Re: Journey from the Valley [RP]
Gladewing dug his scythes into the wood of a branch, hanging his head in defeat. Last night had not gone at all as he planned. The day before, he had encountered a group of refugees, many of whom were injured or starving. The young Scyther had been moved by compassion by them, and had been eager to assist them in any he could. He was given the challenge to find food for them, yet the swamp was a hard place to hunt in. Many of the prey here were difficult to find in the murk and mud, and half of them were poisonous—certainly not what the sick and wounded needed.
With the sun now rising, Gladewing’s chances of finding something were slimming. It was probably time to report back to the pack… But the Scyther did not want to return empty-handed. If he did so, surely his honor would be damaged. At the same time, he couldn’t just leave them…
The young Scyther let his eyes wander across the swamp; perched atop a low-lying branch of a swamp tree, he was safe and dry above the bothersome muck, with a fair view of what laid ahead. What he saw wasn’t promising. He couldn’t tell how far the swamp ran, nor could he guess how long it would take for the refugees to cross it. Still, he had sworn to assist them, and assist them he would.
His eye finally caught a flash of pink within the rotten green colors. Curious, Gladewing took to the air and flew over. His wings buzzed as he hovered over a familiar-looking plant loaded with pink and yellow berries. It looked promising, but in a swamp like this, he had to be careful; for all he knew, they could be poisonous. Yet after some inspection, he finally discerned what they were: Qualot berries.
“That’s right,” the young Scyther said to himself as he recalled a memory. “Galloran said that these berries could grow in even the wettest of places. What luck!”
Of course, he knew that these wouldn’t help the refugees as much as a fresh carcass would; but for now, it would have to do. The least they could do was sustain them until fresh prey could be captured. He imagined that the pack leader wouldn’t be too impressed with him, however… Deftly maneuvering his scythes, Gladewing sliced through the bush and harvested as much berries as he could; then, cradling them between his blades, the Scyther took off once again, heading back to camp.
Before he could reach them, however, a sound stopped him abruptly. The Scyther paused midair, tilting his head to listen more closely. It came again—a soft little thing, mournful and miserable. Something was sobbing. Following his senses, Gladewing came across a dead tree, where a mud-caked creature sat shivering beneath its leafless crown.
Pity immediately welled up in Gladewing as he looked upon the little creature. Speaking gently, he asked, “Pardon me, little one, but are you all right?”
Snowsong (Glaceon) // Embyr (Charmeleon)
Currently: Following Nightfang
Snowsong watched Nightfang closely as the Mightyena strayed a little ahead from the group. When she glanced back, the Glaceon quickly looked away, flicking her ears in annoyance. She hoped the “leader” knew what she was doing, leading this pathetic pack into a swamp. Though the wastelands had been terrible, the ice-type had to wonder if they were any better off here. She gazed at the muck dismally, loathe to muddying her pale fur. Perhaps she could freeze a path through the swamp—then again, that would require too much energy. Energy that she would need later on.
The muck troubled Snowsong for another reason. The Glaceon glanced back over her shoulder, where a wounded Charmeleon stared despondently into the ground. The reptile was in terrible shape, and Snowsong could only imagine what travelling through the muck would do to her. Her wounds could easily become infected in this environment—hers, and the others’. Wouldn’t it be better to move around the swamp, to avoid this?
Snowsong kept these thoughts to herself. Afterall, she wasn’t in charge here. The only reason she stuck around was to see the Charmeleon receive medical attention; this pack had some healers with them, and they had already helped the lizard some. Snowsong would stay until the Charmeleon showed signs of recovery—even if it meant putting up with… others.
Snorting haughtily to herself, Snowsong stood and shook herself, causing tiny ice crystals to fall the earth. Turning to the Charmeleon, she prodded it in the shoulder gently with her nuzzle.
“Come on,” she ordered. “On your feet; it is time to move on.”
The Charmeleon didn’t respond, as usual. Without giving Snowsong so much as a glance, the reptile rose to her feet.