camp FORTIFICATION | repairing the wall

[TIGERFROST]

Tags and Information

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The late afternoon is cold and bitter. Ice glistens across the ground, shines upon the jutting meeting stone, and rests within the fur of those who were trying to heal from their bloody wounds. With breath like mist, Tigerfrost looks akin to a gruesome and gore covered predator. His eyes glow with fire, despite the cold, and his fur remains bristled and unkept, stained by crimson both his own, and not. It had been that morning in which Dandelionwish had staged his escape, and the camp was in ruins. Ripped fur and blood pools, the scent of copper and rage.

Having been tended to to the best of Vulturemask's abilities, the chimera finds himself at the mouth of the medicine den, surveying the damage with a critical gaze. After several long moments, he grunts with dissatisfaction and limps toward the outskirts of the tattered camp, stepping over shredded nests and scarlet splatter until he finally finds himself gazing upon the thorny gorse wall near the back of the clearing. This was where Coldsnap and Coalfoot had managed to escape, a weak spot in the wall itself, where the gorse had not been quite so thick. Whether age or the harshness of winter had slowly eaten away at the barrier, Tigerfrost does not know. He does know, however, that it needs to be repaired.

A few WindClanners had already started the task by carrying in fresh gorse and heather to weave into the wall, and Tigerfrost flicks his tail at the small group, speaking with bitter vocals, "Be sure to check the outside of the wall as well. We should fortify it on both sides." And thicken the barrier so that, hopefully, nothing would be able to break in, or out, again.

As for himself, the tabby tom begins to join in the work, carefully plucking the gorse away from the growing pile and ignoring the occasional prick of a thorn as he set upon the task of weaving the fresh in with the old. His front paw was swollen and painful, but a strong tug had ultimately set it back into place, and with time it would surely heal, provided there were no other complications. For now, he can maneuver the stiff limb well enough, and carefully enough, to do his intended job, even if he was a bit slower than the rest.

"Blasted traitors." A grunt, furious and chilling, "Hope they rot."​

 

[SCORCHSTREAK]

In the same day that she put her own son to rest, Scorchstreak is back to work. There is no time to rest, no matter how the scratches and scars across her shoulders pinch and pull, stinging with each movement she makes. Truthfully, the calico would much prefer to be elsewhere; preferably, she would be tucked away, deep within the tunnel system that crisscrosses the moorland. But Coalfoot and Coldsnap had made such a mess of things during their escape, tearing a gap in the thorny wall that serves as their camp’s staunchest defender.

She wishes they would have fallen in the fight. It was not for the loyal warriors’ lack of trying, as she’d seen them, some ragged and bloodied but still attempting to chase the wormfood down. Scorchstreak themself had been—preoccupied, righting their age-old mistake. Now, though, they are helpfully involved, though they keep their usual distance from the flanks of others.

The dark-striped warrior is moving slowly, slower even than Scorchstreak themself—who does not intend to dirty their paws any more with blood from tiny pinpricks of thorns—and their molten gaze slides over his form. He must be hurting. After a moment, they offer flatly, "You could rest. No need to overwork yourself." It’s quiet enough to hopefully keep the words far from prying ears, giving Tigerfrost an opportunity to take a break if needed. But he seems to be plowing away at the task at hand, so she doubts that he will heed her words.

His grumbling is to be expected, even welcome; she is above such grunting and groaning, but at least one of them speaks it into the cold air. "It may take a while, but they will," she assures the white-patched tom. She trusts the fates to do as they see fit. Surely the traitors will be punished accordingly for their actions, even if not by WindClan’s own claws.
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[ MONSTROUS WOMAN ]​

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[SUNSTAR]

He had not been among these walls when the chaos broke out. A poorly or fatefully timed patrol had taken the lead warrior away from the scene of this crime, and to come back to this– he had thought it SkyClan, for a moment. Some retribution for their attempt at survival, or for some other perceived slight. Were it not for the lack of their scent on these moorland grasses, that would have still been the most plausible thought. Instead, it had come from within. Dandy had escaped, alongside a few others who followed his traitorous steps. In part he is glad for their removal from these moors. If they would cause this much destruction, this much pain, he can only be glad for the outcome. They deserve peace. They have chased it — he has chased it — for far too long to see it destroyed now.

Though there would be no turning back time to stop what had happened, Sunstride would do all that he can to heal the wounds now. He is strong, unblemished from the fight, and filled with his own determined fire. He peeks his head through the hole from the other side of WindClan's protective wall– he does not smile at Tigerfrost, but he offers a grim nod. "We will see it done, Tigerfrost." Scorchstreak has already spoken of his wounds, and offered a quiet plea for reprieve, but he does not pry or prod him further. He will rest easier once this is done, if he is anything like sunstride thought he was.

His own tail flicks at the assertion the molly offers, but he is already back to work, weaving gorse and heather through weakened gaps. "Sootstar's reign is stronger for the loss of them," he answers as soon as his mouth is freed. "If they do not die by our own claws, the seasons will take them. And they will answer for what they have done, as each of us will. The stars will decide their fate."

