camp I CAN MOVE MOUNTAINS l mapping

[wolverinefang]

"TURNS OUT I'M PRETTY GOOD AT RUNNING MY MOUTH"​

/before flood

Once the remnants of the blizzard passed, Wolve decided to make it a mission of his to get a lay of the land more thoroughly (especially with he and Bone's kits proving to be so rambunctious). He'd licked all the split hairs flat on the kit's heads, nuzzled his mate, and then received his usual half-hearted smile from Fogpaw before setting out. It's a clear enough day for a walk though the ice still stings his paw pads in a way that's just excruciating when he's first awoken. He ignores it, telling himself that it's too late to go toddling back now. The husky cat pays close attention to where his new clanmates tend to wander and where they don't and makes it his case to find out why. He has short chats with those willing, filling in missing blanks in his mental cartography. The gorge was hard to miss naturally but places currently inaccessible to him and of contention, like the sunning rocks or twoleg fire hole, swivels his ear in thought. Soon he's off again, thick paws leaving punched in tracks in the snow until he finds something that tilts his head.

It's some sort of towleg border but unlike the metal fence of the trash filled lot, he spots strange little structures. Even the vague shape of a twoleg walking in the far mist. Wolverinefang grits his teeth on a stinging hiss at the realization. No matter where you go, those mangy furred things are everywhere and he spits at the ground with a huff. "Who do they think they are..." The tom has no particular personally fueled hate for them, it's just the wariness of all feral cats combined with the worry of the twoleg's closeness to Riverclan and so his new family. Spotting a Riverclanner walking from what could be a patrol, Wolve beckons them over and presents the fence like it's something brand new. "Are twolegs always so up our tails out here?" Better than murderous monsters he supposes but not by much and what's it going to look like when the weather better fairs their bald forms...

BUT NOT GOOD ENOUGH — ♤​

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

He's tired of the snow already, wants to hunt and fish untethered by the slog of dragging his paws through partially melted muck and great heaps of frozen down. His distraction in listening for prey had him not even registering Wolverinefang's presence ahead until he is all but in front of the other and when the other tom speaks it is met with a slow blink and flattened ears.
The question gives him pause and he moves to join the other in his observing. "Those ones?" His lone orange gaze shifts, he stares pointedly out through the wire mesh to the shapes moving in the shroud of fog in the distance and he narrows that one eye as if annoyed. "They don't bother us much no. Not until newleaf when they come to the river to splash about with their kits and make a lot of noise." The only time he'd seen two-legs in their territory outside of that had been the ones with the thunderous sticks and projectile skewers, the ones who had laid traps and scared their prey, who caused such distress in the clan and made a mess of their territory.
The ones who had killed Cicadastar. He can still so vividly remember standing there slackjawed as the mottled tom was pinned to a tree with the long straight claw that had whizzed through the air without warning, how he had to turn and force their cats to run, to abandon him for their safety. His stomach still lurches and tightens in regret, remorse at having to have done so. He knew no one faulted him for it now, but he would never shake the image from his mind for as long as he lived he imagined.
Smokethroat exhales, adding his own breath to the haze that builds up around them and he spares the other black and white tom a sharp look before frowning. The white-spotted warrior had not been very thrilled over their ShadowClan refugees. While Hyacinthbreath came exiled with only herself and an apprentice, willing to fight and hunt for them, he could not deny the annoyance he felt over having to handle newborn kits alongside the accidental litter Willowroot gave them as well. It was several mouths to feed and only one would hunt for himself. The other child, the quiet one, seemed too skittish and Smokethroat had been avoiding him after their first encounter; feeling his sharpness and accidental harsh tone might cause further issue.
Still, if they tried. If they committed. They'd be RiverClanners eventually, perhaps.
"How goes things with you and yours?"

​

 

[Cindershade]

She had been running the dry land with Smokethroat, trying to find any morsel of food she could in order to feed RiverClan and their growing numbers. It was getting to be exhausting, clearly taking a toll as she came up more empty-pawed than she had before, her pride taking stabs each time. It seemed new faces shown every day, though she didn't particularly like it, she made herself think a but more optimistically. New faces meant more paws to help, new faces also meant a stronger clan with sheer numbers too.
Cindershade hadn't hardly been able to find a mouse or anything, wishing once again that the river would unfreeze and they'd have fish a plenty once more, even in these frigid temperatures. They were a little harder to catch as they resided closer to the bottom, but at least when the sun was out they'd move closer to the surface. She gives out a hiss of annoyance, cursing under her breath at her bad luck streak continuing on; maybe she'd try at it later. Wolverinefang had called Smoke over to him, pointing out to the webbed mesh barrier with a sour expression. The shaded warrior raises a brow at the hulking tom quizzically, moving towards the duo to get a better idea of what they were speaking about.
Ah. Two-Legs. Wretched creatures. Cindershade hated the very sight of them and their rambunctious kits, even more so the drooling mutts they usually carried along with then. "Two-Legs just think everything is their little play thing. They think they can go wherever they please. Entitled creatures." The rosetted warrior would grumbled, staring down the silhouette of one that stood in the distance.
​

[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[BEESONG]

beesong considers himself to have a unique outlook on twolegs compared to most, if not all, of his clanmates. he does not view them as the evil creatures they're deemed as by feral colonies, but he knows they are not saints. they are all as capable of good as they are bad; just like cats. they've saved him from the brink of death, nursed him to health and treated him with love and kindness, as quickly as they'd taken the life of cicadastar and painted the river with the blood of many others.

he regards them with caution, but he does not hate them.

their curled ear twitches towards smokethroat, as the lead warrior falls off-track to meet wolverinefang. beesong had accompanied the ink-dipped tom in a search for herbs; specifically chervil, the memory of sickly sweet infection embedding itself into an empty eye socket too recent on their mind, yet the frost proves relentless after the blizzard. there is nothing but snow as far as they could see.

like smokethroat, beesong had not been thrilled at the prospect of three shadowclan cats joining... especially bonejaw, abandoning her duty for a life of frivolity, where she does not have to worry about the sick and injured and dying every waking moment. maybe it's envy, that she could leave it all behind so easily while they are stuck in a clan that has never truly been their home. imprisoned by obligations. but there's nothing that they could do, except bite their tongue and carry on. cicadastar makes the decisions, not them.

he just wished that cicadastar would be more cautious, with which cats he allows in and who he antagonizes.

wolverinefang is looking towards the twoleg camp, and beesong follows the other's gaze with a hum. it grates on his nerves, hearing the insults hurled towards a twoleg who seems to be doing nothing more than minding their business. it's always been a funny concept to beesong, the idea of owning the earth. that idea had been what caused the great battle... it's a dangerous mindset, more often than not. but he doesn't voice his displeasure, keeping his expression neutral and fur unruffled as he watches the silhouette of twoleg milling about... he wonders what they're doing, out here in the cold? it must be much warmer in their den, next to the miniature fire that burned in the leaf-bare months.​