nothing to save [closed]

It was a rare day that Pyrik woke to find no tasks laid out for him. He had to hunt for WindClan, stand by as WindClan marked their borders, keep watch over the camp’s exit to make sure no one sneaked out, all in addition to a Standard’s usual duties. But today, he was free to do as he wished. Sort of. His options, unlike his time, were terribly limited. He couldn’t explore the territory on his own, couldn’t nap the day away, couldn’t take a brief trip to Asylum’s base so soon after his last one. The idea of tracking Thalia down floated to the front of his mind, but drifted off just as quickly. He couldn’t spend all their time here trailing after her. She was his only friend in this camp; the last thing he wanted to do was get on her nerves.

After some wandering through camp and waiting for some grand adventure to pop into his head, he passed by one of WindClan’s few dens—and caught the sharp scent of herbs wafting out from within. Pyrik paused, gazing at the den’s entrance. Though he’d never had a gift for medicine, something about it—the idea of healing himself, of standing on his own paws even in crisis—had always enthralled him. It wasn’t his den, of course, but it seemed empty enough… Pushing the head of his fox pelt back onto his shoulders so he could see better, he poked his nose into the darkness. Unoccupied, just as he’d thought. He crept in the rest of the way without further hesitation, eyes widening at the sight of herbs, some familiar, some new, gathered into variously-sized piles.

"What part of 'I won't treat your wounds' did you not understand?"

The owner of the voice was hidden by the shadows, her pale muzzle coming into sight as she exited from the darkness. Her eyes, red and puffy, were narrowed with distrust and anger as she regarded the stranger in her den with glinting malice. "I thought I made it clear you aren't welcome in my den. Especially after what your friends did." Softbreeze mewed, not bothering to hide the edge in her tone. She didn't know why he was in here and she didn't care to know, either.

These Asylum cats apparently enjoyed tormenting her, it seemed. With a hiss, she pushed the herbs far away from the tom, not caring she'd have to resort them, and stood in front of them, bristling, as protective as a queen and her kits. Her look told him not to even attempt to do anything to the precious scraps of plants, and she bared her teeth, unsheathing her claws, ready in case he was foolish enough to attack. "Don't. Even. Try it."

He hadn’t been careful enough. A pale she-cat emerged, hunched and threatening, from the shadows; Pyrik’s heart took a dive into his stomach. After a moment of petrified staring, he recognized her as one of the cats who’d been loudest during Asylum’s arrival. She smelled as much like herbs as the bundled leaves and flowers at her feet. Words immediately began to tumble out of him. “I-I’m not gonna touch anything, I was just looking, I’ve never seen so many different plants before—" Realizing, for once, how pointless it would be to keep flapping his tongue, Pyrik swallowed and did the only thing a sensible cat could: he shuffled backward until his paws passed the den’s threshold. There, he stopped. Disengaging would be the smart move. He’d been caught in a den that wasn’t his own, by a cat who hated Asylum as much as, if not more than, the rest of them. The last thing he wanted was a fight.

In the low light, he could barely discern the reddish tint to her eyes. Pyrik, already struggling to adjust to the idea of complete strangers detesting him, didn’t know how to handle a layer of grief on top of that. “They’re not my friends.” His voice came out a near whisper. He desperately wished he could cover his face with the fox’s, but that would be too sudden a motion, a chance to be further misunderstood. “I mean, most of them aren’t. They’re more like family…or like a Clan, I guess. I didn’t know we…they…” Ears flattening, Pyrik broke off. ”Not all of us wanted things to go like that. I know I didn't.”

"Why should I trust a word that come's out of your lying mouth? Why would any none-medicine cat willingly come into my den, filled with strong smelling herbs? It's enough to burn a half-moon old kit's nose. I wasn't born yesterday, I'm probably older than you! WindClan already hates you, I already despise you, don't make it harder on yourself by being harebrained. Unless, that is, you really want to."

With a growl in her throat, she used one short claw to pierce a bright red berry, fangs showing. She'd hoped he'd get the point.