﹥ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES INFORMATION 〙ˊˎ﹤

• ooc: —
• SUNSTRIDE. named for his coloration and his bold chasing of fate.
  —— cis male, uses he - him. thirty-four moons old. warrior of windclan and former rogue.
  —— cautious of clan life, but an apt learner. encourages close bonds between clanmates.
  —— loyalty uncertain, cares for those surrounding him. undoubtedly closest to wolfsong.
  
  sunstride is broad and bold– a creature standing above most of windclan, though not a beast beyond its borders, with fur that flames red at its base and deepens to a burnt amber with every whorl and stripe. his eyes, in comparison, are a pale summer's blue, still as bold as the rest of him.
• "speech"

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[Azaleafrost]

Azaleapaw was glad those cats escaped. It made those around her angry. She wouldn't show how she felt, though. She sat on the outside of camp, trying her best to weave the other side of the hole Coldsnap and Coalfoot made. She was decently good at weaving, and it was the least she could do after not being there when it all happened.

Had she been there, she would have given chase. Her jealousy would have gotten the better of her. They think they can escape this prison? How dare they. Nobody gets out of here without injury, and she was glad they likely suffered for it.

But they had fought hard for their freedom.... For Dandelionwish. What was it like to be so loved? So important? And what was it like to care for someone so much that you would risk your life for them?

Perhaps she would never know.

For now, she helped reinforce the camp so that this didn't happen again.
​

 

[icebreath]

TAGS — Icepaw had woken up tired when Dandelionwish first fled the medicine den and she's exhausted now, having been unable to go back to sleep. Not that she wanted to; there's too much to do, and even more to think about. They wish they didn't have to, though, because the more they think the more afraid they become, their heartbeat speeding up and their face flushing with anxiety. So they do their best to make themselves useful — WindClan desperately needs it. She hates seeing the camp in such a state, blood spattering the snowy ground and the wall torn into. The hollow is supposed to feel safe, homey, but all she feels as she gets to work on repairs is unease.

The feeling deepens when Tigerfrost approaches. She casually looks away from him to hide any discomfort that threatens to taint her expression, instead plucking more heather from the pile in a fluid, natural motion. He's a loyal warrior and she trusts him, certainly, but it's hard to shake the memory of him snapping so viciously at Daisypaw. A traitor's a traitor, of course, but still... she's only a kit despite her ranking. Icepaw would've at least felt hesitant, even if Dandelionwish and all of his fellow vipers deserve nothing less than extermination. But, as she'd reminded herself after Scorchstreak valiantly killed her own flesh and blood for the cause, she has a lot of toughening up to do. Sootstar probably expects the same performance from Icepaw. She doesn't let herself wonder what might have to happen if the disapproval that Rainpaw once expressed soured into something more dangerous.

Sunstride's presence offers bit of comfort, at least, but not much. She's grateful for it nonetheless; they aren't close, but he's always been such a stable figure. She nods along with his words before getting to work on weaving her bundle of heather into the wall. "Some of their injuries were so deep," the blue point remarks, sounding incredibly weary. "I'm sure they won't last." None of them have medical knowledge, and there's no way any of the neighboring clans will spare their own herbs — especially during such an unforgiving season. Between the alliance with ShadowClan and the rest's hatred for the moorland cats, they have nowhere to go.​

 

[LAMBCURL.]

Busy bee, busy bee... It's nothing less than honorable to work through such a gruesome state. Tigerfrost was a corpse reborn, a soul reignited. His voice growls harshly, briskly thick. A natural leader, isn't he? If that voice wouldn't send chills up the spine of any other... He's surprised the runaways could manage to break away...

Content, Lambcurl sits idly by. He doesn't think himself the sort for such a task, tugging in tending. They could reach places he couldn not dream of reaching... (Or was it only excuses? Or was it just, that he preferred to watch?) He's done his piece, certainly. A mouse sits in their fresh-kill pile now, by his paws. Oh, stars allot him a moment... Just one is all he needs. Really, oh really...

The others see the strength of his spirit, and they implore for him to stop. Was it concern, or jealousy that lights their features? Lambcurl hated to think them so frail. It's only kindness, then. The lot of them were kind. Sunstride's voice hums rumbles like the kindest of flames. He makes light of what would come after. And this has Lambcurl blinking curiously. Fast, oh, it had been so fast. He could barely process the many of them that had left, and oh, he wonders if this was part of some greater plan... He and Icepaw both ellude to death, and what pitiful deaths that would be. Certainly, they'd try hard...

He smiles a kind greeting to Azaleapaw, but his attention is elsewhere. Questions, yes... "Oh... Will they go to RiverClan...?" Sure they won't last. More ways than one, maybe... He can see them drowning, drowning... It'd be no better, that death. Disappointing. There's a blustery sigh through his nose.​