camp free-range mannibalism ↷ [ BUGS ]

[smogstar]

Left in Leaf-bare's wake was a collection of pawprints in the snow—figuratively speaking, of course, and frost-nipped winds, soil made soggy from snowmelt, and hunger pains were the most eminent amongst them. One after another have these wintry traces waned away, and the sought-after transition to warmer days was now a tangible reality. Thank the fucking stars. Had Smogmaw lived through another snowfall, the tabby would have entrusted his fate to chance and promptly bury himself in a heap of that frozen damnation.

The preceding season had been so harrowing, the troubles and strife brought by Newleaf were an insignificant idea at the time. Starvation and nigh on freezing to death tend to distract one from other problems, after all. But now, the marsh cats must contend with stifling humidity, unpredictable weather patterns, and, without a doubt the most despicable of them all, mosquitoes.

A throng of the buzzing bastards are making a succulent meal out of his ugly mug. They're about as aggressive as Sootstar's bunch, doubly as cruel, and half as clever. Angry paws seek to remove them from his pelt, briskly brushing the areas of his cheeks and forehead where they feast. This is to no avail. Moreover, their droning is shrill and infuriating, much like claws on stone, and no amount of ear-flattening can erase their sound from existence. Never was there a more loathsome creature.

"GIDDOFF-A-ME!" bellows the deputy, though doesn't quite expect them to comply. "No-good, bloodsucking, flying fleas! I hate you!" There's no palpable escape here. Should he run, the pests would only swarm after him. The least Smogmaw can do is making this everyone else's problem, hurling his frustrations forth for all to hear; that is, lest they endure the same hellish misfortune. There's certainly no shortage of mosquitoes in this here swamp, and their torment has him regretting ever stepping a paw in this damnable place.​

 

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

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  ── The water here is a favorite for all things creepy, crawly, and slimey— or all three. Rosemire's only managed to survive this long because there's enough coverage from the sun to keep him safe from forming a pile of ashes. Living on the moors would be a slow, agonizing death, he's certain, but he still struggles to be appreciative of anything the marshlands offer.
  
  Case in point: swarms of bugs. Mosquitoes are arguably the worst among them, and he winces with both sympathy for Smogmaw and for his own hearing when the deputy makes his agony clear. He slaps at his pelt audibly, each smack drawing another grimace from Rosemire, whose own ears flick to dispel the beasties. "Mud," he announces distastefully. "If you can stand to slather yourself in it, the bastards'll eat up someone else."
  

  ---

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• ──── surr'oseal'isme (rosemire; formerly roseal). he/him. reluctantly shadowclan.
  ──── approximately forty months old and is not entirely certain of his true age.
  ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
  ──── tall, scarred albino w/ sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail (voice).
  ──── ─── currently noticeably haggard. starting to regain weight, but still rather thin.​
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[CHILLEDSTAR.]

DON'T YOU GIVE ME UP, PLEASE DON'T GIVE UP​

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"...that's disgusting."

an audible and loud wince came from the leader as they made their way over, but keeping a very nice distance. out of instinct, they began to frantically clean their own fur, double checking over and over that they didn't have any of the same problem that smogmaw was currently having. they shivered at the thought, turning their gaze back to the tabbied tom cat. rosemire suggests mud and though they agree, the idea of being so disgusting makes them gag. ugh. halfshade may have done a lot of things that agitated them, but her cleanliness was one thing chilledstar could agree with.

"I'd say find some water to swim in, but i don't think you're much of a swimmer like the fish whiskers. and besides... I think those things like the water."

chilledstar closed their eyes.

"mud really might be your best chance... though I doubt halfshade would be too fond. then again, I don't think she'll be too fond of your bug infestation either."

they say, ear twitching backwards. and neither am i. i swear to the stars if one of those things gets on me, smogmaw, i am ripping off your precious pelt.
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[betonyfrost]

There wasn't any safety from mosquitos. Not even in the height of day when they supposedly slept. It was as much a part of the marsh as paw-sinking mud and frogsong. To separate insect swarms from the marsh was to be taking something wholly innate away from it — like taking the fur off a cat. It was as unlikely as it was unnatural.

