pafp dauntless // roaming goats

[cottonsprig]

"Are you sure you can manage this, Sunstar?" Cottonpaw asks with a wince, ears training back. Some warriors had found a plot of grass, somehow untouched by the flames, over by the horseplace. It seems the leader had deemed himself capable, in his injury and grief, to experience it for himself. The she-cat decided to tag along too, in hopes that she'd be able to procure some more useful herbs for their depleting stores. Still, she frets over their leader (much more than she did with Snakehiss' outburst, admittedly,) and keeps up the rear of the patrol, just in case.

They make it over the crest of the hill, and instead of seeing fresh grass, they see beasts much larger than themselves, but smaller than horses and cows that litter the fields. Cottonpaw blinks, trying to make sense of the bearded creatures... They look almost like the sheep WindClanners see so often, but far less plush. Perhaps they're the same, just long-haired and short-haired variants, like the difference between her and the two bothers tagging along. Still, she posits a, "What are those...?" to the small patrol, her face scrunched up as another munches on the grass before them.

[ pls wait for at least one of the following to post! @SUNSTAR @GRAVELSNAP @slateheart ]​

 

[GRAVELSNAP]

➴➴ Watching the leader stumble along is nearly as painful for Gravelsnap as it must be for Sunstar himself. His movements look so… graceless, with only three legs to support him. Not that Gravelsnap judges the leader for it—no, the fact that Sunstar continues standing tall even after losing a limb is commendable. He’s doing as a leader should, however; his appearance reflects up on the entire clan, and strength is what WindClan must show to the others now. After the fire, after submitting to RiverClan, after their leader returned missing a leg… WindClan is sure to be a laughingstock at the next gathering. Gravelsnap hopes that the rosetted tom will be able to walk to fourtrees on his own, at least.

He’s drawn from his thoughts by the sight of a group of odd-looking creatures up ahead. Cottonpaw questions what they are, and the black-patched warrior takes a step forward to get a better look. He tips his head, squinting at the beasts who roam across the fresh grass. They look like sheep, but with less wool. They appear different in conformation than sheep, but not in a way that Gravelsnap can describe. Maybe they are sick? "Strange sheep," he decides, glaring at the creatures. That’s his best guess for what they could be—but no matter what they are, the tom would prefer that their patrol stay far away from them. "Their wool looks terrible."

➼ maybe i’ve done enough

• ooc: —
• 
  GRAVELSNAP ❯❯ they/he, moor runner of windclan
  ⭃ average-sized black and white warrior who seems smaller than he is. speaks rarely and quietly.
  ⭃ sibling to slateheart
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ⭃ penned by foxlore

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[SCORCHSTORM]

It's refreshing, in some sense, to be back on patrols — but it is almost as harrowing. Normalcy in some sense after so many moons of turmoil... is that all there is to life? Turmoil? Strife? War, pestilence, famine and death? Scorchstorm has known these horsemen since yellowcough forced her out to the mountains; since Rattleheart's lungs shook like leaf-fall branches; since Sootstar exiled her and her ilk to the Horseplace; since she'd crushed Honeybadger's throat in her teeth.

Maybe it was karma that kept her from returning to her warrior duties immediately. She'd taken a life for her own safety, and come out the other side unable to live to the fullest — for a short while, anyway. The infection wasn't awful. The bite Honeybadger had landed on her still shone through the patchy fur that had regrown there to the best of its ability. And then the fire....

Smoke scent still lingers in the air; certainly it lingers in the lungs of WindClanners, too. Scorchstorm had stayed in camp while it had burned, trying to help in what ways she could, but.... The destruction, the turmoil, the death; old friends, she thinks, coming to greet them. It still doesn't take away the sting of their dead or their injured. She isn't sure how Sunstar manages to stand so tall when he'd just lost his limb; just lost his son. The memory of Bearflight quakes through her. She remembers seeing him when he was a kitten and she was hardly an apprentice herself; how cruel it was for StarClan to take him so young, on the eve of earning his warrior name. How could she comfort the cat who had trained her when his hurting was so out of her depth?

