private Blingus the Clown | Snailpaw

[Firefang]

The wound on her scruff is warm; it no longer seeps her fur may no longer be slick but she feels the discomfort of her dried blood. She would refuse for now to seek out Vulturemask, she'd seen the way some of her clanmates had looked laced with gashes that'd leave them bound to the camp for days if not longer. She's shocked those traitors had enough strength to accomplish such a feat as making Houndthistle and Tigerfrost bleed but she supposes rats truly were dangerous if they weren't exterminated like the vermin they were. Her adrenaline has ceased no longer keeping her fur bristled and bloodlust lingering on her tongue, she's just tired now and her thoughts return to her regardless if she wants them or not.

Part of her wants to be alone, to bury her face in her paws and let the shame of failure wash over her, because despite her efforts she'd still failed. They all had in some regard. She could hang around with those still waiting to see Vulturemask, she could even sit with her brother or more favorably Icepaw who'd fought alongside her but she doesn't. She seeks neither them nor the isolation apart of her would crave, she's not one to wallow but she wasn't immune to craving some form of comfort even if she may not realize that's what she seeks as she approaches the fluffy form of Snailpaw; the resident lay-about. He was annoying a lot of the time and completely incompetent he was older then her yet seemed less mature; but they were always around they didn't run away when she approached nor bristle their fur as if already expecting a quip or a quick bat on the nose something she'd done to them numerous times.

They were an always present figure in her life, she doesn't know what that means to her but for all their faults at least they didn't ever leave, never changed there's comfort to be found there. She plops herself down besides them a sigh huffing out of her, she lets her exhaustion take ahold of her even if she refuses to sleep. Her gaze lazily flicks to them and forcibly she makes herself meow ❝Hey mousebrain❞ as if to cling onto some form of normalcy.

@SNAILPAW ​

( PLACE ME IN MY CASKET TONIGHT ; BECAUSE IM ALREADY DYING INSIDE )

 

[SNAILSTRIDE]

He was never supposed to be a warrior. A life underground could've saved the cat's work ethic, and a life alongside the barncats could've saved the cat's life, too late for the former and too old for the latter, all that Snailpaw had left was to become the mindless, vicious thrall they now saw the rest of the adults as. They'd missed another massacre but the blood drowned the clan's scent all the same, leaving them with permanent nausea and pulsating headache whenever they had to linger in camp too long. The deaths of enemies was something they accepted with some reluctance, better them than their friends, but the deaths of animals they may have once called brothers by those friends was a horror that transcended all those before them. Near catatonic, they don't move from their spot in camp, the lower half of their face cradled between their paws with only wide eyes visible. They'd said a phrase a long time ago to Firepaw, that those who outlived their usefulness would be killed by WindClan. An exaggeration at the time by their mentor, Snailpaw had originally thought, but with the recent incident, they couldn't help but dwell on what might happen to one who never had a use to begin with.

He doesn't recognise her approach at first, startled by a sigh that eventually alerts Snailpaw to her presence. They tuck their hindpaws under themselves and curl their tail around the side of the body that she was sitting on, their enlarged pupils settled on the sight of spiked fur at the back of Firepaw's neck, seemingly crusted with the same liquid that they loathed. Snailpaw's gaze withered away back to the earth, though even that felt tainted by it now. Her greeting goes unanswered as if the tabby didn't hear it at first, eventually, they acknowledge it with a flick of stony ears. Snailpaw liked to play the part of the unbothered jester, the protection such a rank offered them was worth more than any pride they had as a WindClanner, but the role was getting harder and harder to play. Cracks had formed when their mentor's argument reached the ears of others, then it'd seemingly smashed altogether when they fainted in front of Weaselclaw and got the whole clan believing that they had some sort of contagious head cold. Why did that clan that promised they loved him want to get him killed so much?

"I'm next, aren't I?" It's a hollow, defeated laugh. They didn't want to die, but they lacked the deep friendships to make a stand either. They loved Firepaw like a sister, but they would be forever separated by a difference in dedication to their home. Snailpaw stayed for their friends, Firepaw seemed to stay out a devotion so blind a cynical part of them wondered if she'd stayed in the tunnels too long. Maybe they were the mousebrain, but at least their dumb, dumb thoughts were their own. "I either gotta wait for the end or bring it forwards by pulling a Dandy, I don't want either to happen, I just wanna laze in the sun and let life take me where it wants to take me like a big ol' leaf floating down the river. All this aggression and pride, I haven't got it in me." They speak as if in a trance, imagining themselves anywhere but where they are currently.
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