pafp badge of honor ✘ scar talk

[SMOKESTAR]

He can not help but wince sympathetically everytime he sees the brown tom's face, though the scar has mostly faded he can remember the flash of red as bright as day at times. He'd not exactly been in the right state of mind to even comment on it then, but he had been wanting to since - an apology, of sorts. It was his fault in a way, his own embarrassing panic at kitting for the first time had lead to the other warrior investigating in the first place though Cicadastar's paranoia was not without guilt. Only one of these was an easy matter to address and he would take it.
"Mudpelt-" It is an awkward greeting, head dipped and shoulders stiff, "-it looks...like its healing well. I'm glad, I'm sorry for that again."
Most scars you would expect from battle, badges to be worn proudly in defense of your clan as so many of his were - that it was not one to linger was a relief to Smokethroat in a way, that Mudpelt would not forever carry a mark of his leader's claws. Everytime the dark tom sees his reflection in the water he remembers the bridge, the rabbit, Weaselclaw, and it fills him with a quietly broiling fury that has had no outlet since he had dragged the tabby's downy blue daughter across the bridge to scar in turn. Sometimes he thinks about that and remembers he has kits himself now and he suddenly doesn't want to think about it again.
"Thankfully your position as one of RiverClan's more handsome cats can remain uncontested." A joke? Of sorts? Well, he was trying and it wasn't entirely a lie either - the sleek brown tom was not a bad looking cat, especially given most of their clan mates were alarmingly scruffy or awkward in limbs. He loved Cicadastar, but he was not going to deny the fact seeing him out of the corner of his eye looming at the edge of the wood didn't send a jolt of alarm down him at times. He really wished he'd stop doing that.

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[Ooc]
PAFP - @MUDPELT
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[MUDPELT]

Mudpelt is quick to forgive - the tom can't hold a grudge to save his life! However, that doesn't mean he can forget so easily. He wouldn't mean that maliciously, but rather it isn't easy to be so comfortable around his leader now. Every time Cicadastar is near, the warrior can't help but feel on edge, as if one wrong, sudden movement would set him off again, more claws flying at his face. What if next time he blinded him?! Nope, not a risk he wants to take! So, it's been better practice to merely stay away, when possible.

Smokethroat's presence, however, doesn't bring about the same sense of anxiety. Mudpelt really had only been concerned about the tom. He had never heard a queen scream so loudly during a kitting; Icesparkle had been in pain for both of hers, sure, but she didn't yowl like the black-furred deputy did! It was that wailing, he recalls, that had even driven him to come check on the tom. Now, seeing him okay and walking about, the warrior at least can feel at ease. He grins, head cocking to the side a bit as he trills, "Ah, this thing? It's no big deal - forgot it was there, actually!" That is code for I check my reflection daily with the hope it fades more and more with each sunrise.

Smokethroat's joke causes the chocolate-furred tom to beam even more, his ears pricking. "You mean it?" He laughs, delighted by the assurance. He is not blind - he's always known he's easy on the eyes and he takes pride in it! Where else does one get his level of comfort in his own skin? Knowing the scar hadn't marred his handsome looks causes him to puff his chest out, feeling ultra confident once again.​

 

[DIPPERFROST]

Dipperpaw feels strange when the adults start conversing near where she is laying, feels like they will turn to her any second and ask if she couldn't possibly have anything better to do, but she had already completed all the tasks her mentor had assigned to her and she hadn't been told to do anything else, her feet ached and she had been looking forward to finally being able to relax just about all day. Still, when she lays eyes on the deputy and Mudpelt she considers getting up and pretending to be useful. In the end, her tiredness wins out and she stays where she is.

Her ears flick as they begin speaking about wounds and, interested, she looks their way. Smokethroat tells Mudpelt he is still handsome even with his scars but Dipperpaw says nothing. Why would scars make a cat less attractive? In her opinion, scars were cool. They told stories of past battles, of a life well lived. One day she would have cool scars with cool stories...

