kitten of ThunderClan, lead by Juniperstar, and she is safe. She has twenty toes, two eyes, two ears, one beating heart and two heaving lungs. She is healthy. Her nest is clustered with feathers and prey-pelts, she is warm and she has finished a squirrel with some of the younger kits, she is fed.

Yet her claws work feverishly with some moss, dutifully doing a job not meant for her. Not yet, anyways. She's not been taught how to patch dens well enough to keep the cold out, but she's seen others do it, and in the torment of her half-built mind has decided that she needs to, too. Repentance, maybe. For what, she cannot name. Fillykit, child of Monstergrowl and no other figure, works for her keep in a Clan too kind to her. Sins have long since been committed and the tortoiseshell is too-eager to fix what she can.

A thorn pricks her and she yelps, leaning back from her haphazard work. A drop of blood wells on her pawpad and she blinks at it, her jaw tensing with uncertainty.

 

[Lynxbite]

Small minds struggle most to reconcile themselves with their realities. Between them and their older counterparts lies a terribly thin margin, though. Lynxbite has found that, no matter their age, his clanmates have difficulty accepting what is, and will always prefer what should be, or might be in some distant, nebulous dream of theirs. Kits don't have a say in the matter. But the adults are no better. They all live their lives with eye-wrappings tied so securely about their skulls that they forget what it feels like to have their vision unclouded.

Hence his interest in the young one's behaviour. This kit, for one reason or another, is restless, agitated. It shows in how her paws work the moss with a fretful energy. She imitates the adults around her. She mimics their motions. The little cat doesn't yet understand, though, what the motions are for, nor does she seem capable of grasping why the motions need to happen. It's a curious thing, this ritual. What does it mean to the kit? Why does she struggle so fruitlessly with a task that's beyond her reach, just as it is now beyond her comprehension?

The older warrior does not ask her these questions, but they're in their head as they idly observe her, and the blood that wells from her injured pawpad, too. It's nothing, really. Barely a prick. They notice how she doesn't nurse it, rather electing to stare at the fluid, bewildered.

"Lick it clean,"

Lynxbite instructs Fillykit, drawing towards her on a slow saunter, tone even-keel.

"At least, lick it clean before touching the moss again. You don't want infection."

That is how the big cats do it, yes?

 

[BRIGHTPETAL]

Remnants of bone lay on the ground before the Deputy from a meal picked clean, but before he'd had the chance to bury them, he'd decided to preen himself first. His tongue took long strides along his forelimbs, plucking off any fragments of mouse fur stuck to them. It was a frustrating but necessary diligence, one surely abated if he'd been born with short fur or less instincts to be clean, alas, he could see the benefits with his fur too, enough to wear he didn't mind the daily battle of keeping it unmatted.

It was, all in all, a peaceful existence that day. The world around him was not one he paid much attention to, until a lone kitten broke his trance. Brightpetal jumped at the intrusion to the quiet, a little yelp not too far away from him causing his ears to swing back as if flinching from a cuffed paw. Fervently, he blinked back to ThunderClan's camp, where cats that relied on him and where cats that he relied on resided, where to his right, a little kitten sat with a paw raised. Lynxbite approached first but the Deputy hopped closer soon afterwards, wrinkling his nostrils at the pinprick of blood upon her paw.

"Oh, ouch. Thorns definitely don't belong there, you know," he smiled, tempering his usual zest to as not confuse Fillykit - the last thing anyone needed was for Fillykit to think his adrenaline was out of panic, that she was dying or something. He'd stepped on many-a-thorn in his lifetime, some admittedly planted in his nest, some admittedly he'd tried to plant in other's nests. Lynxbite's advice seemed sound for one who knew nothing of healing, nodding along in agreement with the quiet tom. But, just in case, he mewed, "If it doesn't stop bleeding, let me know and we'll get you a badger ride to Serpentberry's den. What were you tryna do?"

​

 

[rowanpaw]

☼ Maybe Rowanpaw has started to develop some sort of sixth sense for noticing injured cats. She might be hanging around Serpentberry too much… She hears a little yowl and she jumps slightly, stopping in the mouth of the medicine cat den– she'd just been about to bring Serpentberry some extra cobweb, but she turns around, eyes flicking around the camp until she spots the little one– Fillykit? The kit is quickly surrounded by two older cats, but as far as Rowanpaw knows, neither of them know much about wound tending. If indeed it was a wound the little cat was licking on her paw.

She hurries over, and spots the blood, heartbeat growing faster. Oh, the poor thing… Her ears flick as Brightpetal speaks, and she shakes her head.

