- 🇯🇦🇼🇸 |⚓
gunner . 67 moons . a battle-scarred black tom with sun-bleached fur
location: camp mood: stressed but grateful tagged: whisper, brambles, snarl, shark, returning cats sorta mentions: moth, murmur, bat
Freeing the entrance from the mess had first seemed a near-herculean task, but with so many helpful paws coming to his aid, it was looking more achievable by the minute.
Jaws remained mostly silent as he worked, only offering his tribemates nods of acknowledgement and gratitude as they stepped up to help, occasionally directing them here and there with pointed flicks of his ears or (what remained of) his tail. Not only did the task at hand make it inconvenient to talk, the events from the morning had left him so tired and achy that he was dangerously close to being ready to snap at anyone who gave him a reason to, even if they didn’t really deserve it. It was a bad habit that he had carried with him for as long as he could remember, though one that he’d had to learn to tame at least a bit. Time and responsibility were good teachers in that respect.
To their credit, his tribemates did make it difficult for him to be mad at the moment. Whisper had immediately sprung into action, divvying up her time between managing something in the surgeon’s den and joining the cleaning endeavour. Her work ethic was admirable; the tribe was lucky to have her. Her sister, Moth wasn’t far behind, strategically prioritising the more troublesome branches like the clever sailor she was. Even little Murmur was trying her heart out. Good, good. Nobody to unleash his wrath on there.
He did feel a twinge of annoyance as he noticed Bat just sitting there, not doing anything. They weren’t an apprentice no more, for Arcadia’s sake. Sure, to describe the morning as overwhelming was an understatement, but everyone else was actually putting effort into dealing with that. Bat was sittin’ there playing at being a piece of debris themself. Jaws had half a mind to go yell some sense into them, but it seemed like Moth had already had the same idea. Besides, he soon became distracted by his family’s approach.
A soft growl rumbled in Jaws’ throat in response to Snarl’s little challenge. It was meant as a friendly retort, the same kind of “oh, you dare underestimate me?” gesture they’d been exchanging since they were in the nursery. This time, it may have held a bit of a colder edge, but that was accidental, just a result of how tired and sad he was. Snarl would understand, surely. Honestly, it was really good to have his brother’s help. Snarl's injury was noticeable, but no cat could say he wasn’t strong. He still beat Jaws in terms of size and musculature, which came in handy at times like this. Plus, his determination was a blessing.
…As was his dad’s. When Shark joined the effort, clearly struggling a tad to keep up but nevertheless forcing that relentless optimism, Jaws had to suppress a fond yet exasperated sigh. One could never expect Shark to stay in the elders’ den for too long, but did he have to try to show off by selecting that disproportionately large branch as his target? The gunner quickly took up position at his side, grabbing the other end of the piece he’d settled on next. There were many things Jaws could command cats into doing, but getting his dad to rest was not one of them. Supporting him, on the other hand, was something he could manage, no problem.
They worked like that for a while, making steady progress. When Whisper popped back in, bearing herbs, he accepted them gratefully. His limbs had been growing increasingly unhappy with the nonstop action of the day. Not that he was about to complain, obviously - there were far more important things at stake, he’d rest when he was retired, or dead - but by Arcadia was he relieved to get a bit of help without having to ask. As he regarded the herbs, his thoughts travelled down a path that suddenly led to an important question. Before he got to ask, though, the surgeon had turned away to -- oh, to greet the cats reentering camp.
Jaws felt… a bit strange about not being among the cats who had seen the lieutenant meet his final resting place, despite all the seasons they’d spent working closely together. But then again, he’d seen him die, failed to save him, so maybe he didn’t deserve to be there.
No, that was a stupid way to think.
Jaws shook some of the dirt from the debris off his pelt, as if shaking the depressing idea off with it. It didn’t matter who deserved what; he’d stayed in camp because there was work to be done, and what mattered was that he did it. Wallowing never did anybody any good.
He dipped his head in respect to the group, before finding Whisper again. He’d listen as she addressed her apprentice’s queries, paying close attention to her assessment of the tribe’s overall health status, before adding his own.
“Did the storm do anything to the herb stores? Do we have all we need?”
If they were lucky, the natural catastrophe would have shocked the rogues and any other malicious creatures into quietude for a while, but in case anything did want to take a chance at striking while the tribe was in a vulnerable spot, he needed to know how their medicine was faring.
