funeral gifts — houndthistle

[cygnetstare]

A pallid head leans into the darkened tunnel leading to the medicine den, the acrid tang of herbs wafting upwards like offering smoke; Cygnetstare pauses for a moment and then their skinny frame moves forth, fitting easily into the tunnel with an instinctive familiarity. The short journey opens into a much wider space, sand gritty beneath the chimera's mismatched paws; an unfamiliar texture, finer than dirt, one they pause for a moment to appreciate before moving on. Cygnetstare moves with a purpose, pale bleached eyes ignorant of anything other than their direct goal.

Their skeletal figure comes to a stop before one particular patient; It's Houndthistle, a warrior she's not entirely familiar with. His frame, quite literally double that of the tunneler's height, might intimidate another; Cygnetstare, with a naiveté closer to that of the dumbstruck dead than of a kit, simply observes it as a toneless fact. The other cat is hulking and stocky, a dark greyish pelt warmer than her own, but somehow reduced by the various remedy-plastered wounds marring his flesh. It disappoints them slightly; the concealment in poultices disguises the eye wound which had made the tunneler slightly curious, but it still feels a worthy trip—creepy as they may be, Cygnetstare still likes to know their Clanmates.

"Brought ya somethin'," Her mew emerges, accented as the other warrior's may be but inverse, a dirt-grating Northeastern drawl. Cygnetstare seats her bony frame with some reluctance, having rarely been in this den (except perhaps looking for sun-scorch remedies a couple times), and sets something down in front of Houndthistle. A reliable gift Cygnetstare gives occasionally and (only to her) indicating a measure of respect, bones; this time, a rabbit spine coils in a rattle of ivory in front of the injured cat. As is her custom, the tunneler has washed and bleached it to remove any chance of rot, hopefully; it's from the same rabbit whose skull she'd repossessed for Scorchstreak, in fact. The chimera holds a certain level of respect for Houndthistle, now; to incur so many wounds, especially in such a severe degree, for the Clan; it indicates a perseverance, a loyalty, that appeals to them somehow.

"Put it under ya' nest. 'Sposed to help mend injuries," Cygnetstare clarifies. Where they acquired this particular superstition is anybody's guess; still, it holds a faint power to them anyways, and a bone's a good present besides to anyone, in her opinion. The tunneler's viscera-pink gaze bounces about the various wounds Houndthistle has incurred, prompting another mew, "How're ya holdin' up with all them wounds, anyways?"
​

// @HOUNDTHISTLE !!

 

[HOUNDTHISTLE]

"BECAUSE COWBOY DAN'S A MAJOR PLAYER IN THE COWBOY SCENE"​

---

The brute's head is a splitting headache that racks him day and night. He hisses and tosses and turns, and what dreams he could fall into fitfully are filled with ravaging wings of black, snapping teeth, and a familiar face sneering at him behind extended fangs. It's a nightmare, in short. But, despite this, the tom hasn't ever been on easy to sneak up on, nerves too trained from too many moons fighting for sleeping space and for the right to breath. A scuffle of movement at the entrance of the den has that single eye that isn't covered in cobwebs and poultices, wide open, reflecting a dim red in the low light as it lands on the shadow that moves within the den. His hulking form is sprawled out on the nest that reeks of herbs, but still, he lays more like a lying beast, waiting to pounce rather than a wounded animal. Even injured, half-dead, he knew he couldn't afford the ability to let his guard down.

The shape slips easily, and the scent tells him ally, atleast letting him that much peace. The shape comes closer and he squints, vaguely thinking he recognizing the features as one of the tunnelers-what was her name again?-before her voice reaches his ears. Ah, yes. He remembers her now. "Mighty kind o' ya," He says lowly, lifting his head only to wince, lips drawing back over his teeth as pain electrocuted through his skull. He lifts a paw, resting it in the space between his eyes as he tries to wait a moment for all the pain to subside-he couldn't stand to beg Vulturemask for more poppyseeds, it wasn't like he'd probably give them to him anyway.