"Excuse me sirs" she says politely from where she lounges nearby "But I was just wondering, what scar are you most proud of and why?" it is hard to hide the interest from her usually neutral face, but this was a topic that had captured the reserved apprentices attention.
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[LAKEMOON]

LAKEMOON — me and the devil, walking side by side.
The incident between their mottled leader and her mates father had gone through the entirety of camp quickly, whispered urgently from one ear to the next.
Personally, the act set Lakemoon on edge. Cicadastar was prone to lashing out verbally, more so towards other leaders and traitors, but his heat-of-the-moment swipe on Mudpelt was concerning, even if unintentional.
Her opinions are silent, fleeting, only brought back as the tabby warrior witnesses Smokethroats earnest apology from nearby. She draws close in time to catch Dipperpaws question.
While not directed towards her, there’s a thoughtful furrow in her brow as the warrior settles once more. She adorned many scars despite her relatively young age, but was she truly proud of any of them? The skin that had been torn in an X mark on her chest and bled down her stomach, caused by the rivers attempt to tear her apart was a rather chilling tale, too much for her to want to talk about.
The partially hidden scar that rested on her collar bone was nothing special, and the laceration that stretched from her brow to her cheek was a story that ended with a starved loner slain at her adolescent claws.
Lakemoon gives herself a shake back to the present with a dismissive flick of her ear, she didn’t have anything interesting to say about her scars.
"I’m curious, too." She finally hums.

"speech"

tags​

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[iciclefang]

Perhaps she should be more disturbed by Cicadastar lashing out at her father for intruding into his den, but she isn’t. Their leader has always been temperamental, brooding, and like a storm, he is not always predictable. She has no less respect for the mottled black and white warrior than she had before, though she’d not forget the look on Mudpelt’s face after it had happened in a hurry. She is drawn to the conversation, just hearing the tail end of Smokethroat’s apology and Mudpelt’s easygoing acceptance of it. Her father isn’t one to hold grudges over such things. She blinks a friendly but silent greeting the chocolate tom’s way, then shifts her attention to Dipperpaw and Lakemoon, both drifting over on silvery paws.

Scars. Pride. Iciclefang spares Smokethroat a quick, appraising glance through pale blue eyes. The most notable scar on the warrior’s body is the one laid over the destroyed flesh of his eye. She remembers the day well, too well—bitter leafbare winds in her fur, a rabbit crossing the Twoleg Bridge and her teeth sinking into its throat. The WindClan patrol had been thin, ragged—and outraged. The tabby at its head had threatened, and Smokethroat’s taunts still ring in her ear. Battle had been swift, and she’d been left to drag the rabbit home as fast as she could run, yowling about WindClan attacking. By the time she’d arrived with the patrol, Smokethroat’s eye had been a ruin, and he was close to bleeding out on the battlefield.

She frowns at the memory. Familiar hatred for WindClanl icks her ribcage like tendrils of flame.

“All scars won in battle are worth being proud of.” Her tone is casual despite the memories smoldering in her mind. “It means you survived to live and serve your Clan another day.” She gives her own sleek, unruffled tortoiseshell fur a rueful look. Besides the typical nicks a cat accrues from skirmishes, her appearance is unmarred.

✧ INFO.

•  
• 
  — iciclekit . iciclepaw . iciclefang
  — she/her ; warrior of riverclan
  — lesbian ; single
  — short-haired tortoiseshell with white and ice-blue eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — chibi by Pin

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[FERNGILL]

Despite Fernpaw's cheery demeanour, discussion of scars dug a little deeper than just the tissue. Though his long-earned looks had mostly sustained in the silkiness of his pelt and the vibrancy of his hue, he would forever wear a mar on his face that simply served as a reminder to all who looked upon him that he'd been an idiot. If it was just an injured eye he bore, its colour kept as it was now... maybe it'd be fine. No one would be able to tell how it was there, why it was there or if there was anything wrong with it at all. But every warrior in RiverClan knew how he'd gotten this scar, and it was not a heroic story of protecting his Clan. It was very little to be proud of.

