Private Camp toby mcguire got bit by a spider [Cicada]

[WOLFPACK]

AND I AM SORRY MY CONSCIENCE CALLED IN SICK AGAIN​

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When Cicada had arrived in camp, Sable had sent anyone with injuries to see the tom to be treated with whatever meager supplies had been scrounged up after stumbling into their new 'camp'. Wolfs own time came sometimes after sun up, when he was excused from his guard post up top and told to find Cicada.

He didn't see the point– he was banged up a bit, but nothing that food and rest wouldn't take care of. Besides, he wasn't really sure what they expected this cat to do for him. Wolf wasn't even sure he trusted all this 'medicine cat' stuff, having not seen any other cats with the skill to heal like that before. Surely packing wounds with plants and eating random seeds didn't actually do anything.

But there were rules to play by here, even if Wolf had always liked to keep things fast and loose. If it was 'normal' to have someone fuss over your buts and bruises here, he'd humor them– today, at least. Making promises for the future weren't his thing, not when he was so quick to change his mind and motivations based on what suited him in the moment. What he had patience for today might become insufferable tomorrow, and if it did he wouldn't force himself to entertain it.

But today, today the mottled tom was playing nice.

"You're Cicada, right?" he asked, giving the other a quick once over, recognizing them from the colony and as the cat who'd shown up late to their new camp. Beyond that, the odd-eyed cat had no real thoughts or feelings on them, just one of many who'd followed after Sable.

"I told them it wasn't all my blood, but they still wanted you to clear me for work, first." he explained, gesturing to the clumped, matted fur along his legs, chest, and throat. It was obvious that an attempt to groom himself had been made, with one of his paws and legs a bit tinder than the other, but it was hard to clean up when he was also trying to keep alert for any threats that might come creeping up on the group.

@CICADA.
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loner/future shadowclan - male - a large, monochrome chimera with mismatched eyes and several scars​

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[cicadabuzz]

Cicada barely looks up as Wolf approaches, their sharp gaze flicking over him once before returning to their work. Their paws move with practiced precision, sorting through what they have—some herbs more plentiful than others, the result of their conversation with Serpent. Their poison stock runs exceedingly heavy. They don't answer his question about their name. If he already knows it, there's no need to confirm. Instead, they exhale quietly, nose wrinkling as the scent of stale blood reaches them. Their gaze drifts back up to Wolf, landing on the matted fur along his legs and chest. Cicada's tail flicks once, slow and deliberate. "You smell like a fox tore you open and left you to rot in the sun," they say flatly, eyes raking over the other before returning to their herbs. Their voice is quiet but unwavering, an observation rather than an insult. "If you want me to examine you, wash first." They flick their tail towards the edge of camp, sending him away without fanfare. "Come back when the blood that isn't yours is gone. And the blood that is."

They are unbothered either way with if Wolf believes in their skills. Medicine is not a matter of belief. Wounds fester whether or not a cat thinks cobwebs and herbs will help. Infection does not care for skepticism. Cicada has seen enough festering, enough sickness, to know that ignorance kills faster than tooth and claw. But Wolf's doubt is his own burden to carry. Cicada will not waste breath convincing him. Should he refuse their treatment, his payment to the earth will come to him in rot and decay. Still, their gaze lingers on him for a heartbeat longer. He carries himself like a cat used to taking care of himself first, to staying sharp and ready at all times. Alert, restless. Cicada knows the type. They wonder if he realizes that filth can kill just as easily as an ambush.

"Rinse your wounds properly," they add, voice, gaining just a bit of inflection, though they are already turning back to their herbs for a third time. "If you come back with half-dried muck clinging to your fur, I'll send you right back." Their tone remains as even as ever, where there is no room for argument. They expect him to listen. And if he doesn't—well, the choice is his. Even small wounds can become infected, and untreated infection always proves to humble even the most stubborn of cats.