His ear flicks as she speaks again and he forces his eye to open to look at the gift. It faintly stands out in the shadows, Houndthistle squinting as he looked at it. "A spine?" He asks, though his tone holds no judgement nor distaste, more... a curious observation. He'd always had a like for some more... strange things then most in Windclan, for example, he liked bugs where others saw them as pest-his favorite were ants, actually. Bones was another thing, though he found it a bit... macabre to hold onto prey he eats. His mama always told him it was disrespectful to not bury the bones of things he killed, so maybe it was also that that stopped him from holding onto the skulls and teeth and whatever else of his prey and victims. Nonetheless, he reaches out a paw, missing at first, before huffing in annoyance and sweeping the bone toward himself and his nest. "Thanks," He says, nodding in satisfaction. It'd be a nice addition to his nest, plus... he believes this is his first and only gift he's received from a clanmate. Therefore, it meant something. Pa always did say to never spit in the face of those who gift you, He remembers, thoughts more an observation.

She questions his wounds and his ears flick back, a flicker of suspicion in his single eye as it swings toward her, careful to keep the blind side of his face mostly hidden. "I've fared worse," He answers guardedly, tone defensive as he regards her more, gaze narrowed as he looks at her, trying to find out her reason for asking.

---

"speech"

---

OOC CURRENT STATS INTERACTION RULES

• text
• Physical Health
  
  57%
  ⤷ left eye is blinded, deep bite wound and claw marks in chest, stomach, face, and shoulders.
  Mental Health
  
  98%
• 
  Single | Bicurious | Not actively looking | Interested in none currently
  
  Houndthistle is both an easy one to gain the trust of and impossible to gain the trust of. He'll rarely reveal personal information or be vulnerable-if he's even capable of such things-but he will show trust in his willingness to lay his life down. To gain it, he needs evidence that you're loyal and strong, same as him, otherwise he understands he may one day have to come head to head with you.
  
  — will start fights / will not flee / will not show mercy
  — excels at Fighting, Tracking, Following Orders, Intimidation
  — poor at climbing, swimming, stealth, talking, strategy, politics
  — sounds like: deep, gravelled and thick with a sort of country accent / Arthur Morgan
  — smells of iron, leather, and wood
  — speech is #435E75

​

 

[cygnetstare]

The chimera sways slightly as she waits for Houndthistle's response, a strange habit of unknown origins; it's less an elegant move and more like a drunken jostle, but a long-standing mannerism nonetheless. Cygnetstare's pale eyes study with some interest the cat's ebbing mannerisms, a strange contrast indeed. His hulking frame is tensed, poised as if in a permanent state of guardedness; the warrior's tone is thorny and suspicious indeed. She knows little of his affairs before the Clan or even this moment—while Cygnetstare tends to pick up information around her as if in a constant state of osmosis, she's no gossip—but the tunneler is perceptive despite her strangeness, if not lacking in some self-awareness. At the same, time, however, they can practically see the pain that must be rocketing around his massive form, as if in glowing red starbursts of white heat; his face shows it in grave etchings of hurt for a moment.

Cygnetstare is lost in thought for a moment, wondering what it must be like to lose an eye like that. She didn't attend many battles when they did occur; a lifetime of tunneling tended to make one as clumsy above the ground as agile as they may be under it, a foundering fish as opposed to a sleek eel, and the sun bars her from much besides. Still, the cat thinks absently, they'd like to make it to the next one; show those flatlanders what WindClan is capable of and make them choke on the muck they swim in. These strange and violent thoughts, absentminded as they may be, are interrupted (likely for the best, honestly) by Houndthistle's barbed drawl.

