camp DO IT FOR OBI-WAN. INTROish

[BUCKTHORN]

His time in ShadowClan had always felt limited. Since PItchstar let him in, he'd been waiting for them to realize the mistake and chase him out. Especially since it came so swiftly before the leader's demise. Now there was Chilledstar, and he knows nothing about them aside from their existence. It'd been a point he made– not getting to know anyone, not thinking about them past their names and their presences at his side. He had no interest in friendships. Not aside from Rose, anyway. The whole reason he was here, the whole reason he put up with this clan, the remnants of those who'd started this whole war to begin with: the barest hint of a memory he could tuck away beneath his fur. Anything that he could hold close.

Usually, he's not sure if all of this is worth it. He doesn't like the territory, the food, most of his clanmates. He keeps his head low and makes sure to pull his weight, makes sure that none of them can think of him as anything but a little bit odd. All for the sake of one. Ridiculous. Truly.

He scoffs around the toad in his mouth. A slimy, bumpy thing. He hasn't stooped so low as to eat one yet, so this one goes straight to the pile. Alongside another toad, a pawful of frogs, and a very scraggly looking rat. None of them are really up to standard for him (a lie; if his stomach began to ache, anything would be better than dying, but he won't take what another might need) so he doesn't bother. Instead, he turns his back on it to flop to his side and begin his work on his paws, pulling the mud and muck from between his toes with a grimace.

˗ˏˋ  ⋆〚  OOC REFERENCE INFORMATION 〛

• ooc: buck has been chilling in the background HARDCORE, like rarely ever conversing with his clanmates, so this is an introduction of sorts! pls force him to converse though it's also funny if he manages to continue dodging lmao
• 
• ──── 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"

​

 

[heavybranch]

‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ There is a look that Heavybranch has come to know well among his clanmates. Discontent, a scowl that sometimes eases but never quite leaves. The marsh isn't an easy place to live and it shows on the many haggard and scarred faces that surround Heavybranch. Buckthorn wears it easily — Heavybranch watches in quiet interest as Buckthorn deposits something into the freshkill pile and then cleans his dirtied paws.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ Yes, it's a look Heavybranch knows well. He makes his own way over to the freshkill pile and collects a rangy looking rat, then lays down besides Buckthorn with a vacant grin. Heavybranch knows his part in this, knows to be cranky without being threatening and just absent enough to hide keen eyes. ShadowClan isn't a kind place, but Heavybranch knows his part. He can play at being kind without being gentle: anything more would be rejected outright.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ❝Do an old man a favor, won't you, and keep me company?❞
It isn't a question. Heavybranch is already comfortable, the rat he'd chosen sat at his paws. He doesn't eat it — not yet.
‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‎‎‎‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎ ❝Quiet one, ain't you? Been here for what — pawful of moons now and I hardly remember your name, son.❞ Now Heavybranch leans and takes a bite, two, from the rat, then looks back to Buckthorn, ❝My eyes were bigger than my stomach on this one. Hmm, you finish it. Shame for it to go to waste.❞​

P. 14​

 

[COMFREYPAW]

Comfreykit is still learning the names of her more reclusive Clanmates as well. She spots the surly-faced dark tabby from her position at the mouth of the nursery. Her first instinct is to not approach; after all, he looks like he doesn't want to be bothered, and the last thing she wants to do is get scolded. But Heavybranch, the Clan elder, takes a rat from the fresh-kill pile and settles beside the younger warrior. She likes Heavybranch. He's nice and he tells stories when he feels like it.

The tiny dark tabby she-kit creeps closer, her tail low and submissive. "I can help, too," she mews to the senior cat, eyes on the rat. Her whiskers quiver with anticipation. "I'll share, too," she adds hastily to the younger warrior, in case he thought she was being greedy.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

​

 

[hitch]

He can't blame Karth —Buckthorn— for his absence. There are times Rosemire drops back far enough from the foreground he might as well be StarClan, and he'll stay like that for moons, little more than a tall white shadow. It's the memories that chase him off. It takes time kicking them back in place, padding them with enough dirt that they need weeks longer to burst back up like the most rotten of flowers. But he's glad to see his darker stripes and sullen face, and maybe he can pretend he's still the loner Buckthorn met so many moons ago and not the creature he coaxed back to life after the Great Battle.

He's glad to see Heavybranch, too. Their game on the ice is still among his happiest memories, and he's one of the few ShadowClanners who doesn't make his hackles twitch. Comfreykit is...well, a child. It'd be rather strange if Rosemire disliked her, wouldn't it? She hasn't lived long enough to be a pain in the ass, so he gives her a little smile in greeting before circling around behind Buckthorn.

Rose collapses theatrically against his side, still careful not to actually crush him. He drapes himself over him like some sort of albino moss. "Did I hear that right? You're quiet? I remember when you used to wax poetic about the blades of grass as the earth's fur, and the clouds as the sky's downy feathers." Suppressing a grin, he swipes his muddied paw over the tabby's pelt.