The deathberry remained on her claw in the ominous silence that followed, and with a quick glance, Softbreeze spotted the closest stick incase the deadly nightshade was needed to further her point. She wasn't below bringing out her deadliest two; holly berries and foxglove seeds, either. She kept them there for emergencies only, aside from the holly berries and deathberries, which she gathered and hid away just to make sure no cat accidentally ate them. After they'd rotted from cold, she'd dig a deep hole and squash them, before washing her paws and burying them. It was a safety precaution. However, she already was a murderer, and the Asylum cats deserved death far more than poor Dappleshine did, because she didn't. The poisons were kept high up; so high that Softbreeze had to use a stick and stand on a pile of her bedding just to get the parcels down. Foxglove in particular were kept as far from poppy seed as physically possible. The resemblance between the two were uncanny and very deadly.

"So cut the small talk, what is it you want? And don't even think about saying 'a friend' because trust me, not even my spiders want to be friends with you."

He shouldn’t have bothered. The she-cat shot back almost before he’d finished speaking, her words a snarl harsher than the herb-scent wafting off of her pelt. Her first series of retorts left him bewildered. The distrust made sense—he certainly didn’t trust her—but… No Standard learned how to fight without also learning to fix the damage taken. The idea that a cat would choose to learn only medicine, or would walk a path so different they recoiled at the scent of it, was a foreign one.

Unfortunately, that also meant, in Pyrik’s eyes, this she-cat was older and angrier and stronger than him. The acknowledgement that of course she hates me, that’s what WindClan does was congealing at an alarming rate into a near-certain she’s gonna kill me—which would be a problem for a number of reasons, his unwillingness to die among the least of them. Even an inexperienced Standard knew better than to look away from something that wanted them dead. Instead, Pyrik stared at the tip of the she-cat's nose and tried to sort the panicked sounds tumbling around his skull into coherent sentences. That was the most he could ask of himself, really. He’d already decided against fighting; talking was all that remained.

“I know some herbs.” Enough to know you’re holding a yew berry. He didn’t dare say as much; even so, his eyes lingered on the bright red berry impaled on her claw for a heartbeat too long before returning to her face. “All Standards learn the basic ones, it’s part of our training—a-ask Nerio, she’ll tell you!” He sucked in a breath. Whichever spiders the she-cat was talking about, he wished he’d stumbled into them instead of her. At least they were probably tiny. “I was—bored, and I just wanted to see what grows here that doesn’t back home. That’s all. Honest.” He choked a little on the last word. His throat hadn’t been this dry since he’d faced the fox currently resting across his back. “It won’t happen again.”

"...And why would I talk to Nerio? She's Asylum as much as you are, and in case you're so blind you can't tell, I don't like Asylum cats." Baring her teeth, Softbreeze flicked the deathberry off her claw. It seemed he sadly was going to leave after she threatened him with it, so it was pointless allowing her claw to soak in its poisons. "You could've easily travelled along the moor to find which herbs we have. In case you've forgotten, thanks to your pals, my herb supply isn't up to par enough to even show you all the moorland herbs." Softbreeze snorted, unwavering in her cold demeanor.

Softbreeze was as sweet as a rose. And as thorny as one, it would seem. "I should hope you don't make a habit of intruding on other cat's dens. Especially not mine." There was a threat to her tone, a warning and a promise. Next time, you won't be so lucky. Pyrik would manage to escape her den with both eyes intact this time, should he intrude again, though, she couldn't make the same promise.

"A word of advice; killing some cat's sister doesn't give you friends. It gives you enemies." The pale healer would refuse to ever forget what they'd done to Goldengale, what they'd taken from her. Softbreeze sat down and began washing her face, making sure not to use the paw that held the deathberry, keeping one sharp blue eye on her intruder.

Scoffing to herself, she mused aloud, moreso to herself than the tom in her Den's entrance. "Honestly, half these cats are barely more than apprentices!"