I've fared worse. The tunneler blinks owlishly at the defensive tone; her strange mind does its dealings well in simple sensory intake, but such skills seem to recede like a tidal wave when it comes to social interaction. To Cygnetstare, her question was an honestly curious one: What state must being so injured put one in? How does it feel? Her pale back curves as her head droops slightly in confusion, attempting to process; she holds no hidden intentions, no intense feelings except perhaps a faint admiration for his clear loyalty. Cygnetstare settles on a plain statement faint with mingled admiration and distaste for ShadowClan, "You're tough as nails then, 'cause that looks like it hurts a killin'. Them flatlanders fight as nasty as the muck they live in."
​

 

[HOUNDTHISTLE]

"BECAUSE COWBOY DAN'S A MAJOR PLAYER IN THE COWBOY SCENE"​

---

He snorts in response, glancing away to tuck the spine into the moss of his nest. "They fight nasty alright. Fought wit' muck in their claws, 'cause they know they ain' worth a fox's dung in battle," He agreed, sucking his teeth in frustration. Despite the frustration, he inhales, closing his eye before exhaling, allowing tension to leave his shoulders. "There'll be more fights," He drawls, tone though not confident, it had knowledge behind it that showed he knew better then to track down the cat who took his vision, "No poin' in dwellin' on prey already caught." He'd meet that tom in battle once more, and when he does, he only hopes he can leave with satisfaction... and atleast with his only good eye still working.

He flexes his claws, thinking a moment. "Flatlanders, huh?" He asks, a small 'heh' following the statement, amused. Interesting term, he isn't sure he's heard anyone refer to other cats like that. But, it sounds about right. Houndthistle didn't see any difference between himself and the Shadowclanner he fought, infact he knew if given the opportunity, he too would have aimed to cause horrible, life-threatening injuries to him and he had planned on it. The only difference was was their clans they gave that loyalty too and because of that difference is what put the pair against eachother. But, even within his own clan, there were differences. Perhaps him and Cygnetstare weren't much different as cats, but their roles, their experiences, their lives made them different, and that was something that perhaps made it more interesting to him to want to know his smaller, underground-oriented clanmates. "All y'all use that or is it jus' you?" He asks, glancing at her.

---

"speech"

---

OOC CURRENT STATS INTERACTION RULES

• text
• Physical Health
  
  57%
  ⤷ left eye is blinded, deep bite wound and claw marks in chest, stomach, face, and shoulders.
  Mental Health
  
  98%
• 
  Single | Bicurious | Not actively looking | Interested in none currently
  
  Houndthistle is both an easy one to gain the trust of and impossible to gain the trust of. He'll rarely reveal personal information or be vulnerable-if he's even capable of such things-but he will show trust in his willingness to lay his life down. To gain it, he needs evidence that you're loyal and strong, same as him, otherwise he understands he may one day have to come head to head with you.
  
  — will start fights / will not flee / will not show mercy
  — excels at Fighting, Tracking, Following Orders, Intimidation
  — poor at climbing, swimming, stealth, talking, strategy, politics
  — sounds like: deep, gravelled and thick with a sort of country accent / Arthur Morgan
  — smells of iron, leather, and wood
  — speech is #435E75

​

 

[cygnetstare]

Pale pulpy eyes widen at the hulking warrior's agreement; fighting with the swamp-muck in their claws? It would almost be an admirable tactic if it didn't come from those rot-ridden flatlanders, using it because they're incapable of truly beautiful battle. Cygnetstare perhaps chooses to ignore that their secret tunneling habits could be viewed the same way, or perhaps she simply justifies it; it's unknown to anyone not inhabiting her strange mind, and to journey into that dank graveyard would be a mistake. She blinks agreeably and nods in response to his words; they suppose it's true there's no use dwelling on lost battles, but still—the chimera tunneler's claws itch to sink into the stinking marsh-salty flesh of a ShadowClanner, pale fangs crave the easy give of their swamp-soaked fur.

The moor-runner questions her term for the marsh beasts; she knows it's not common, can't recall exactly where she picked it up, but she's been using it long enough it's a natural instinct these days. They don't know of, or perhaps choose to ignore, exactly how similar WindClan and the flatlanders truly are. To Cygnetstare it's a divide as clean as that between life and death: the moor cats are honorable, worthy of her loyalty, give her a home and good work; the marsh cats are disgusting, loathsome beasts to be put down. She smiles (a disturbing sight in and of itself) and mews, "Ayuh, jus' me, I'm afraid. Although we've all got our little quirks down in the tunnels. I'm sure ya moor-runners have your own."
​