"Not all scars are won, though," he said to his sister, sure he was not the only one who bore a scar they wished they didn't. Mudpelt seemed relieved that his face was healing well, that Cicadastar's claws (in panic, he'd been told) had made only a shallow mark. No animosity danced in his eye, though- no, a verdant light of interest flickered in the depths. He wondered if Smokethroat would share the same sentiment... knowing his sister and her former mentor, he probably would.​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[BEEFANG]

₊· ͟͟͞͞➳˚❥ The only thing she knew about scars is that her papa's littered with them on his body and when she opened her eyes for the first time, they were something that she had grown accustomed to. She had not once thought about inquiring about them since she had believed them to be normal but hearing the talk of battle injuries make her large ears twitch, her bicolored gaze focusing on Smokethroat and looking at them a lot more carefully than she had before. These scars that covered the entirety of her parent seemed painful, the dark molly slinking over to press herself into one of Smokethroat's legs and offered those gathered around a small, polite smile. In the back of her mind, she starts to wonder if she would ever end up receiving as scars as brutal or smaller ones from fights that she had possibly won.

The thought itself makes her inwardly grimace before turning her attention to Fernpaw and what he says, she's tempted to ask what he means by that but bites her tongue. Maybe for another time. A few questions bubbled within her mind yet she chooses to remain quiet not wanting to interrupt the potential answers for the inquiries that had been asked. Was Smokethroat proud of his scars? Beekit glances to Mudpelt once more noticing how his was beginning to fade away and pondered why her papa was apologizing. "Had he done that?" The river princess wonders completely unaware that her other father had done it out of paranoia on the night they were born.

"Did... Did it hurt?" The words slipping off the tip of her tongue and a small frown present on her maw, it was an innocent, harmless question. Perhaps it had hurt when Cicadakit had tripped and had drawn blood himself... The memory of crimson dripping onto the ground and his paw making the fur on her pelt begin to bristle slowly, she recalls how he had let out an "ow" when it had occurred yet he hadn't wailed like any other kitten would. She starts to silently ponder if everyone simply handles the pain of wounds differently from one another. "Riverclan blood should stay in Riverclan cats." Beekit remembers Iciclefang saying in agreement to what Smokethroat had told her brother. ​

[ KILL EM WITH THE MOJO, CINEMATIC SLO-MO ]​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Smokethroat laughs and he recalls a time he used to not, how the sound and gesture itself were foreign and unbecoming of him - that he thought himself more highly than emotions would allow but the river worn him smooth like the stones beneath its surface in time it seemed; he is not particularly bothered by this. "You've no competition, fret not." His lone gaze wanders as Dipperpaw approaches and he offers her a quiet nod, the question expected yet gave him room for pause long enough for others to join their congregation as well. A brief glance flits to Iciclefang and though her expression does not show much he feels he can tell they are sharing the same thought. The scar he is most proud of is also the one most apparent at a glance, of course.
He can still remember the feeling of smooth wood slats trembling under heavy paws, yowling and hissing as one by one an entire patrol of WindClanners rushed over their border and piled onto him but all he could focus on was brown tabby fur and blue eyes; he didn't care about any other cat there so long as the moorland queen's fool of a mate was ripped to pieces under his own claws.
He levels Fernpaw was a calm stare before lifting his head back up to continue speaking, "All scars are worth being proud of in a way, a sign that something had tried to stop you and you persevered."
A paw raised to readjust so Beekit was now sitting firmly between his forelegs and he could act as a protective shroud over the kitten, not that she needed much protecting here in their home other than her ears, which could pick up whatever nonsense some cats spewed out like poison. She was sensible enough though, so he wasn't too worried especially not with this current crowd.
"Losing my eye was a small price to pay, that rabbit fed most the clan that day and it was Iciclefang's earned catch. I'll be damned if I allow some ratfaced WindClanners take prey that sits upon our land. I'd do it again without hesitation."
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