camp chained and forever. intro

[TAZ STORAGE UNIT]

Heavy paw steps 'thrrumphed' through the camp at early daybreak as Lilycrest made a wary beeline to the dirt place. The camp still held a hushed tranquility, with only the soft rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of waking cats. The first rays of sunlight stretched high across the clearing, casting a golden hue over the camp. Once his business settled, they returned to the clearing and fell into the usual daily routine. He started by checking the fresh-kill pile, running his paw over the neatly arranged prey, satisfied to see he wouldn't need to get a big haul. The cool, damp earth underpad held a promise of another day, giving him a sense of determination.

With a diligent approach, he moved on to chores, each task as familiar as the rhythmic breathing in his chest. He straightened out the nests, ensuring they were comfortable for each den mate. Then, his large, calloused paws moved the old nests out with gentle precision, picking through piles of old moss set up to be tossed out of camp and replaced with fresh, fragrant bedding. The sweet scent of newly collected plants mingled with the muddy aroma of the den, creating quite a symphony of smells.

As the sun began its descent from the sky, its warm daylight drizzled into tepid skies, and the scent of approaching leaf-fall pinched the breeze. The changing season brought uncertainty, but within the clan's boundaries, there was a comforting sense of unity. Having experienced a few leaf-bares already, he intended to stay vigilant and prepare accordingly. Maybe Nightswarm would like to cuddle up for the colder days. A sensation brushed his face like soft nose nudges, at the mere idea of his friend snuggling by his side, and sharing their warmth. Sheepishly, they brushed the invading thoughts away.

He continued to relish in the predictability of daily tasks, finding comfort in their dependable rhythm, which provided a soothing anchor in the ever-changing world outside. Finishing up in-camp duties, he stretched into an impressive bow shape down then up, before heading deeper inside Shadowclan territory. Exasperatedly, he blew out a forlorn sigh and peered up at the thick stretch of clouds above. "I wonder if this leaf-bare will be a bad one?" He absently mused to himself, eyes dipping down to scan the surrounding swamp with a thoughtful gaze.

Satisfied with the surveying results, they made a quick run through his home's terrain. Only stopping occasionally to track any prey or strange smells that deserved further investigation. Eventually, the moon peeped, and the ragdoll knew it was time to head in. Wrapping up and feeling exercised, Lilycrest tiredly ushered himself through the thorny entrance, dropping off his catch of the day before settling down. His hind leg raised high, and off to work, hurriedly scratching at an ear. With each successful itch defeated, Lilycrest grew more relaxed, knowing that his daily efforts had earned him a well-deserved bath. The silence suddenly ended as approaching chatter roused him from a comfortable stupor and into full attention.

TLDR:
Lilycrest returned from patrolling and hunting for the day and is resting in camp as your oc approaches. Feel free to stir up a friendly or confrontational discussion with him!​

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[smogstar]

[ cw ; brief descriptions of starvation! ]

ShadowClan ought to start walking in the bears' pawprints and eat all the fresh-kill while they still can. It'd be unreasonable to expect kittypet-plump bellies between his clanmates' legs, but any minute amount of extra meat on their bones may very well defer them from a comfortless end. For when the coldest of days come trespassing into the marshes, its inhabitants will stand at the perilous precipice of starvation once again. Conjurations of last Leaf-bare's dire straits - Spectermask keeled over, Pitchstar succumbing easily to his infections, ribcages protruding amidst even the longest pelts - prey on the deputy's mind. There's no shortage of existential threats here in ShadowClan, but that's just the clan's rugged charm.

Within his detached state of thought, the sole carriers of awareness are his amber eyes, which peruse the hollow in a fussy manner. What he seeks, exactly, isn't readily apparent. Yellowcough symptoms among those who walk freely, perhaps? Or, what about subtle shifts in the pines enclosing camp—indications of an oncoming storm? By now, the sick have been confined to Starlingheart's cave, while a more formal variety of quarantine lay in the works. And there wasn't but a single branch out of line, either.

