Wandering..

Moonpaw left the camp at a dead sprint. The scent of death on his fur, the smell of his uncle, lying there, never to wake up. A stifled sob worked out of his throat right before placed by a weak cough. So what if I have it? He's de- No! He can't be dead... Please, don't be dead! He sobbed to himself as he raced away. He had no idea where he was going, but it was away from there.
As he brushed through the marsh, snow began to fall. He brushed it off as he ran, but it began to collect on him, weighing him down. He nearly collapsed, but continued to knock it off then more running. Eventually he reached the Thunderpath. The temptation to join his father, mother and now uncle (Basically who was he only living ties to his parents left) who were all dead. Why was he so lucky? Why didn't he die? He wanted to join them... but the camp needed him. He couldn't go back yet, though. He couldn't face his uncle's bod- He isn't dead! Moonpaw told himself over and over. He can't be... He can't be! He cried softly. The acrid tang of the Thunderpath reached his nose, making him shudder, but even over that smell he still couldn't rid himself of the smell... the smell of death.