pafp ୧ ‧₊˚ 🐞 ⋅ The birds will sing that you are part of everything | PAFP ₊ ⊹

[Batscreech]

The day was a mild one, a clear sky with the slighest breeze rustling the foliage overhead. The sun did not beat down with its usual mid-greenleaf intensity, instead being deterred by the forest canopy. It was, by all accounts, a beautiful scene- and yet Bat was terribly restless as he paced around a concealed clearing, hidden away from any potential prying eyes.

It had been difficult for him to adjust to clan life- not because the labor that came along with such a lifestyle was exceptionally challenging- but rather due to the fact it was so insufferably busy. It was crowded, the amount of writhing bodies that took up every inch of space in the camp and, at times, in the outward territory itself, was overwhelming. Bat had been alone for countless moons, the isolation becoming familiar and even comforting to him. Not to mention, he didn't know any of these cats, not truly. Not in the way he knew them. He would never know anyone else the way he knew them- and as much as he cried out for its rebirth, he wasn't entirely sure he even wanted to. They were irreplaceable in every way, so much weight they carried in his heart that he wouldn't dare try for anything more with anyone else. This was it.

He had been collecting bugs again, flicking anything that glistened, scurried, or fluttered into a deep hole in the ground- so deep it was at least an entire arms length. This was to ensure no bugs collected would be able to escape, and if they were to try, the steep dirt walls would buy Bat enough time to push them gently back down. It was a game they used to play, all of them together- they would place their wagers on which bug- or multiple bugs- would be able to escape first. Sometimes, the process of watching, wagering and hoping would transpire for hours- other times, only a moment. He had been playing alone now, for ages, countless moons, alone without them. The bets placed were all his own. He could never win, but he supposed he could never lose either. A state of constant neutrality, just as he himself had been foced to be- endlessly stagnant.

He was still not yet satisfied with the amount of wriggling, skittering, buzzing creatures collected, however he was slowly running out of places to look for more in the area he had already seemingly weeded out. He didn't want to give up, but he wasn't sure he was ready to leave this little piece of sanctuary either. It was secluded, quiet, undisturbed. A place for him to be truly alone, momentarily at peace- or as close to peace as his ever active mind could be.

As he paused to ponder whether or not his endeavor would be worth continuing, there was an unexpected rustle in the brush nearby. The sound caused Bat to jump and whip around, suddenly on high alert as his hackles rose and ivory claws flexed with wary anticipation.

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OOC: Please wait for @DUSKPOOL to post :)​

 

[DUSKPOOL]

don't raise your voice . improve your argument .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

“Woah there, kiddo, I ain’t a badger.” He mused, slippin’ through rugged shrubbery with a wrinkled muzzle, already dreadin’ what his pelt might look like come later when he settled down to groom whatever his agin’ bones could reach. The older warrior had noticed Bat’s constant back-and-forth trips, drawin’ some inkin’ of concern till he caught sight of a wigglin’ critter or two. Catchin’ bugs, eh? He thought in muffled amusement, wooly plumage sweepin’ in languid arcs.

Originally, Duskpool intended on joinin’ a huntin’ patrol with Crochet when Outlaw came knockin’ on his door lookin’ to spend quality time ( in this case, teasin’ the stripes off of Duskpool till they ended up sparrin’ near the unclaimed border ). Suppose it was better practice fightin’ brutes the same size as him if it came down to fightin’ a borderin’ clan.

With a raised brow, banishin’ no-good thoughts that’d make his ears bleed if he gave those thoughts more time out of his day worryin’ over, Duskpool let out a guttural rumble, “Catchin’ bugs, kiddo?” A statement, really, but figured he might as well confirm it. “What are ya doin’ with ‘em if ya don’t mind me askin’, kid?” He prodded, tone a languid, monotone thrum. ​

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thought speech​