So it is to no surprise to Betonyfrost that there is someone shouting at mosquitos. She was raised with her own pockmarked ears flickering every which way in an ill-fated attempt at shooing the bugs, and her whiskers twitching and folding every time one had the audacity to use them for landing.

"Mud also does wonders for the itch they leave behind," Betonyfrost notes and then, glancing at the most recent victim of the swarm and realizing who it is, adds, "Could also hide that face of yours. Halfshade might like you better for it."

Betonyfrost glances at Chilledstar then, and isn't that a change? She has so many things she wants to tell them, and so few that they would want to hear. Rather than voice any of it, Betonyfrost's glances turn into a quiet stare.​

shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 18 moons | tags​

 

[smogstar]

The legions of mosquitoes remain staunch in their cause. A scattered amount of them flitted through the air like flies to a piece of rotting meat (an albeit generous description of the grey tabby), whereas most latched onto his hide and punctured his skin with their vampiric barbs. A single bite is irritating enough, meaning an endless measure makes him feel like he's being dragged through a hedge backwards. Incapable of coping with the discomfort, Smogmaw's nerves are effectively in a knot by the time Rosemire rolls around with his unsought-after advice.

"Sure, bring me some mud!" he spits, with claws clenched and teeth gritted, all while jerking his head in vain. Had he not been locked in an unwinnable fight with the pests, it's safe to say he would have been of a far more tame demeanour. "Get me a whole mouthful of it, Rosemire! Please and thanks!" The strategy proposed by the alabaster warrior was out of the question. Halfshade would sooner pry his skin off his muscles than allow him near in such a grimy condition. Mud certainly had its uses, though appealing to she-cats was not among them.

His livid mug would swivel to see two more clanmates draw near. Neither offer sound counsel, with Chilledstar refuting both of their suggestions mere seconds after uttering them, and Betonyfrost as helpless as her frostbitten nubs.

A brief preamble here: the anger which drives Smogmaw to make his next decision does not stem from Rosemire, nor the other two. One can retain only so much patience when being literally eaten alive.

Without so much as a word, the deputy propels himself from the soil, breaking off into a hurried sprint from where he stood. Monotone limbs bear him with long strides until he parks himself between the trio of clanmates—making his own problem, which they found so amusing, to be their problem as well.​

 

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

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  ── He doesn't expect Smogmaw to accept advice graciously, least of all advice that instructs him to roll in mud, so the terse sarcasm doesn't surprise Rosemire. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply. Patience is a virtue, so they say. What they really mean is, "here's a very low standard for not losing your shit on your clanmates, thanks." So when he opens his eyes, it's with a determination calm, but Smogmaw's a thing of spite and decides to make his problem everyone else's.
  
  The muscles in his jaw clench and unclench as the mosquitoes seek the skin between his pale fur, sensitive skin, but he hadn't thought Smogmaw would consider that, either. He pads away to the water nearby, where it meets the soil in mud, and promptly rolls in it with a flinty-eyed stare. And because he's not the bigger person he wants to be, he gathers some of it on his paw and flings a glob at Smogmaw's face.
  
  "You're welcome."
  

  ---

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• ──── surr'oseal'isme (rosemire; formerly roseal). he/him. reluctantly shadowclan.
  ──── approximately forty months old and is not entirely certain of his true age.
  ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
  ──── tall, scarred albino w/ sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail (voice).
  ──── ─── currently noticeably haggard. starting to regain weight, but still rather thin.​
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[CHITTERTONGUE]

જ➶ Sometimes where Rose is the other might be. Sometimes. But then again rather this is one of those times or not is yet to be determined considering Smogmaw and all of his yelling. It can catch even a deaf rat's attention he thinks and he tries not to laugh about it. Oh no. Smog might give him a good walloping if he does. His cheeks put out from how he tries to hide his giggles as he steps forth on dainty paws. For a moment he just stares and then he tilts his head a little, stepping back as Rose begins to administer the mud treatment for the ailing deputy. "Ah, I remember a situation almost similiar to this, keehaa...!" His laugh tickles his throat as he smiles lightly. Mud is a very useful thing but not when he is stuck in it.

