harvest moon ꕥ flower sniffing

[LAMBCURL.]

Along the river's edge, this one crawls. The waters were not so daunting now. No longer swollen with a mass of snowmelt, but relatively regular... relatively. And relatively, it is unimportant. Though the gorge may consume him if ever it's needed, today is not that day. His true purpose is not quite clear, though... Searching, searching... He's tread high and low across the moor since sundown, eyes peeled for any whisperings of poison. Dandelion had so thoughtfully informed them all... Had spoken of this place's horrors, naturally grown; creeping...crawling... Flowers that bloomed oh-so-prettily, even if they tried to hide within the bite of leaf-bare. He would find them all the same, for he wished to help, more than anything...

A light in the darkness, a sprig of something. Familiar flowers... Oh, could it be? He could not imagine what it was otherwise! Pale and plentiful, clumped together in small little blooms. Yes, this would do nicely. Vulture would be pleased... Oh, but of course, he would need to bring it closer before he succumbed to any ailment. He grasps it carefully. He needs to, if he wouldn't like to die this moment. (That is not to say that Lambcurl would be remorseful. A lesson in its deadly nature at worse. A resource to all, nonetheless). With the buds secured, he begins the pilgrimage back home. He does not dare to remove it from the stars' view. What other motivation would there be for living, cold on this moor, other than to see the stars? Yes, all things deserved beauty in their last moments... The moonlight hits them both; cool glow.

He's prepared to lay down his life for the experiment that should follow. A test of the poisonous nature of this little plant. It could be a tool for them both; for them all. But its boundaries should be tested, he figures. Lest the bodies of his clanmates fall dead within a step to the hollow. Was the smell alone deadly? It was important they know, wasn't it...?

And so, moon-bathed; he takes a deep whiff and hoards it to himself, so not an ounce of that poisonous vapor could be spilled elsewhere. Nothing about it spelled deadly, but in his time in the moors, he has learned that nature was an extraordinary craftsman. Not everything would be quite as it seemed. Shadows could be deadly, and snow could burn. Yes, surely he would succeed soon. So quiet that he couldn't hope to feel it, and soon, he'd be one with the stars...

Resigned to his fate, Lambcurl lies amongst the deadened grass and snow, belly up. Pale-white flower in the midst of a dull field. What a way to go...

[ TL;DR: Following Dandelion's poison lesson, Lamb went looking for some hemlock to bring vulture (don't ask why he thinks he wants that). But first obvious he has to test if the smell is deadly enough so now he's just lying in the grass in the middle of the night waiting to die tbh . (It's actually fennel but its hard to tell since its dark!!) i plan on making a thread later where he gives it to vulture tehe <3; tagging @SUNSTRIDE but no need to wait :) ]​

 

[MALLOWLARK]

White on dead-pale grass, upon foliage yellow-green from lack of sun's care, a figure. In the dead of nightfall, one even more stark- a recognisable figure, pale as a cadaver, though not quite as cold. Not quite as dead- maybe. It took a moment to notice the subtle rise and fall of ribs, but they were there, those soft inhalations. In and out, in and out, silent song of life. A shame, really, not to find a mysterious corpse- what a mystery would ensue! As to whether the moor had devoured them, had driven their mind to melt to the wills of madness, of their body had simply given up while trapped in a vat of poison; but no, this one was alive. Alive and Lambcurl, a friend.

Eyes set wide as the moon, grin even wider, the hulking tom loomed above the similarly-pelted other like a malevolent apparition. He betrayed his mood with an ever-gleeful expression, glad to see that Lambcurl was not a corpse, as fun as detective work might be. "Break your legs?" he asked, a lilting question that shone from the inside out. No pity sugared his tone- no, only curiosity, and the most shadowed and morbid kind of it. Why else would he lie, fallen like a thunderstruck tree?​

☺PENNED BY PIN​

 

[SUNNVAR]

Ah, but what a scene to stumble across. He should have known better– seeing Lambcurl and Mallowlark in the same area was warning enough, like a lion's roar of the stories, or a wolf pack's howls. A sign of something deadly to come. Never would he have guessed that something deadly had already happened. At least in one's way of thinking. The moor runner had been out for a lonesome patrol, perhaps in search of peace of mind or a piece of prey, or perhaps just wearing out his energetic paws, when he stumbles across the scene. With Mallowlark's question ringing through his mind even from a distance, he picks up the pace. Curious, alarmed, and then, abruptly, relieved. He is no healer, no herb-tongue as these cats may raise, he knows a broken limb.

Though the strange tom is splayed against the pale grass, he is not made of uneven edges. A sigh ghosts out in the cold. "I would expect more howling, were anything in him broken. Lambcurl does not seem one to suffer in silence." A bold-faced lie from one who does not know the other, who could never expect to know anything. But it is spoken with a playful curl to his mouth, which hides lingering worry. "This is not the time nor place to rest weary bones. Come to camp, where you may warm yourself in peace, strange one."

﹥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"

​

 

[LAMBCURL.]

He waits, and yet, the star's embrace never comes. His body is warm. Not in the way that makes him feel fuzzy, comfortable in the heat of the sun; or surrounded by the pelts of his friends. Warmth that says he is alive, and nothing more than that.

He's... confused. Truly, he can tell he breathes all the same, when the voice he hears is crystal clear. Always happy to see a friend, of course. The moon-bright smile that looks upon him is nothing other than heart-warming. And the question that tittles forth, unassuming when said with a grin. Lambcurl accepts him welcomingly, but... conflicted, his smile drops. The two of them could be near the same, on any other night, aside from the stark contrast in size. Today, it is not so. Lips are pressed thin, and pink eyes are wide. (The night is merciful in this, that he may blink owlishly, and not shed a tear for his mistake.) "No," plainly, he answers. Without hostility, it is, because they were one in the same. Merely curious.

He could be happier, with the voice of Sunstride near, too. Lambcurl hums with what he says. It is not true, but he'd hate to tell the tom anything different. Lambcurl rolls over just in time to see him smile. Being warmed in camp sounded more than pleasant, especially with this place, he's found himself in.

And he looks to his bounty, a poison, not carried through smell. He supposes this is a good thing, even if he had expected it differently. The clan would not be so polarized by it's presence... Fine, then. And, lead warrior as he was, his word is law. The hemlock then, he grasps in his jaw. "Oh yes, I will, then..." His smile curls again, placcid in this company. He only hopes his rest won't be on his lonesome...​