camp A KINGDOM OF REGRETS ⛧ moping

[Vulturepaw]

˖⁺‧₊ ☽◯☾ ₊‧⁺˖ 　A dark and spiny kit curls in upon themself, head hung in imitation of their namesake. He sulks in the one corner of camp that the blinding sun does not reach, sweat lacing through too-thick fur in the scorching sunhigh heat. He is miserable. Everything seems to go wrong for him, and it's not fair. First the fire, then DuskClan, and now Rivewhisper has gotten torn up by an owl - because of him. Maybe he was born with rotten luck - or maybe the stars just don't like him.

Vulturekit lets out a deep sigh, morose and helpless. He falls from his gargoyle stance onto the grass beneath, paws splayed out as he lies down in exhaustion. A spine-tufted cheek rests against the cool earth, face crumpled up in frustration."I think I might be... c-c-c-cursed," the young tom spits, squeaky voice directed towards everyone and no one in particular.

┌── FOR I HATE THE BUILDINGS ⛧ AND THE WAY THEY TOWER OVER ME ──┐

• 
  

• 

  
  
  "SPEECH"
  ​

• 
  VULTUREKIT ⛧ he / they, kit of windclan, five moons.
  ⭃ a spiky-furred dark tabby with amber eyes.
  ⭃ skittish and dour, with little time for typical kit games.
  ⭃ micheal x npc, adopted by periwinklebreeze. sibling to dustkit and bilberrykit.
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

​

 

[dimmingsun]

"Cursed?" Dimmingsun responds to the pool of shadow, despite its attempts at staying invisible. They are excellent tries, but even with just one eye remaining, Dimmingsun remains keen.

Glaring oranges are what give Vulturekit away. Those eyes are like little suns — even with the irony of it all —, drawing attention to the otherwise withdrawn figure. Dimmingsun crouches beside that hiding spot, head tipped to the side, fur brushing along the very same ground that Vulturekit has plastered himself onto.

Where Vulturekit sees cultivation of negatives, Dimmingsun sees something else; a too-timid kitten who will one day join him in the rank of a warrior, a promise that WindClan's chapters will continue writing themselves with Vulturekit's very existence. There is nothing cursed about that.

Or, perhaps one thing... "The only cursed thing I see here is that thick fur of yours. Want me to help with the shedding process?" Dimmingsun highly doubts Vulturekit will let anyone other than Periwinklebreeze close enough for his own sandpaper tongue to push away stray fur, but the question is worth it to be posed. Perhaps he should find Bilberrykit or Dustkit to breathe some life into poor, little, withering Vulturekit.
​

 

[ROWANPAW]

〔✦〕Rowanpaw does not think much of Vulturekit's complaint; half-lidded eyes flick toward the now-slumped form of the tabby tom, assuming by his weary appearance that he was not tolerating the temperatures well. It was a rather warm day, wasn't it?

"Many WindClanners have fur like yours." The tunneler apprentice remarks as she swipes her tongue over her lips, having just finished a meal. Wolfsong and Sunstar immediately come to mind. They came from faraway highstones, didn't they? Surely it was more frigid in those high altitudes; their coats were tailored to that environment. "It is ill-suited for this weather, perhaps, but it is not a curse." The stars would be cruel if they were to curse an innocent kit. He was simply not used to the heat; they were not, either, as they had been born at the tail-end of leafbare. However, they at least had short fur that helped in warding off warmth at least.

let me walk to the top ( of the big night sky ) //

• ooc.
  
• ROWANPAW — tunneler apprentice of windclan , mentored by swiftshade ✦ penned by beatles
  ✦ afab demigirl / they/she pronouns / 8 moons & ages every 17th
  ✦ single / graysexual & monogamous
  ✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
  — easy combat difficulty / may start fights, won't kill
  
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are ic
  ✦ biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
  
• 
  
  

  a shorthaired black/tortoiseshell chimera with heterochromia. a lithe, slightly muscular cat with a smaller-than-average build. a direct line splits their face, as if mirroring an inner battle of identity and belonging. a serious expression usually graces their face, and their amber and blue gaze is always sharpened.

​

 

[cottonsprig]

Cursed. It's about the sun and thick fur and yet Cottonsprig almost wants to cuff the child over the ear for thinking his mere genetics a curse. Her father's wide blue eyes taunt her dreams, declaring how she is truly cursed. His decrepit, spindly body lurching towards her still frightens her despite the promises she's made... The pit in her stomach, one that never seems to leave, makes her wonder when the curse of her making will ever end. If it will end.

"You may be troubled now, Vulturekit," she says, withholding her frustrations behind a toothy smile. Her limbs are tense and her plumed tail curls around her paws - around her belly. "But when leaf-bare comes, you'll be grateful for all that fur. I promise."​

 

[Vulturepaw]

˖⁺‧₊ ☽◯☾ ₊‧⁺˖ 　No one seems to get it. Vulturekit's mouth twists unpleasantly, and he feels frustration building in his gut. The cats around him babble on about thick fur - which, sure, isn't helping things - and his teeth grind together. A spiky tail begins to thrash against the dusty earth, writhing like a wounded snake. Dimmingsun gets too close, large and looming, and his annoyance bubbles through his throat. "No," he snaps, quick and harsh as viperteeth. "It's not about fffh - fur!" He doesn't care about leaf-bare or anything- but hah, how fitting that his fur would be well-suited for the season of death. Just like his name, a carrion-bird and a torn-apart medicine cat. His mouth curves further towards a grimace.

The tiny blot of shadow draws in further upon themself, paws hiding the slow-forming glare that bleeds from sunlit eyes. Their voice lowers, slipping towards a whine rather than a snap. "Just - seems like nothing b-buh-but b-bad things happen to me," he mumbles petulantly, keeping his eyes averted from the cats surrounding him. It sounds childish even to his own ears.

‎‎┌── FOR I HATE THE BUILDINGS ⛧ AND THE WAY THEY TOWER OVER ME ──┐‎

• 
  

• 

  
  
  "SPEECH"
  ​

• 
  VULTUREKIT ⛧ he / they, kit of windclan, five moons.
  ⭃ a spiky-furred dark tabby with amber eyes.
  ⭃ skittish and dour, with little time for typical kit games.
  ⭃ micheal x npc, adopted by periwinklebreeze. sibling to dustkit and bilberrykit.
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Bluefrost knows about curses, lying dormant in the blood, steps behind one in tunnels long and dark and decrepit. She knows about being haunted by things out of her control, and part of her pities the scrap of tabby fur who sulks in the middle of the clearing. None of their words seem to placate Vulturekit — he's baring his teeth toward them, telling them they don't understand. Bluefrost stares at him, wondering about his origins, wondering about the place he'd come from, the trenches of DuskClan's hidden scrubland whereabouts.

Just what did Thriftfeather save you from?

Her mouth tightens. He is not cursed. StarClan had guided her friend's gilded paws, she is sure of it. "StarClan has trials for us all, Vulturekit. There is no such thing as cursed. The more you overcome, the stronger you will be." She does not speak to him like the kitten he is, but like the warrior that lies dormant inside his soul.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue smoke she-cat with white and emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​