- Dec 30, 2022
- 10
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- 3
he licks. steady, sure, unbroken. he works his way over his pelt and he takes his time, so that it's something to do for as long as he can do it. he prefers to groom out here alone, unless he's merely grooming as an excuse to people watch — he finds it's not properly relaxing with other cats in scent range.
primrosethorn is as attached as the next cat to shadowclan, to this idea, their right to this miserable home and what miserable prey they can scrounge out of its swamps. he is loyal as the next cat to their code. but the cats of shadowclan — ?
the individuals, their relationships and their unfortunate personalities? he's not found anything to like about most of them. shadowclan is his army, his allegiance, but not his family. and he likes it fine this way.
so he grooms alone. and when he picks up his prey and makes his way back home, he does that alone too, seeking no one out when he makes his entrance. he steps into the camp with two frogs and a scrawny rat dangling from his jaws, eyes of blistering-yellow surveilling the camp as he walks through it toward the kill pile. walks... that's not the right word. it's more of a shamble, or a stalk? his limbs seem poorly-proportioned, perhaps too long or too bony, and he hangs his black head low but lifts his eyes to scan, and he cranes his neck as you'd imagine a cat craning his neck to achieve that.
of course he's interrupted, because this is a thread, not a oneshot, and because primrosethorn will never know peace as long as he's played. this particular offender approaches him to speak. he drops his prey. "what." he answers with an audible period, devoid of inflection. " ... is it important?" he adds with a little more acid, an unspoken if not, why are you opening your mouth?
i don't know what this clanmate is approaching him about, or whether it's important, but i have a hunch it might be about the absurdly long bramble-stem that's stuck to primrosethorn's low back and trailing behind him. he must have been really lost in thought to miss that. seriously, it's at least three tail-lengths.
primrosethorn is as attached as the next cat to shadowclan, to this idea, their right to this miserable home and what miserable prey they can scrounge out of its swamps. he is loyal as the next cat to their code. but the cats of shadowclan — ?
the individuals, their relationships and their unfortunate personalities? he's not found anything to like about most of them. shadowclan is his army, his allegiance, but not his family. and he likes it fine this way.
so he grooms alone. and when he picks up his prey and makes his way back home, he does that alone too, seeking no one out when he makes his entrance. he steps into the camp with two frogs and a scrawny rat dangling from his jaws, eyes of blistering-yellow surveilling the camp as he walks through it toward the kill pile. walks... that's not the right word. it's more of a shamble, or a stalk? his limbs seem poorly-proportioned, perhaps too long or too bony, and he hangs his black head low but lifts his eyes to scan, and he cranes his neck as you'd imagine a cat craning his neck to achieve that.
of course he's interrupted, because this is a thread, not a oneshot, and because primrosethorn will never know peace as long as he's played. this particular offender approaches him to speak. he drops his prey. "what." he answers with an audible period, devoid of inflection. " ... is it important?" he adds with a little more acid, an unspoken if not, why are you opening your mouth?
i don't know what this clanmate is approaching him about, or whether it's important, but i have a hunch it might be about the absurdly long bramble-stem that's stuck to primrosethorn's low back and trailing behind him. he must have been really lost in thought to miss that. seriously, it's at least three tail-lengths.
