Jul 9, 2022
Something has shifted on the moors. A whole herd of cats have moved in, helping themselves to the hillsides. Hare has watched them from his barn, chasing critters and causing a ruckus over some new fandangle they're calling WindClan. His first thought happens to be along the lines of, what if they've brought some damned sickness with 'em? His leg twitches just thinking about it. With such a dense population, ailments would surely spread like a wildfire on a hot Greenleaf day.

But the further he observes 'em, the more curious he becomes. It'd be mighty rude of him to not introduce himself at the least; his ma had taught him better than that! The curiosity and ingrained southern hospitality eventually outweigh the fear, and Hare wanders out into the open fields. He idles about for a good few minutes before he spots someone, his ears perking as they reroute and head towards him. "How're y'all?" he greets around the straw of hay he'd been nervously chewing on, dipping his head in a respectful greeting. "Ah'm Hare; Ah couldn't help but tah notice y'all'd just moved in 'nd Ah wanted tah come 'nd give y'all a warm welcomin'." He smiles at them, although he keeps a safe distance. "Uh, so- What is this here, ah, whatchamacallit..." Good gracious, he couldn't remember what they'd been calling themselves! "This, uh, thingamajig y'all got goin' on here?"
*:・゚✧*:・゚✧ Weasel, as promised, had gone straight to the nearest stream to wash the stink of the barn from his fur. He had never noticed, of course, since all of the cats who resided there had smelled that way, but now that he's been baptized with moor water, he's cleansed entirely of his old residence and scented faintly of heather and hare.

He can see her point, as he comes across a dun-colored tom with a bit of straw in his mouth. The stench is undeniable. He wrinkles his nose as he stalks closer to the tomcat. He's babbling in a bizarrely accented voice. Weasel smirks.

"Ah. It's you. I've seen you around before." The tabby eyes the other, noting his anxious posture and tone. He's mildly amused. "You're on WindClan territory. I imagine Soot will be along shortly to see if I've rolled in horse manure." He snorts faintly in amusement. "She's our leader."
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Weasel is correct, once again she is investigating the (irritatingly) common scent of a horse's disposal. This time however she isn't sure what to expect, Weasel or another barn cat friend of his...? How many could possibly live in that barn?! How many of them are going to keep waltzing all over the moors, spreading their stench? She'd have to put a stop to this somehow, the hills were for her and WindClan's soldiers now. They'd have to find someplace else to walk all over.

Sure enough, it's Weasel and what she assumes is another barn cat. He carries the strongest dung scent after all now that Weasel has spent a few nights out of there.

The blue molly does not appreciate the stranger's warm welcome, WindClan didn't need or want his hospitality. But... if this was a friend of Weasel's in any shape she decides not to bite too deep. For now.

"Thanks for the welcome." She forces through bared teeth, "I'm Soot. I'd introduce Weasel but you've already met him... anyways... We're very busy so if that is all we will be on our way and you should be too." Very quick to dismiss she was.

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Wherever Soot was when she wasn't with her kits, Hyacinth was almost always close behind or within earshot. Call her over-protective all you'd like, she didn't trust these barn cats coming in and welcoming themselves into their ranks. Her tail lashed behind her when she smell of horse manure wafted over her nose, and she grimaced. Another one? How many fucking barn cats can fit into a barn...

Standing up from her place within long blades of grass, Hyacinth made her way over to stand beside Soot; eyes squinting in suspicion of the cat with the ridiculous accent.

"And speak clearly. I can barely fuckin' understand you." The femme added onto Soot's statement and dismissal, seating herself to listen.

//ic opinions
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Dusks position in the clan was shaky, at best. He wasn't sure if there was a cat among them who truly trusted or welcomed him, though the blind tabby hadn't seemed all that averse to him. They didn't bristle at him or speak with the commanding authority the other cats did. Inky, they'd called him.

The rest of them watched him like a hawk, and none had their eyes glue to him with as much scrutiny as Hyacinth. Ever since Sootstar had assigned her and the tom to keep an eye on him, Dusk seldom was allowed out of her watch, and so it was no surprise the large tomcat was in tow, his tall, muscled form stalking along beside the group in silence.

All things considered, Dusk was easy to go along with things. He wasn't too proud to take orders - not after what he'd just come from- and to be honest it wasn't horrible. For once he had something to do other than meeting his basic survival needs, and for now that was enough to keep him pliable and docile.

As the group apprached the tom, Dusk would add nothing to the conversation at hand. Instead he made his way over to stand along Hyacinth, keeping some distance between himself and the pair of shecats as he fixed his gaze on the stranger who'd called out to them. If he'd been expecting a warm welcome in return then he'd been sorely mistaken- even Dusk could tell him that.

If there was one thing he'd been quick to pick up on it was that the Windclan cats were extremely posessive and careful with what they considered theirs, and while he knew he wasn't yet considered one of them, the spotted male was easily able to mimic their stiff body language and indifferent expression as he stood among them. Because to this stranger there was no difference- they were all moor cats, and Dusk would be damned if he was going to be called out by Soot or Hyacinth for looking weak or unsure in front of a stranger who sizing their group up- even if it was in a seemingly harmless way.

United front, or whatever, right?

windclan warrior - male - 17 months - homosexual - polyamorous - single - bengal
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Great heavens, he's swarmed within seconds... Hare is grateful to see at least one familiar face, although the brown tabby he recognizes from the barn is only a friendly acquaintance at best. Hare hadn't noticed his absence, couldn't even recall his name, but he gives the other tom a smile. The tabby tom tells him that he's on WindClan land, and it clicks in his mind then. WindClan! That's what they've been callin' this shindig. And it looks like his former barnmate has thrown in his lot with 'em. "Well, Ah'll be! You've found yerself with the wild folk, then?" There's a playful glimmer in Hare's gaze.

