camp DRY YOUR EYES ☀ Intro

[newtbelly]

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Wind cut through his thick orange coat and threatened to knock him off his feet as he padded through frozen fields. The ground beneath his paws felt like it was biting him. Newtbelly had never known a world so impossibly cold, never had he seen his beloved territory transformed into a barren tundra. A single mangy mouse hung from his maw as he ducked into the entrance of the hollow. Gingerly he placed his spoils atop the meager freshkill pile, little flakes of snow already beginning to gather on the small creature's brown pelt. The orange tom scrunched his nose in disgust, a deep shame emanating from his chest. Was this enough? How many cats would be able to eat tonight? How much more prey would it take? Newtbelly raises his head, glancing back at the tunnel leading outside camp. Another small flurry of snow settled over the moorland, and there was no telling how long it would last. Regardless, trying to hunt more would undoubtedly be a futile effort for now.

He buries his fears for the future of his clan under a heap of energetic childishness. Frustration quickly turns into restlessness, and the young tom finds himself aimlessly pacing around camp. The oppressive weather had created a calmer and subdued environment amongst his clanmates, who pointedly ignored his subtle plea's for attention. Restlessness turns into agony as Newtbelly is quickly bored to tears. His stomach sinks as he realizes the only thing left to do is wait. Sinking back on his hind legs, the tabby clears his throat before speaking "Yknow, we really 'ought to have more to do around here" he mewls loudly to noone in particular. His ears flicker in annoyance as the camp quietly moves on around him.
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[JAYKIT]

The wind cuts through his short fur with ease. His mother had sent him out of the nursery on account of getting some fresh air, since he's apparently been too cooped up. But could anyone blame him? It's so cold!

Jaykit's pawing half-heartedly at a moss ball when Newtbelly, rather loudly, announces his boredom. Dark blue ears prick up from their previous flattened position. A warrior complaining of nothing to do in the camp? That's strange. Usually it was him or another kit complaining.

"Yeah… How do you think I feel?" He kicks the moss ball with a huff, watching it roll to the warrior's feet. At least Newtbelly could leave camp. Jaykit couldn't. Not that he'd want to, what with the freezing weather over the past moon. (His whiskers already feel like there's icicles forming on them!) But there could at least be something to do in the nursery other than watch cats go about their day from the entrance or listen to the queens gossip. Then maybe his mom wouldn't insist that he must be bored. (He is, but it's better than being cold.)

"Guess you'll have to start playing moss ball like the rest of us," Jaykit suggests with a shrug, still glowering at the moss ball like it's the one who made him go outside.

ooc ⪼﹕ INFO

• n/a
• ■■■■■■■ ✶ jaykit. kit of windclan ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ་༘࿐⋆｡𖦹°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
  𖤓 amab male, he/him | aroace, single
  𖤓ㅤ 3 moons old | ages every 1st
  𖤓ㅤ descendant of barn cats | mentored by none
  𖤓ㅤ sh blue point
  𖤓ㅤ npc xx npc | close with ???
  𖤓ㅤ written by nico, ic opinions | tags‎

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[BUCKFIRE]

Buckfire knew a thing or two about boredom. The chocolate tabby is constantly on the move, even if it's a simple border patrol. He can't stand hunkering down in one place for too long as his paws itched restlessly for action. It seemed that another storm was rolling in, though, which meant that leaving camp wasn't such a smart idea. Buckfire could if he wanted to, of course, but with what happened recently with the group of apprentices it seemed that most folks were wary about going out into the blustery cold.

The tom was doing nothing more than cleaning a bone when a few clanmates openly protested the lack of, well, anything. No stimulation, no excitement. Snowy days were like that most of the time, as much as the chilly gales and flurries thrilled the daredevil. "That's why y'gotta find somethin' to do." Buckfire responds, pushing the prey carcass aside and sitting to his paws.

When one of the kits proposes a session of mossball, Buckfire's eyes brighten with interest. "Kid's right. Toss it here," The chocolate tabby tom meows to Newtbelly, who currently had the ball in his possession, while expectantly raising a paw. " 'n why don't we make things interesting? If y'drop the ball, you have to..." He takes a moment to think before smirking mischievously, "Take a lick of mouse bile."

Back in the day, he and his littermates would raise the stakes pretty high with much more intense punishments like sniffing cow dung and attempting to steal chicken eggs while dodging the rooster. In comparison, licking mouse bile seemed pretty tame. "Though I'd be careful if I were y'all — I'm a mossball master." Buckfire boasts, holding his head high.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐒 ☀☀ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐔𝐃𝐙𝐔 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖

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  — buckfire / 34 moons / he/him pronouns
  — windclan moor runner / former loner
  — sh chocolate tabby w/ orange eyes, bite marks on left foreleg, nick in left ear & scratch on right side of lip
  — click for tags

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[BLUEFROST]

"Try being a queen," Bluefrost says; there's a touch of serration to her voice, the ragged edge of an overworked mother of five. The smoke-furred she-cat had left the nursery just long enough to pick through the prey pile. It's meager, though the mouse Newtbelly had just deposited still has some warmth in it, at least. The kits will find that appetizing, hopefully. It had been difficult, to say the least, to transition them fully from milk to fresh-kill, and now that each bit of prey she brings them is frigid and stiff, they find more pleasure in playing with the food they're brought than eating it.

She pauses, though, as Newtbelly paces around camp. The storm rages just outside the gorse; it's nowhere near as fierce as the blizzard that had driven the entire Clan into burrows for a quarter-moon, but it's bad enough to keep the warriors from venturing forth again. Little Jaykit knocks a bit of moss around, crossly telling the warrior he'll just have to play mossball like everyone else. Bluefrost thinks she's seen enough mossball to last her the rest of her life, personally.

Buckfire is champion of the hour, though, inviting the two of them to play mossball — but with stakes. Bluefrost regards the tabby dubiously. "Mousebile?" She shudders, and not from the cold. "I think I will sit this game out."

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