camp A VIVISECTION OF ME — lost and found

[Thriftfeather]

Thriftpaw is carrying his prey to the freshkill pile when he sees it caught in the needles of a gorse branch. He drops his prey, a scrawny rabbit with a twisted leg, and laughs his disbelief so harshly that for a moment he fears that he is going to make himself sick. Caught in the needles is his feather, or it's Ghostwail's feather, familiar and pristine, a poor replacement to the one she had stolen away from him. Thriftpaw calms himself far too quickly to seem like a natural progression of emotion — breathes around his teeth far too raggedly for his apparent calm to be believable.

Of course, of course. Of course, among ruined nests and stolen trinkets, of course the one thing Thriftpaw had and wanted rid of would survive mostly unscathed. It looks like it had merely been blown into the gorse and had become ensnared. Thriftpaw imagines it could have been hanging there for days — longer, even — completely unnoticed and overlooked by the rogues and his clanmates alike.

He considers, only momentarily, that he could pass it by and pretend he hadn't saw. He couldn't do that, not really. His reaction to seeing it was far too big, too loud. Hadn't it been just moments before that Thriftpaw had been in near-hysterics?

"I didn't think I'd see this again," Thriftpaw aloud as if it perfectly explains his reaction, and then leans on his toes. He plucks the feather from the gorse, gently as to not further damage it from the gorse needles and then, at a loss for where to put it, folds it into the fur of his flank. He'll find a space to tuck it away into later — somewhere that he wouldn't need to think about it.​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 8 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Bluepaw would not remember Thriftpaw’s original feather, would not recall her cavalier and perhaps cruel reaction to him losing it. All she remembers is Ghostwail presenting him with the replacement… and, of course, Thriftpaw’s questions. She hears the golden tabby’s sharp inhale of breath—he’s found it, but there’s something tense about him, taut, the opposite of relief. “I didn’t think I’d find this again,” he says, and Bluepaw’s eyes narrow.

“Are you glad you did? It seems to be unscathed,” she muses, studying his face for a reaction. The relationship between Thriftpaw and Ghostwail is still mysterious to her—but she cannot deny the strange kinship she feels with the sunkissed-yellow tom. He had held that rogue down, and she had killed her. He had helped her spill that blood, had helped her reclaim their home. When she settles beside him, it’s with a camaraderie borne of shared violence. It’s a bond she cannot deny. Were he to look her way, her expression would almost be soft.

, ”​

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[hollowcreek]

Hollowcreek was not the kind to be sentimental or keep physical items close to him. His nest was rather bare of anything decorative, just moss and the occasional addition of wool whenever he managed to snag some during the colder seasons.

He viewed it more closely as clutter, and the tom was rather obsessive with keeping his areas and himself clean. When he heard Thriftpaw's gasp, Hollowcreek watched in curiosity. The apprentice was rather close (more than that, he would assume) with Ghostwail. He seemed to have found a rather important piece of rubbish that the rogues didn't somehow destroy in their maddening thirst of destruction. The chimera rose from where he sat to join the discovery and he looked at the prized feather with a tilt of his head.

"What makes it so special, Thriftpaw?" An innocent question as he wasn't there when the golden tom had received it. ​

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"speech"​

 

[Thriftfeather]

The truth sits in Thriftpaw's mouth. He thinks he could tell it to Bluepaw—he's already come close. But then he remembers the clan's reaction to the ill-gotten kittens, and although the circumstances are different, they are near enough that it pauses Thriftpaw, forces him to reconsider. It would gut him, he thinks, for his arrival, for what happened, to not matter. More warriors for WindClan, (look at the size of his paws, he'd grow into a fine moor-runner) and everything else can be overlooked for the sake of that.

"Yes, of course," It wouldn't benefit anyone, anyway. Ghostwail is trying her best, in her own way, and it's been time enough now that Thriftpaw is far-grown from that shivering kitten he'd been. He should stop resenting the feather—even if he remembers the threat in her tone when she had presented it to him, "I thought it was gone forever. Everyone else's things were—everyone else had their things ruined. It's... lucky, I guess, lucky that I found mine."

Ghostwail had taken his first feather. Thriftpaw feels the urge to say that—small as it is. She'd taken the one Periwinklebreeze had given him and replaced it with her own. It feels like such a small transgression that surely it isn't a transgression at all. Thriftpaw imagines he could say it, that he could simply tell Bluepaw, if only he hadn't the sense that Ghostwail would rip out his pelt and replace it with her own if she'd thought it would make them closer.

He jumps, automatic and bodily, when Hollowcreek speaks, then reminds himself that he is being calm. His rabbit-heart speeds, and he offers Hollowcreek an easy smile, "The feather isn't so important," He touches the spot where it rests safely against his flank—it itches like filth against his skin. He'll need to leave it in his nest soon, tucked away as it had been before, "It was—it was a gift, and that's why it's so special." He pauses, considering, and then adds, "Ghostwail gave it to me, when I was still a new apprentice. I'd just lost—I lost a different feather that I'd had in the nursery with me."​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 8 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Bluepaw acknowledges Hollowcreek’s arrival with a flick of her tattered ear, her green gaze sticking to Thriftpaw’s coat like heather nectar. He looks conflicted, but his brow smooths, and he tells the attending cats, Yes, of course. Yes, of course he’s happy to have found it—it’s a gift, he says, from Ghostwail. Bluepaw remembers Thriftpaw’s cautious story, his questions about what a border patrol might find after such a secretive altercation, about the mystery surrounding his joining WindClan. She ponders it, and a smile slips onto her white muzzle. “I remember the first one you lost,” she murmurs, her voice low and soft as the object in question. “You lost it… you were careless, weren’t you? It blew away. In the wind.”