But that glimmer fizzles out with the next two to greet him. The blue smoke visibly struggles with being polite, and Hare quirks a brow at her strained expression. He fiddles with the hay in his mouth. She reveals herself as WindClan's leader, and graciously reminds him of Weasel's name. "It's no problem, li'l lady! Ev'ryone deserves a li'l courtesy." Hare stares at her for a moment, hoping that she'd understand his subtle message...

The young dappled molly does not make any attempt to be friendly. She tells him to speak clearly, and spouts out some unfavorable words... His ego is definitely bruised after that remark. Despite the straw of hay he'd placed between his teeth in hopes of quelling bad habits, his molars still find the inside of his cheek. Does he really talk that poorly?

Hare's eyes narrow ever so slightly, the wrinkle of his nose betraying his mild irritation (and hurt). "Best t' watch yer mouth, young lady. Yer attitude's gonna lose ya more friends than it will earnin' 'em." He tries to pronounce his words more clearly, but his strong accent does not leave his voice. His hind leg begins to bounce on the ground.

The next, and last, tom to join them does not say anything. Hare gives the rosetted feline a smile weaker than his previous ones, still mulling over the dappled molly's words. She'd truly hurt his feelings...

Soot is quick to dismiss him, but... Well, shoot, he's interested in this WindClan now more than ever. "Say, what would it take fer me tah join y'all?" They could use a few lessons on manners from him.


Little lady?! There was no way she had just introduced herself as leader of WindClan for him to call her by such a... casual term. It lacked any sort of formality, it lacked authority... little lady... "It's Madame to you or nothing at all." She huffs, not usually that strict on what title she was given... but she would not stand by being called such simple terms by someone... lower than her. By someone who smelled of horse dung and stale hay.

"Hycanith is fine. You are not one of us, she owes you no respect." Again, this outsider was unintentionally (as far as she was aware) pushing her buttons. To most he'd seem highly mannered... but to Soot he came off the exact opposite. He reprimanded one of her own soldiers in front of her? How dare he!

"It takes learning to stop stepping on my toes and a good word from Weasel." Again she seeks the brown tabbies' guidance, the same exact risks stand before him with lying to her as it did with Lunaria. She was sure he'd not have to be told that though. "What do you say...? Can a loyal WindClanner be made out of him? Or do we keep him sleeping with the horses?"

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Weasel flicks disinterested blue eyes first Hyacinth's way, and then Dusk's. They aren't Soot, so their opinions hold no water for him. But when the blue smoke does speak, Weasel can see she isn't impressed. The tabby inwardly groans. This barn cat had wandered all the way out here to give them a welcome? He gives the foolish pale cat an exasperated look, only worsened when he refers to Soot as a little lady.

He cringes instantly. It's as though he can feel flames and smoke radiating from the small queen. She swings her head over to Weasel and demands to know if he can vouch for Hare.

He looks almost helplessly at the barn cat. What could he say, but the truth? "I don't know him that well. We saw each other, but we weren't friends, really." His tone is flat, but not cruel. "But he can hunt, and he's not a kittypet. His, um... mannerisms... I think he means well. Some cats back there talk that way." He shrugs. It is, unfortunately, the best he can give Soot. He hopes it's enough--if not, then, well, Hare will have to escort himself back to the barn, he supposes.

Hare flinches back in an instant. The fur along his neck rises, not out of hostility but out of fear. He had struck one too many nerves in the blue smoke even though his only intention was to be courteous. The fawn tom lowers himself to the ground, his stomach brushing the dirt and his tail tucked beneath him. His head dips, staring at his paws. He has a feeling that he does not want to be on her bad side. She's already intimidating enough! "Ah'm mighty sorry, madame. Ah didn't mean you any disrespect." His teeth dig deeper into the side of his cheek until the tang of blood blossoms on his tongue, the straw of hay long forgotten.

She owes you no respect. His hind leg thumps against the ground quicker. Everyone deserves to be treated with respect. That's what his ma had taught 'em. But he does not dare to speak back to Soot again. Instead, he blurts out, "Yes, ma'am." He's playing it as safe as he could.

Soot tells him that he needs to learn to stop stepping on her toes, which Hare doesn't understand where she got that idea from... He never intended to do such a thing! "Yes, ma'am," he repeats. Then, she turns to Weasel for his advice. Hare risks a glance towards the brown tabby, his breath bated as Weasel speaks.


Weasels words were good enough. This tom didn't sound impressive in the slightest but..."I've accepted worse." it was true. There were a couple of kittypets running around now and Soot watched eagerly for them to bend and go back to their twolegs.

"I trust that Weasel speaks the truth... you're nothing special but you're nothing terrible... So long as you'll be a loyal warrior of WindClan you may enter. But as I've told your other barn friends, that stench of horse? Wash it out, immediately."

She's accepted worse. Hare frowns, his ears flat against his head. Well, that was mighty rude. Sure, he ain't nothin' special, but he'd hoped he was a decent tom. But he's granted entry anyways, as long as he's a loyal warrior of WindClan. The fawn tom nods, hesitantly straightening as if afraid that the domineering she-cat might smack him for being disrespectful. "Ah'm mighty thankful, miss." He dips his head for good measure, his hind leg still tapping the ground.