"If I have to be honest, I was gonna suggest you try eating the little fuckers back. That ought to show them, right?" But alas mud is the go to. The stuff is renewable after and plentiful too considering newleaf and be makes sure to step back, his good eye giving him a right funny view.​

 

[smogstar]

Chestnut eyes, incredulous and wicked, linger on Rosemire's retreating form. They draw taut as the alabaster outline steadily recedes from view, before it vanishes entirely just off yonder. The bastard listens. Such a turn of events would have typically provoked a grin on the tabby's face, if not for the bugs turning his flesh into a smorgasbord. Should fortune favour him, the other tom will choke on a rock or two.

What little remains of his attention shifts to the other warriors present; his leader, Betonyfrost, and one of briar's few remaining kin. As to whether his newfound proximity to them has curtailed the mosquito swarm is not yet clear. One thing remains certain, however: as they stand there and watch him suffer, it is not inklings of remorse that occupy their minds, but a vivid, sadistsic gratification. They wear it in their eyes. They hate him, and no amount of frivolous recommendations can change the fact.

Rosemire's reappearance elicits a guttural grumble from the pewter-furred deputy. Muck and grime spatter pearly strands, yet to his utmost displeasure, he cannot find any such stains around the premises of the other tom's mouth. Chittertongue begins to speak, seizing his attention for all but a moment—forging an opportunity for the projectile attack.

For the second time, Rosemire has slung a wad of filth onto his face. It lands smack-dab onto his forehead, right between his eyes. A hiss immediately follows suit, before his spine arches and the fur along his tail fluffs up ferociously. "You...!" musters the tabby, searching for an insult commensurate with the display of stupidity. Alas, he comes up short, his mind fogged by pain, irritation, and obsession.

A long-drawn huff penetrates the air to denote his defeat. Looking at it from an objective point-of-view, he fully deserved it. "Cripes," he mewls in exasperation. "Least I still look better than Betonyfrost."

It goes without saying that the bugs continue to bite him, barring the area affected by Rosemire's attack.​

 

[Halfshade]

Her voice broke the brief silence in a high laugh, a mix of being both surprised and utterly amused by the scene she had stumbled across and if she cared much for the mud flinging she did not say as much, instead a giggling gasp of, "Good shot!", rose up from her throat between wheezing and breathless delight. Halfshade didn't like getting dirty, not generally, not unless she knew she could spare the time to put herself back in order later and it was when she was struck with surprise filth that she was at her most angriest. Not here, however, where she knows the day is ending soon and she will be able to easily clean any muck from her pelt in a nearby pool and spend the rest of the evening untangling her pelt and grooming in the comfort of her nest.
Halfshade smiles, steps lightly around the assembled cats with dainty steps and her tail held high before coming to the pool Rosemire had been moments before and promptly dropping into it.

She rolls. Her long fur becomes a blend of mud and dirty water, soaking it up as she flips to one side and then the other only to stand up and find her dripping with heavy sloughs of mud, clumps of it dropping off and gathering at her paws as she wanders back to the assembled cats with a closed mouth smile (to avoid any grit in her teeth) and promptly shakes. Thick, long fur slaps around her body, mattered together with wet soil and sludge and goes flinging in every direction around her in a flurry of motion and earthen debris; it is a maddening whirlwind of filth and she is the eye of the storm.
A surprise attack, for none would be the wiser to her antics and her prim and proper poise had betrayed them in this moment; the queen of clean now a dirtied and soggy messy of dark plastered fur and stringy curls.
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