#moon three

Opposite them, a gang of rouges- and they must be rouges, thin and rough and ragged- lash their tails, claws still unsheathed. Four of them, to the two mollies. The tom in the lead, lean and ginger, has a deep scratch across his brow, and keeps blinking, hard, to clear the oozing blood from his eye. Coniferstar purrs in private approval; one of the mollies must have landed a good hit, even as outnumbered as they are. “I see you around again, Bolt, you’re getting worse than that.” The skinny tom's voice is a vicious, rasping hiss. “You ran off– you did. I never wanna catch you slinking back.” The tortoiseshell- Bolt, Coniferstar supposes- doesn’t flinch. “We were just passing through, Boss.” Her voice is only slightly tight. “Trust me. I didn’t want to see you again, either.” The ginger tom hisses, crouching as if to spring, and Bolt stiffens to meet him, her claws unsheathing. The injured molly tucks herself into a tighter ball, eyes squeezing shut, as though bracing for a blow– but one of the other rogues presses himself between them, his tail bushed. “Boss, please– she ain’t worth the trouble, you know that. Ain’t that enough?” He gestures to the oozing bite-wound on the huddled ginger molly. Bolt’s eyes narrow; so do the big rogues’- ‘Boss’. He lifts his chin. “You’re right. Dirty sorta wound, that. You’d better find someone to clean it out.” Bolt does flinch, now– only a little. Medicine cats must be hard to find, out here. Coniferstar watches, thinking, as the two groups break apart. Only once the rogues are gone does Bolt turn, and help the other molly to her feet. They speak, too quietly to hear, heads bowed close together. And then, hissing with pain, the ginger molly leans against Bolt’s shoulder, and the two of them go limping away, in the opposite direction of the rogues. Coniferstar trails them, through the grasses, until they stop to shelter in a burrow; abandoned by some rabbit, no doubt, long ago. Very interesting. Coniferstar studies the burrow, for a long time, marking the place; until his growling stomach herds him back to the hunt. But maybe he’d be back– the ginger rogue was right. That wound would have to be cleaned out; or infection might set in.