She rises to her paws, approaching her friend. She stands beside him, small and slight in the widening expanse of his golden figure. Bluepaw looks at him with a blank expression, but her green eyes glitter as she says, “And even though you were careless with this one, too, you were lucky enough to find it unharmed… isn’t that fortunate?” She offers the smallest hint of a smile.

, ”​

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[SUNSTAR]

✦　　. 　 ˚　.   He remembers the questions he had asked, so many moons ago. A lifetime. For the few moons that he has lived, it would seem that Thriftpaw had many of them. The indignance with which he learned about the oldest true WindClanners had set something alight within the warrior's mind. A great unease gnawed at him. He lived before WindClan, and after WindClan, and once again past this, whatever it may be. The rogues. This sudden and terrible change.

It is all too clear that he stands upon something he doesn't understand. Off to the side, stiffened and uncertain, he watches Bluepaw's face as she speaks with an appraising gaze. She is quite like her mother, in more than just her appearance. The soft cadence of her voice would be comforting, were it not for the undercurrent. A lingering thought that perhaps there is more than this to her words. Looking upon her and not knowing — that is the curse of Sootstar's blood. Enigmatic youths and all of their troubles. Bluepaw's, at least, he hopes is far kinder than Sootstar's prove to be. Sacrilege to even think it. He recalls his late discussions with Wolfsong, speaking in hushed tones when he thought the kittens were at rest.

There is much to them he will never understand. Perhaps it speaks well of him that he does not.

"There was a great deal lost with the rogues. Your surprise is hardly unwarranted." Something, something deeper that his gaze tries to pry loose. In this, however, he fails. "I hope it will bring you comfort in the season to come," is all Sunstride can offer.

𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚𝘖𝘔𝘌 𝘈𝘚 𝘓𝘐𝘍𝘌 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘐𝘚𝘖𝘕; 𝘚𝘜𝘕-𝘉𝘓𝘖𝘖𝘋 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚𝘖𝘔𝘌  ╱╱ 9.16.2023 ˊˎ＜

• OOC. —
• ✦　　. 　 ˚　.   FORMERLY SUNNVAR. HE - HIM - HIS OR THEY - THEM. DEPUTY OF WINDCLAN. 4 YEARS OLD. PENNED BY REVELATIONS.  —————————
  
  
  ——  a tall auburn tabby with thick fur and bright glacial eyes. sunstride is broad and bold– a creature standing above most of windclan, though not a beast beyond it, with fur that flames red and deepens to a burnt amber with every stripe. his eyes, in comparison, are a pale summer's blue, still as bold as the rest of them. he radiates confidence and self-assured authority.
  
  

  ✦ NPC x NPC. DECEASED MOTHER, ESTRANGED FATHER. NO LITTERMATES. MATE TO WOLFSONG. FATHER TO BEARKIT, SINGEDKIT, RIVEKIT, SUNLITKIT, AND FEATHERKIT ——

• "speech"

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[Thriftfeather]

There is an objection that sits in the trap of Thriftpaw's ribcage. Indignation that he cannot speak; he hadn't been careless with the first feather. By the time it was gone, it was old and ruined enough that there wasn't enough down for the wind to carry it off, as his clanmates had speculated at the time. All the more reason that Thriftpaw shouldn't be so attached to it, but all the more reason he cared about it so deeply. Thriftpaw cannot stop his expression before it starts: a crinkled nose and squinting eyes, the tightening of his mouth.

"I wasn't careless with this one," Thriftpaw says—channels that indignation into something safe, "It was tucked and woven into my nest, up until the rogue attack. I must have done something right for it to still be in good condition after."

But Thriftpaw cannot stay annoyed with Bluepaw, not when it is his own silence that has forced her to not know the whole situation. "But you are right. It is fortunate." As fortunate as taking a bite of prey and finding worms inside, maybe. Thriftpaw returns her expression, small and subtle enough to be mistaken for happy or agreeable.

He doesn't startle when Sunstride speaks—a surprise to Thriftpaw. He turns his head to listen instead, so calm and normal that Thriftpaw is nearly proud of himself. It spurs him, alongside Sunstride's words. He gathers his bravery like a physical thing, takes a deep and audible breath, says, "But maybe I've outgrown it. It isn't—it was a kitten-comfort." He imagines it could be easy, being rid of it, "It could be time to pass it along or—or let it go."​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 8 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[BLUEFROST]

“I wasn’t careless with this one,” Thriftpaw says, indignation pushing his voice through a tightened mouth. Bluepaw is surprised to see she has caused him to become irate with her. She looks at him with renewed interest, her ears pricking forward. “Of course. How could I be so silly? It was only the first you were careless with.” She apologizes with a delayed but demure-seeming bow of her head.

Sunstride’s presence causes her fur to prickle, though she cannot explain why. She turns to regard her mother’s deputy with bored-looking green eyes. He tells Thriftpaw he hopes the feather brings him comfort in the seasons to come, but the golden moor runner denies this easily. “But maybe I’ve outgrown it,” he says. He calls it a kitten-comfort, something that no longer brings him a sense of security. Or perhaps he feels he does not need that security any longer. I wonder why. Bluepaw shifts her paws. “Who will you give it to, then? One of the kits?” Emerald eyes slant at the corners as she regards the object before them.

, ”​

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