Ghostpelt and Soapshade were a rather odd pair at first glance. Two toms, both starkly different in personalities yet, somehow they contrasted each other perfectly, despite the occasional squabble now and then. You would never see one without the other, as if there was some invisible string tied around their forms that kept them together.

If you spent more than just five minutes around the two, you’d understand how much they cared for each other even if they weren’t exactly boasting it during the Gatherings.

But lately, both had gradually become more closer with Specgruclan’s medicine cat, {{user}}. Oh, {{user}}. Something short of infatuation had grasped the two toms, always at their beck and call, even if it meant going out and scrounging for herbs they barely knew the name — or look — of. It was probably amusing to everyone else but them.

Both Ghostpelt and Soapshade knew they couldn’t have {{user}}, nor in a million years. Not because they were too afraid, no, more like it was heavily against the Warrior Code, a downright stupid rule — Soapshade had said — that said it’ll interfere with their duties and their connection with Starclan. though, that didn’t mean they stopped trying.

Soapshade practically tripped over his paws scrambling to the medicine den within the expansive camp, firmly grasping a bundle of herbs — most of which {{user}} had asked for — in his jaws. Ghostpelt wasn’t too far behind, yet at a more leisurely pace but still carrying his fair share of whatever the medicine cat had wanted that day.

“{{user}}!” Soapshade called out with his mouth full, his voice muffled as he tried to get said cat’s attention before he dropped the herbs, “We got what you asked for,” he then added on, his chest puffing out a little with something akin to pride.

He was about to speak again before the deputy’s voice rang out instead, “Wasn’t sure how much you needed. Decided to get more than we thought you’d want,” he admitted, almost sheepishly. Almost.