Somehow, in the face of, well, everything, tonight proved remarkably boring. Such normalcy would prove a boon to many, yet it is a bane to him. Because Smogmaw, as deputy, is of the understanding that he actually has to do something productive.

The realisation prompts a long-drawn exhale out of his throat. Given the state of his vocal organs, ruptured for reasons unknown to him, the sigh sounds more like a croak than all else (yet denotes his motonony just as efficiently).

His wandering gaze abruptly fixes on a stationary outline. Lilycrest. The woolly kittypet-turned-outsider-turned-warrior appears to be lost in their own musings, in a manner akin to Smogmaw himself.

⁂

"How do you think the Warrior Code would look if it were written by a dog?"

It's a frivolous question meant to entertain kits, but it served its current purpose (making him look busy to the outside observer) quite well. Unfortunately for Lilycrest, the deputy demands his attention as though this were a grave matter. "We already know how they feel about inter-clan relationships, but what other philosophies might they secretly have?" ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Sharppaw would never admit that, often, he naturally pivots toward Smogmaw. He despises him as much as he looks too him. Not for any reason – not really. ( He doesn’t notice ). It’s a consequence of familiarity, that his eyes often sweep toward dark tabby fur, and a brown set of eyes no one else in the clan really wore.

There is a lot to worry about. Always, even before Leafbare was right around the corner and they had no need to worry about the prey dwindling – that in fact, was a lie, because there was always a need to worry, because this was ShadowClan; and ShadowClan was a place they would sooner die than leave.

( No – it was only her, she can bitterly think, noting those who had left, and even Smogmaw, who, had almost joined them, once. ) he thinks he was more ShadowClan than any of them, because he would never leave. Doesn’t he deserve some credit for that?

Smogmaw is talking nonsense. He only realizes he had gotten so close when the stupid question makes him pause – and oh, he’s not too far from brown and white fur and too - big paws. We already know how they feel about inter-clan relationships " Do we? " impulsively, he would cut in. The matter - of - fact way her mentor speaks makes her want to rake his skull through the mud.

For no good reason at all, he indulges this question anyways. " Would dogs care who eats first? " He is pretty sure that a good chunk of ShadowClan did not care either, and he allows that unspoken accusation to hang in the air.

OOC † IN THE MIRROR 08.30.2023

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• SHARPPAW: brother to Rookpaw. Mentored by Smogmaw
  —— he / she , no pref , icked by they prns ; fine with gendered terms ( tom, molly, etc... )
  —— currently 14 moons old. warrior ceremony delayed due to lackluster progress.
  
  anxious, antisocial, paranoid. Sharppaw is a creature living in constant fear. Most thoughts are irrational, but consistent in that they are borne from pessimism and generalized anxieties.
  — In an era of assessing what has set him back and figuring out what he wants.

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[Wheattail]

In contrast to Lillycrest’s endless activity, and Smogmaw’s desire for such a state, Wheatpaw had done relatively little today (and, unlike the deputy, wasn’t broken up about it). However, whereas before days were spent dodging her mentor out of a notion that her time could be better spent, now it was different. She’d been quieter lately. Where anxiety about yellowcough had once been scrawled plain as day on her face - despite her best attempts to hide it - now that emotion had been replaced with an almost resigned acceptance for…something. She didn’t feel like speaking.

With that said, the sheer stupidity of Smogmaw’s question could not go ignored. Shadowclan’s deputy was someone the Somali lookalike knew she could do without, but instead of the usual bout of berating and back-sass there came a more agreeable tone to the wanderer’s words, like she decided to play along.

“There would probably be an article all about slobbering on each other. At least, that is the only thing I can imagine them doing besides eating and attacking.” Wheatpaw casts Lilycrest a sympathetic glance, silently apologizing both for Smogmaw’s question and her own role in perpetuating it.

Sharppaw raises a good question, and an invisible eyebrow shoots up, picking up on the implication but also deciding not to press. “They would go in order.” Wheatpaw suggests. “Whichever one has the most ridiculous looking collar eats first. Second silliest eats second, and so on down the line.” ​