"Better to go there immediately," Rowanpaw says softly. Brightpetal was the deputy, so she didn't like disagreeing with him, but… Fillykit was just a kit, and she remembers Serpentberry saying something about kits and infections… "Little one," she says, addressing Fillykit now. "You've done a good job patching up the den so far, but better to let the grown ups take care of it now. We should have Serpentberry take a look at that paw– do you know Serpentberry…? She might seem a little scary, but she's real nice, I promise. She'll make your paw feel better."

creator, you destroy me

you know my hunger well.

• ooc: -
• 

  rowanpaw, 9 moons, thunderclan apprentice
  russet furred she-cat, lawful neutral
  healing and soft powerplay allowed

 

[MONSTERGROWL]

Monstergrowl watches.

The scene unfolds before him like a play in which he has no role, yet the outcome concerns him more than any of its players. Fillykit—his Fillykit—sits among them, her tiny frame taut with unspoken tension, her mind working faster than her paws ever could. He sees it in the feverish way she works, in the rigidness of her shoulders, in the way she doesn't hesitate to take on a task beyond her understanding. And now, in the drop of blood welling on her paw, a crimson bead of her effort, of her quiet desperation to be worthy of something undefined. Monstergrowl does not move immediately. He remains where he is, half-shadowed beneath the overhang of a bramble thicket, eyes sharp and calculating as he takes in the reactions of those around her. Lynxbite, then Brightpetal, and now Rowanpaw, all circling the kit like vultures like something soft and weak. He remains where he is, still as stone, listening.

"Lick it clean..."

"If it doesn't stop bleeding, let me know..."

"We should have Serpentberry take a look at that paw..."

They hover, they instruct, they fret. Monstergrowl exhales sharply, something cold coiling in his chest. It is not anger—no, not quite. A deeper, nameless thing. Fillykit is not fragile. She is not breakable. He lets them speak, watching how his daughter reacts—how she processes pain, how she weighs the attention now pressing down upon her. She does not cry. That is good. She does not immediately seek comfort. That is better. His silence holds only for a moment longer before he strides forward, a shadow cutting into the warm, well-meaning light of their concern. His presence is immediate, a quiet force that demands attention without asking for it. He does not speak at first, only glances downward at the bloodied paw and the faces of those surrounding her. "She's not dying," Monstergrowl states, voice measured, unimpressed. His gaze settles briefly on Rowanpaw. "Serpentberry has more important things to do than waste herbs on a scratch." He shifts his attention back to Fillykit, his eyes narrowing slightly. "You're not weak, are you? Give it a lick and you'll be fine."

His gaze drifts to the patchwork of moss and debris Fillykit had been working with. The uneven placement, the effort she had poured into a task beyond her skill—she has been trying. Striving. That, too, is good. There is no softness in his tone, but there is something else—something weightier. It is not cruelty, nor is it indifference. It is expectation. A challenge wrapped in words meant to gauge, to see what she will do when faced with it. Monstergrowl does not crouch to meet her level. He does not coo, nor does he soften his presence to make his approach more palatable. Instead, he observes her with the same calculating air he grants all things, searching for what this moment reveals about her. "If you let pain tell you what to do, it owns you." His voice dips quieter, low enough that it barely carries beyond her. "You control it, or you let it control you. Which is it?" It is not a question meant for answering. Not here, not now. But the seed is planted.

 

[rowanpaw]

☼ Rowanpaw feels the fur on the back of her neck stand on end, and out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Monstergrowl approaching. Fillykit was his daughter, but when he speaks… his voice is so cold, so indifferent. Not like a father's at all.

You're not weak, are you? Give it a lick and you'll be fine.

The anger flares up in her suddenly, hot and bright as her eyes flash. "It doesn't have anything to do with weakness," she snaps at Monstergrowl. "She's a kit; kits catch infections faster. Better to prevent it now than have to cure it later. And what do you know, anyway? We– Serpentberry has herbs that are precisely for scratches. You're her father, you're–" she catches herself, gritting her teeth.

It wasn't her place to lecture anyone on fatherhood– what would she know? She's never had one, at least not one that was alive. But still, this anger… at seeing such cruelty towards someone's own kin… it makes her head hurt. You're not weak, are you? Of course Fillykit wasn't weak! She hadn't even cried, hadn't asked for comfort– but if this was how Monstergrowl treated her, it was no surprise. She was likely used to his cold indifference. Rowanpaw shakes her head, and instead turns back to Fillykit.

"Nevermind what that big oaf has to say. You're strong, Fillykit, I can see that. But even strong cats need a little help sometimes– knowing that, and being able to ask for it… that only makes you stronger."

creator, you destroy me

you know my hunger well.

• ooc: -
• 

  
  

  rowanpaw, 9 moons, thunderclan apprentice
  russet furred she-cat, lawful neutral
  healing and soft powerplay allowed