pafp Half alive and haunted

[SMOKESTAR]

Frosted dew clung to everything come morning, he could feel the grass crack and splinter beneath his paws in its new fragility. When he breathed it was great white plumes like smoke rising from his nostrils and maw, the fire inside him the source of his billowing cloud; or rather not, just the cold. The dark tom gave a rigid shake as he trudged back into camp, dawn patrol having stirred him from his nest far earlier than he would have preferred if he had actually been sleeping but most nights he stared at the stars instead. Come winter he'd be much more inclined to remain in his nest for longer but right now he was content being as busy as possible; only pausing every so often to take Iciclepaw out or sit and catch the last rays of sunshine on sunning rocks before eventually the sky would darken and the sun would be an uncommon occurance. To say he was a little highstrung was an understatement, every moment wasted was prey uncaught and a belly hungry.

Smokethroat considered stopping for a moment, catching himself and taking the time to organize his thoughts more proper but a hunting party had just gone out, he gathered from the comments around the camp and his gaze drew to the freshkill pile looking ever more small and pathetic with each passing day; his decision to go sit a moment quickly changed to a more productive focus. Might as well go fishing before the river sealed itself off from them and they were left flounding on the shore.
He turned to quickly pad around the nursery to the edge of camp only to catch the molly headlong, having not even noticed her standing there at the angle he'd been in prior, "Stars above, you startled me-why are you sitting back here..."
Buckgait was usually hard to miss in the camp but when she holed herself off to the side it was like she just disappeared entirely. He imagined the brown pelt helped, though they would both be out of luck come leaf-bare when both their coats stuck out like sore thumbs in the vast expanse of endless white that coated everything.


@BUCKGAIT.
& @CICADASTAR - but only wait for Buckgait before posting pls~
​

 

[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

she's been staring at what they've all been lookin' at these past days. a dwindling freshkill pile, a new worry added to buck's shoulders. something to make her eyes turn sharper and her breath quicker. patrols haven't been catching as much as they used to, and these cats are still eating as if it's newleaf. she thinks that the chill in the air should have cooled her off, but vapid heat courses through the deputy. something poisonous as she watches her lead warrior look at the same pathetic thing she's been stuck hating. and he's got nothing to sacrifice.

she should just keep her calm, ignoring the hunger in her stomach that claws and tears at her. something close to punishment for her failure of a hunting party. it's clear that the white-dappled tom is heading out of these sacred walls, it's clear he's trying. but it's not enough to satiate the molly. both judge and executioner, and with him dead in her sights. this overarching anger, something that tears at her vocal cords and demands control over her. she had used to be far calmer than this; but she's never been in charge of so many lives before. when the world was just and good, she only had a small babe to care for. then caraway and raccoon. she's never meant to be in this position, but she'd rather swallow holly berries before admitting it.

her eyes darken as he calls to her, lip curling into some god-awful sneer. a glint of canines and a clear aggression to the woman. something to make any sane cat turn tail and run for the moors. but smoke was nothing close to sane; he was more like a lump of pebbles. cold and hard and only for those with the strangest of interests. her heart felt heavy in her ribcage, a warning for buck to turn before she does something she'll regret. but lately, she's been ruled by her emotions.

a heavy huff leaves her, audible and clearly up to no good. "watching. quite a sad pile we got, isn't it?" it is not said with interest, more accusatory and harsh in its fashion. her eyes are heavy upon him, with a stiff stature. "i told dawn patrol to not show their face in this camp until they've gotten something to add to the freshkill pile, where is your share?" she knows that a hunting patrol is currently out as they speak, but it won't be enough. they'll have more mouths in the worst season, and she can already hear the apprentices complain of empty stomachs. she won't let them go hungry.
​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Buckgait's sharp look did not scare him and he realized that bothered her. Cats often scurried away under her reproachful gaze, dipped their heads obediently and ran off to do as instructed and the fact he did not bend or yield to her authority was something she didn't like. Smokethroat stared at her incredulously at the comment, the accusation, before giving a sharp scoff of indifference and moving to step past her, "I was on my way out to hunt, your majesty. You know, I heard WindClan loves their dictatorships-maybe you'd be more comfortable there." The freshkill pile was growing smaller and smaller each day and he noticed as well, only a fool or a child would not realize the urgency and significance but if she wanted him to jump when she demanded and roll over when told then she was sorely mistaken. "Maybe go hunt some yourself." Rather than sit here and glare at the pile like she could scare the prey into collapsing onto it like she did her clanmates.
He often had the thought that they didn't get along because they were so similar, but while that was most certainly true in the beginning it was anything but true now and he lashed his tail before attempting to stride along right past her to go about his business. Maybe he'd make a point to grab what frogs lingered before it snowed to ensure she had a very well-cultivated meal to enjoy.

​

 

[BEESONG]

beesong hates arguments. they cause his skin to crawl with foreboding, his chest constricting to the point where each breath is sharply painful. arguments always seem to be a precursor to unsheathed claws and blood splattered across the ground. so, his muscles tense into rigid lines when he overhears buckgait and smokethroat's near-hostile exchange as he's padding towards the fresh-kill pile. the thought of eating is suspended indefinitely, and he freezes in his tracks. before it has even come to blows, beesong is preparing himself to tend to wounds today.

they keep their distance; an act of self-preservation they've come to know as selfish. the copper taste of their own blood spills across their tongue as they worry with the inside of their cheek, agonizing over their stock. would they have enough marigold? with leaf-bare here, the yellow flowers would be nearly impossible to find.

the tension is mounting. it is nearing the breaking point, beesong thinks, and their chest grows tighter yet. but they've practiced this mask of stoicism, wrapped in a safety blanket of half-lidded eyes and a mouth drawn into a thin line. it is second nature to them, by now, to hide behind these walls and wait for the storm to pass so that they could clean up the mess after. it always hurt less, this way.

but smokethroat goes to leave before it escalates, and beesong sees an opportunity. "please, don't." it's quiet, even for the medicine cat, spoken to buckgait. a plea for her to let it go along with smokethroat's departure. still, he doesn't dare to inch closer, afraid that he would risk the sting of claws if he did.​