private I KNOW OF LIES BY THE TRUTH I'VE BEEN TOLD - Ghostwail

HOUNDTHISTLE

JUST LET IT DIE
Jan 6, 2023
136
21
18

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

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Since losing his eyesight on his left and his son's return, the large brute's dreams had made a reappearance. Or, more nightmares would be the word. The large tom was curled up in a nest separate from the others, body curled tightly in on himself while his mind plagued him with such things. His legs twitched and his ears flicked back and forth in discomfort while he laid there, nose wrinkling in discomfort.



His large shape, less scarred and burdened by the weight of life, sat upon the edge of a sunset streaked forest, staring up at a wall of bald wood, flattened by hands much greater than his own. His eyes, wide with expectation as he sat there, tail thumping beside him. His pelt was shining, having spent most of the morning preening his pelt, looking for any flaws or strays amongst his bristly gray pelt, excited for this new chapter of his life. At any moment, her black shape would crest that wall like so many days before, and... this time he wouldn't have to say goodbye to her.
CAW
The world is bleary and gray, what was once an excited, straight sitting shape was now hunched in the same spot, amber eyes staring up with a heartbroken betrayal deep in them. A pelt once gleaming now was dulled, the negligence of the many hours he'd spent in this spot... waiting... it'd left him looking monstrous almost. A festering blister of resentment began to grow in his chest, a disdain deep within. Abandoned once more. With a close of his eyes and a deep, understanding sigh, the hulking form turns, his large paws swinging in his perceived darkness before they touch something both warm and cold at once.
caw
With a harsh jerk, he's standing upon the border of the moors, a silhouette of black far in the distance, motionless where it laid. Curls of ashy black swayed with the wind and Houndthistle's eyes widened, breath catching painfully. His senses were overloaded with the scent of iron, of dying fires, and of that warm, spicy scent that clung to his memories. But his paws were frozen, held down in place while he stared ahead. Overhead, circled thirteen crows, wheeling above the shape of black while Houndthistle stared in painful disbelief. His mouth opened to scream, screech angrily, anything to grab her attention, but the words didn't leave his mouth, teeth gnashing motionlessly. Internally, he begged her to rise, to move, anything.




In the waking world, his teeth were bared, brows pulled back in a look of horror and fear, ears pressed so tight to his battered, ruined head it looked like it hurt. But, more importantly, he muttered in his sleep, accented tones desperate as they barely rose above a growl, most of his mutterings incoherent save for a few words. "Soot...Soot..."


"speech"

  • @GHOSTWAIL hehe
  • Physical Health
    68%
    ⤷ left eye is blinded, deep bite wound and claw marks in chest, stomach, face, and shoulders. Currently offscreen healing thanks to Wolfsong and Vulturemask
    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

 
Medical attention would be needed for the wounds. Her rendezvous across the border had been a treat to herself, though it came with a stinging reminder of need. A need for herbs, for treatment, for unwanted attention lest the wound fester and become a problem rather than a prize. She dested the very thought of needing. It was antithetical to the core of her being. She needed not, she wanted for little, she spoke for less than even that. Still, the joker's grin ached and the crusted blood at the corner of her mouth was, perhaps, a bit too much of a distraction to allow to sit.

The den is dark, quiet, secluded away from the rest of the clan. Vulturemask is absent, the shadowy doctor having gone off to lurk in the sunlight amongst the rabble. Cats snooze in the darkness. Cats mutter in their sleep. They are of little consequence - caught between the remnants of a dream and the edges of rousing, the phantom of WindClan is utterly disinterested in either experience. Her clanmates are dour, unintelligent beasts, barely capable of intelligible speech let alone rich imagination. She turns tail to the exit, thoroughly annoyed with the complete waste of time that had been this trip, fully ready to march back to the surface when a soft growl tickles her ear. Soot, it snarls. Soot?

The phantom turns, burning eyes searching the gloom. Soot. A dog's growl, a hound's growl. Houndthistle, the great fool, the one who had been half-blinded by some ShadowClan beastie. Her distaste for the tom had a souring effect, pulling at the corners of her mouth as if she had taken a bite of crow-food. First, he had been stupid enough (or slow enough) to let some frog-scented mongrel touch his pelt, and had the gall to return with such a defeat laying across his shoulders. In a brighter world, he would have been done away with for his failure. But lo, they lived in this world, and in this world, the sovereign was merciful. How lucky for the dog.

Soot. Fear twists his features - fear, anguish, something more and less at the same time. Sootstar? SHe can only imagine the havoc StarClan's chosen is wreaking upon the dog in his dream. She imagines a bloody trial, a judgement for weakness when WindClan requires strength. "Hm. She rejected you, didn't she, dog. Fitting." is the quiet mutter she emits, so quiet it's almost a whisper on the wind.
- you call for peace when it suits you
 
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