camp AND IT'S TIME WE'RE DUE TO SPEND ♥︎ REINFORCING

[DOEBLAZE]

Exhaustion spreads through her body, but she feels it most acutely in her head. It pulses, chemical - bleached palms on glass, at the forefront of her mind . . . spreading outwards from the split cleaved in her face, digging hard - edged tendrils into the soft meat surrounding her skull. It feels very much like a second, sluggish heartbeat settling, weighted marble, at the frontmost basin of her skull, weighing her down until her shoulders droop towards the earth and the corners of her eyes are lined with crumpled lines of exhaustion.

Danger will take her any time, though, tired or not; take her, and the rest of the Clan, including their most vulnerable . . . and so she makes her way to the nursery with a bundle of stalwart bramble and moss. The holly bush ( its sharpness reminiscent of many things ) does most of the protecting, but some reinforcement never hurt anyone. The bitter tang of the guardian bush stings her in more ways than one, but such is the upside of exhaustion; whenever she feels this tired, this pulled inexplicably earthward, her mind is blunted and memories held at bay.

Still, it does nothing for paws already clumsy with weaving. Brambles dangle and thump against the thick white fur of her chest as she pads over; they're intended only for the very outermost layers of the nursery, away from soft little bodies but ready to repel would - be invaders. Doeblaze begins to scrape the thorny vines clumsily over moss padding to doubly ensure the safety of the Clan's more curious young, occasionally hissing under her breath when one pokes her. It's an exercise of willpower not to loose any curses so close to pliable young minds, a difficult battle she narrowly wins.

" Never had a paw for weaving, " she offers to the first Clanmate to pad over, head canting to indicate that they're welcome to assist her semi - competent efforts if they so choose. She pauses, the very edges of Technicolor wildflowers waving at the edge of exhaustion - gray vision; yellow and red in her paws, blue and purple on cream - tabby ears. Doeblaze appends, humor faded with tiredness, " Not in a while, anyways. "

OOC : —

♥︎

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[Howlfire]

Sometimes, it is the more simple tasks that Howlfire finds she gets the most fulfilment out of. As an apprentice she would have found herself bored doing tasks such as these, eager to be out hunting or training instead. Of course, she would probably prefer to do that right now if she were being truly honest, but that doesn't mean she still couldn't find some enjoyment in the simpler things.

"I wish I could weave as well as I used to," Howlfire sighed dramatically, sharing Doeblaze's plight. She had never been a perfect weaver but her nests would hold up, and any repairs she did to the dens would not fall apart or break for some time. Howlfire dutifully steps up to help Doeblaze's efforts, carefully moving the vines over the mossy padding beneath. "Unfortunately, these paws of mine make it a little hard to be very refined," She chuckled, briefly gesturing to one of her front paws. Her father's paws. Howlfire is not quite the same size as her father and brother, but she's taller than most thanks to the ragdoll blood she carries.​

 

[Chickbloom]

In contrast to the two she-cats currently shaping a shield in front of the nursery, weaving was one of the few things Chickbloom had a real knack for. Folded ears flick up for a moment as the baby bird walks by the duo, altering his course to offer assistance. Yolk-splashed paws grasp the material as the warrior set to work - silently at first.

When Doeblaze and Howlfire strike up some small talk, amber eyes swivel between their progress and his own. Chickbloom was not so self-absorbed as to say ‘hey, look how much better I’m doing than you’, so he tried to blunt his skill with a qualifier as he spoke. “I - um - had a lot of p-practice with my housefolks’ yarn, b-but this is - y’know - a lot tougher to bend.” The humble Scottish Fold could go faster if he wished, but he was enjoying himself.

In truth, Chickbloom preferred weaving to hunting. much less stressful, much less on the line. Perhaps enough wild life would sharpen his spirit, but for now the coward was content. Dinner-plate eyes peaked into the nursery, softening at the sight of kits inside.​

 

[QUILLSTRIKE]

IF THE POINT'S TO NEVER DISAPOINT YOU, SOMEBODY'S GOT TO TELL ME WHAT TO DO​

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”Make way for the master, then..” Quill announced as he settled in beside the two shecats and Chickbloom to work, not sounding particularly thrilled to hold such a title.

”I’m glad I grew into mine.” he said, gesturing to his paws. ”When I was an apprentice I used to trip over them a lot. Gave myself a bloody lip in front of Twitchbolt more than once.” Unable to help but smirk, he added, ”The blood used to gross him out a lot- it was kind of funny.”

Quill could still picture their face the first time he’d smiled at them with blood on his teeth after face planting and bashing his lip open on a rock.

His clumsiness had been a curse he feared would follow him into adulthood, but luckily such was not the case. He’d grown into himself, and that coupled with all the extra repair work he’d done as punishment during his apprenticeship meant that was -perhaps comedically so- one of the best nest-makers and wall-repairers in Skyclan. He was also surprisingly good at grooming for a cat who never shared tongues with anyone aside from his mate.

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skyclan - male - 29 months (Feb 17th) - mated to Twitchbolt - a very tall, dark chimera tomcat with mismatched eyes and several scars. has bluejay feathers woven like spikes along his spine and neck.