camp JUST SING ALONG | campfire

[SOOTSPOT]

Sleep did not reach the tom easily that night. A dreamless existence within the Nursery had caused him to seek shelter underneath the stars instead, their scorn like needles within his pelt that convinced him to stay alert. He moved past the sleeping bodies bundled together and pressed himself against the entrance of the camp, a silent greeting offered to the guards. He found that few asked questions if they acted as if they belonged, but today, Sootspot lacked any intentions of leaving. He exhaled and narrowed his eyes at the fog that emerged from his maw, half-tempted to bite through it for daring to mar his vision.

It was getting cold.

That meant it was nearing twelve moons since he'd lost everything and been forced to rebuild anew.

In the distance, a small glow burned steadily against the horizon, thinner than a snake's pupil yet perfectly visible against the darkness of the night. He pictured another burning and almost welcomed it if it meant being rid of the winter, yet the shape did not shift past its original conception. When it seemed to dim, it was reignited anew, when it seemed like it burned too brightly, he watched it grow smothered by time. The sole flame seemed to be in constant battle with something unseen. He tilted his head towards it as if trying to learn such magic himself, but the logic was lost on him - how was anyone supposed to know what was too much or too little?

He turned his head as he heard stirring within the camp, pressing his form against the brambles to grab the attention of anyone who would hear the snapping twigs. "A curious sight on the horizon," he explained, smiling wearily at it. "Let us hope it is only temporary."




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[COLDBITE]

A silent sentry, he sits by camp's entrance and watches the horizon with flat bluesteel eyes. Guard duty does not bother him as it might some others; he feels no great pain in a momentary separation from his solitary nest. In fact, he finds the duty a privilege, to be tasked with guarding WindClan's heart while others dozed. Heavy paws knead at the burnishing grasses in an effort to stifle boredom and warm himself, autumn's chill nipping insistently at torn ears. It's growing near to the time of year when he will sit these shifts with drifts of snow piling up upon his flexing claws. Leaf-bare sits on the horizon.

So, however, does a flame. It smolders steadily in the distance, a miniature tongue of fire standing stark against the utter darkness of a leaf-fall night. Sleepless or summoned by an imagined hint of smoke, cats begin to materialize from the camp, following Sootspot sleepy-eyed and straggling. Coldbite lets his eyelids fall to half and says nothing until Sootspot opts to, bearing a weary grin at the faraway spark. Confusing. It confuses Coldbite, who has only ever known fire to be rampaging, all-consuming, unable to be tamed. Not this flame, which bobs and dims like a kept thing.

" Better hope so. " His gruff meow is as clipped as if he were talking to a treasured friend or a hated enemy, obscuring in its lack of variance. His tone never wavers, much like the blank stone of his face, though a faint irritation wars with the chill in his limbs. So many fancy words, such big talk ... it can't obscure the fact that Sootspot was once a traitor, lucky to still be lingering in their camp with his highbrowed words. More than the betrayal, he is obligate to loath the weakness, the other's willingness to defect in the face of defeat. Coldbite chuffs a breath out of his nose, like a dray horse, and says nothing more.

OOC : IC opinions only

❆

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[BUCKFIRE]

It is a sleepless night for Buckfire as well, the chocolate tabby having taken to simply staring up at the night sky in lieu of falling asleep. Maybe if he tried counting every one then he'd eventually find himself under a slumbering spell, though hushed voices sourcing from the camp entrance pique his interest. Now fully awake, the tom crawls out of his nest, weaving around the resting forms of his clanmates in order to reach where Sootspot and Coldbite are staring out onto the horizon.

Molten eyes peer with fascination at the flickering flame in the distance, the singular and tamed nature of it seeming to be the doing of twolegs. They knew how to control fire, how to create it and extinguish it. Buckfire himself had always wondered about the mystical ways of harnessing the element of destruction; it was beautiful and could take so much in so little time. Keeping a distance from it was for the better.

However... Buckfire has a curiosity that must be satiated. "Anyone game for checkin' it out?" The moor runner meows to those around him with a determined grin. He is sure that these folks have seen quite enough fire based on the scorched state of the moors, but Buckfire was mostly keen on finding out what the twolegs were up to. Surely he was not the only one who was nosy and wanted to spy?

𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 ✹ . + ˚ · 　 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋

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  — buckfire / 32 moons / he/him pronouns
  — windclan moor runner / shadowing scorchstorm / former loner
  — sh chocolate tabby tabby w/ orange eyes, nick in left ear & scratch on right side of lip
  — click for tags

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