- Jun 13, 2022
- 15
- 2
- 3
It feels silly to say that he's been trying when his efforts have borne no fruit or whatever that saying is, but...he has been trying, he thinks. Getting out a bit more, not being entirely silent on patrols. He hasn't been glued to Rosemire either, which is a good thing, probably. It means that he should be able to make friends with some of the other cats. It's also given him an entirely new perspective on the cat he had come to ShadowClan for. That sounds silly of him to say, doesn't it? It's– it's not like they've been glued at the hip anyway, or even were before these clans came to be. He'd walked the edges of their territory and found a shadow of how things used to be. He wants terribly to make sense of it now. Even if they can't go back in time, maybe together they could figure out the present. Why's that sound like he's so soft for him? A cat he's barely met, but still trusts implicitly. When he shouldn't trust anyone at all.
It's still early in the morning. The sun hasn't quite risen, but ShadowClan retreats to their camp for the most part. They prepare themselves for the hours of rest before they began their struggle again, and with a deep, deep sigh, Karth — Buckthorn — pulls himself from relaxation and begins his own sort of hunt. He's not looking for prey. Not the gross, tough frogs or the stinking rats. His paws trek through mud and soft pine cover as he winds his way out of camp. The soft light filters through the needles above his head and leaves beautiful white rays falling to the ground. It's not warm, maybe never will be in a marsh like this, but it hits Rosemire like...like a beacon, like the moon at its fullest. He's gleaming in the muck.
Easy to spot. But Buckthorn comes up behind him, his careful paws too quiet. Maybe he was always meant for this place after all. He could tackle him easily. Payback for the pressure of his ribs across the shorter tabby's body back in camp that day. That's too playful for what he feels. Buckthorn sucks in a breath. His voice echoes, too loud: "Why are you still here?"
It's still early in the morning. The sun hasn't quite risen, but ShadowClan retreats to their camp for the most part. They prepare themselves for the hours of rest before they began their struggle again, and with a deep, deep sigh, Karth — Buckthorn — pulls himself from relaxation and begins his own sort of hunt. He's not looking for prey. Not the gross, tough frogs or the stinking rats. His paws trek through mud and soft pine cover as he winds his way out of camp. The soft light filters through the needles above his head and leaves beautiful white rays falling to the ground. It's not warm, maybe never will be in a marsh like this, but it hits Rosemire like...like a beacon, like the moon at its fullest. He's gleaming in the muck.
Easy to spot. But Buckthorn comes up behind him, his careful paws too quiet. Maybe he was always meant for this place after all. He could tackle him easily. Payback for the pressure of his ribs across the shorter tabby's body back in camp that day. That's too playful for what he feels. Buckthorn sucks in a breath. His voice echoes, too loud: "Why are you still here?"
- ooc: —
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──── buckthorn, previously karth. cis male. reluctant warrior of shadowclan.
──── adult, probs around four or five years old, but he doesn't talk about it.
──── bisexual, currently grieving his former mate who has recently passed.
──── a strong-shouldered brown tabby with medium fur and amber eyes. - "speech"
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