She craves normalcy. The patrol helps. Scorchstorm steps somewhere near Sunstar, unassuming in her presence despite her broad-shouldered frame. It's only when Cottonpaw indicates the strange sheep on the horizon that she snaps out of her thoughts. Bearded sheep, strange in the snout and short in the body; the sight of them almost makes her laugh. There had been sheep in the horseplace, but none like this. Levity seems difficult to navigate now, but Scorchstorm twitches her whiskers, amused. "Look at their horns," she points out, tufted tail twitching. "Could you imagine a cat wearing those?" Secretly, she wishes she could wear them herself, though she'd never profess this desire to the crew around her. Maybe she'd tell Luckypaw sometime later....

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 ✧ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌

• 

• 
  
  — scorchkit . scorchpaw . scorchstorm
  — she/they ; warrior of windclan
  — short-haired tortoiseshell she-cat with low white and orange/yellow eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — signature by dreamydoggo, template art by sixbane
  — penned by meghan

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[SNOWGLARE]

જ➶ "I imagine if a cat had horns like that they would fall right over." Amusement rumbles in the deep mew of his as he comes up fom the other side of the moorland hill. Hunting has been a futile experience for him and though before it used to be hard it's even worse when there is nary a thing on the moorlands. At least he used to managed to bring back something but now, not so much. The patrol seems to be checking out the animals that linger, chewing on the grass and burnt remains. He wrinkles his muzzle a little as he watches them, knowing them from his time in the barn. Finicky little creatures who liked to headbutt anything that moves. "They aren't sheep. Um...if I remember correctly they are goats." The sheep are fluffy, well, sometimes. He has seem the sheep go into their barn and then come out naked before.

The large pale ghost steps forward, blackened paws shifting as he watches them. "I just wouldn't get too close to them. They aren't as nice as the sheep." ​

 

[SOOTSPOT]

This was not a patrol that Sootspot was invited to, but rather one he had stumbled upon while traversing the tunnels, latching onto their mission like a tick. The mission to find herbs was not an interesting one to the tom, his eyes instead seemed to focus on his peers, pleasant smiles offered whenever they looked in his direction. 'This normalcy is not normal.' So much had happened within the last half-moon, yet the clan chugged on as always, as if the fires and treachery and humiliation never happened. Sunstar would not grant him an apprentice, but perhaps he would grant him a front-row seat to WindClan's humiliation in the coming weeks at the paws of the other clans. There had been merit to his mother's rule, sincerity of the vitriol towards her that made the chimera believe they feared her - how anyone would fear the gristle of her legacy was beyond his wild imagination. The flagellation of his home ended as soon as it started, his sister looked out into the distance and proclaimed ignorance and, stupidly, Sootspot followed her gaze. His eyes narrowed at the sight of cloven-hoofed creatures grazing in what territory remained unscathed.

Scorchstorm's words caused him to let out a raspy huff as he straightened his posture. "A cat wearing horns? You may as well imagine one with wings, an asinine notion." Before long, Snowglare identifies them as 'goats', and the chartreuse gaze of the Tunneler blinks in faint recognition. The animal was not one had had seen before, but, someone had owned that name a long time ago - he doubted they would mind if he took it for himself. There is a strength to the animal's gait that almost strikes an envious chord within the tom, a wisdom to the long fur upon their chin that reminds him of the branches of a weeping willow. It is a feeling that threatens to manifest doubly as the barn cat confirms that they are unfriendly. It would fit a future child nicely, he reckoned. "Dangerous as they may be... there is a certain... curiosity I cannot help but feel about the nature of their fur. Soft as a sheep's, or as coarse as a badger's?" It looked like the latter, but looks could be deceiving, and secretly, he would not trust his dark-adjusted eyes to spot the intricacies of a faraway beast. "To find out may be a great boon to our nests. Well volunteered, Gravelsnap." Amusement glinted in a smile.


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