I N F O R M A T I O N
​

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[Willowpatch]

"TO MEET YOU UNDERNEATH THE MOONLIGHT"​

Willowpatchs' paws were sore, the pads touch but still lightly nicked from her work on the warrior den walls. A sigh of contentment would slip past her lips though, as she took a step back to admire her work. She hadn't found any flowers today to decorate with, but there had been holes to fill nonetheless and so fill them she did.

The dilute tortie would roll her neck to chase away the stiffness that had settled there before turning and spotting a small group of her clanmates settled nearby. She deserved a small break after all her hard work, didn't she? Willow would make her way over, taking a careful seat between Heavybranch, smiling at Comfreykit, and then turning to smile at the playfulness between Rosemire and...

Oh, actually she didn't know who this cat was. She would stare at him with her olive-green gaze as if doing so for long enough would bring his name to her mind, but it would be useless. A soft frown would tug at her maw, she didn't like that she didn't know his name, it made her skin feel itchy and a stone of guilt would settle into her stomach. She would say nothing for now, hoping that someone would either speak the name or the tom would introduce himself in time. ​

✦ ★ ✦​

 

[smogstar]

Built within the fringes of Smogmaw's mind is a fount of esteem reserved for those of Buckthorn's sort. Those who watch from a distance, abstaining from the politics of social interaction and instead taking on a role of dispassionate observation. To the murk-coloured tom, there is an ascertainable wisdom in living beyond the hierarchies of clan society. It is a way of preserving one's own self. He should know, as he too had been an observer for many moons of ShadowClan's being. The days of living out of the limelight are sorely missed, of course, but the webs of power and ambition are just as enticing. Caught between the sidelines' allure and the temptation of influence, forever struggling to reconcile his conflicting desires.

On limp-addled strides, the deputy draws near the growing group around Buckthorn. Though the stoney-faced tabby put in a stern effort to avoid such groups, he surely knows that his position in clan society demands his participation. Conversation is inevitable in one way or another.

The tail-end of Heavybranch's words register with his psyche, along with those belonging to Rosemire, and one of Betonyfrost's offspring. He finds himself on a similar page with the Elder, unaware of the Warrior's finer details, but he cannot help but notice the contrasting familiarity shown by Rosemire. Smogmaw's forehead dips in silent greeting, drawing toward the flank of Willowpatch whereupon he comes to a halt. "Could'a fooled me," he interposes on the alabaster tom's remark, before fixing his focus entirely on Buckthorn. "Can't register why you're such a picky eater," prods Smogmaw, "this is fine dining, compared to the pellets SkyClan is so fond of, and the fish RiverClan forces 'emselves to swallow."

A frog's taste was not something to be savoured, but with as scant a food supply as ShadowClan's, hungry bellies cannot afford to be too selective. ​

 

[BUCKTHORN]

It's not as easy as he would like, shirking people who actively seek him out. Sitting to the sidelines is well and good when people aren't talking to him– there's Heavybranch and then Comfreykit, and both of them are...kind. Gentle with him. What a strange thought that is. ShadowClan hasn't been the best of places. Nobody here is overly sweet. And even still they bring a smile to his face. Something he tries to swallow and return to his grimace. Bury himself into his own presence so that they don't get too close to the barriers he's built. "It doesn't seem like you're giving me all that much of a choice, old man." There's a friendly crinkle to his eyes he doesn't quite mean to share. Now that it's there, though, Buckthorn (still such a strange name in his mind) can't find it in himself to take it back.

"Tell you what. I'll finish what you two don't, how about that? Go on." He nudges the rat towards Comfreykit. It doesn't look half-bad, really. Better than frogs, in any case. What Smogmaw says is true, that he'd rather this than pellets or fish, but nothing can quite match a good squirrel. Back before the battle had broken out, he'd loved them. Loved that territory, too, but there's no use in trying to cling to it now. Bitter, bitter words rise up his mouth. Buckthorn sighs instead.

Right as they threaten to spill out, some stupid remark about stupid old things– there's Rosemire. The whole reason he'd come here. Abruptly he feels bad for abandoning him like he did. For sinking into the background as if that albino tom didn't deserve his attention. He should apologize. He should do literally anything other than try and brush it away like a skittering of dirt like he does everything else. And of course, there he goes again: sweeping it away regardless. Still, it makes him smile. The last remnant of his distance suddenly splits up and crackles away. "Blades of grass? You– you definitely misheard me calling you a pain in the ass," Buckthorn laughs. It feels like sunshine. Even the mud makes him smile.

His gaze cycling between all those that had approached him, the shyness begins to fade a little. "I'm Buckthorn. Kind of, it's– I'm getting used to it. Used to be Karth. I'm...still trying to repay ShadowClan for letting me in." For Pitchstar, right before he died, the tabby doesn't quite say. It feels a little wrong. "I was in the, uh, oak forest. Before ThunderClan came to be. I guess I got used to finer dining. No offense."

˗ˏˋ《  OOC REFERENCE 05.16.2023 》´ˎ˗

• ooc: pretend i'm not almost a month late! :D
• 
• ──── 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"

​