camp LIE STILL ⋆⁺₊ ☾ ⁺₊⋆ strange trinket

⋆⁺₊ ☾ ⁺₊⋆  The skull is pristine. Sunbleached so white as to be blinding, tiny teeth glinting like pearls in the evening sun. There's a sheen to the silken blood-thread that trails through gaps in eyes and mouth, wound carefully around its alabaster form. Once, it belonged to a rat, housed the mind of some rancid and scurrying thing that certainly found home in the Carrionplace. Now, it is Swansong's. It is, in all concievable ways, perfect.

It certainly helps that it was gifted by her dearest friend. White and red, just like them, just like the torn twoleg-toy in the mangled shape of a bear. Their heart is light as they carry it to the warriors' den. It is a special thing, a perfect treasure, a token of admiration more beautiful than any flower - and certainly longer lasting. She dons a warm smile as she places the trinket at the head of her nest, looking out the den's entrance that it may always greet her. A watchful talisman - a blessing, crafted by holy paws. There are other eyes looking upon the treasure, but she does not turn to greet them. "Marvelous, isn't it...?" the pale tabby gushes. Their voice is soft as wind through trees, their pallid eyes glittering with a distant sort of reverie.

  • takes place after this thread, which means it's before the meeting (liquid time is weird)
  • 81294824_mjXd5ejx6RrZPyn.png
  • SWANSONG ⋆⁺₊ ⁺₊⋆ she / they, warrior of shadowclan, fourteen moons.
    a pale, silky-furred cream tabby with tired blue eyes.
    dreamy and detached, known for her perpetual sleepiness.
    halfshade x smogmaw, littermate to applejaw, garlicheart, & ashenfall.
    peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
    penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

In a nest stuffed with enough objects to spill into her neighbour's living spaces, Ferndance peered out over the bundles of moss and StarClan-knows-what to satiate curiosity, indications of a sleepiness day evident in the sluggish way she lifted her head. Ferndance's pupils were as wide as anything as her gaze settled upon the rat skull, her tail lashing left and right as if preparing the she-cat to pounce on a piece of prey. She leaned at different angles to get a better look at it, noting the teeth as a standout feature of the figure. Flat edged but longer than her own, the cinnamon tabby couldn't help her fascination. "It's gorgeous..." She whispered in awe, paws itching as if fleabitten. "Are you going to eat it? It's very good for you, it contains good things," Ferndance suggested half-seriously, nodding her head confidently, though, she could not say what good things could be found in stark white rat skulls. Her gaze wandered between the cream tabby and the trinket, focusing more on the latter than the former. It would probably be a wise choice for the younger warrior to keep a greater eye on it until the 'new shiny thing' mystique had wore off in the known thief.


Amassing oddities and various other collectibles seems to be the clan's preferred pastime. Smogmaw cannot deny his own indulgence in the practice. Beneath the roots of a good two or three pine trees are the remnants of dens he'd carved out many seasons ago; caches for peculiar mushrooms and brightly-colored bits and bobbles he'd deemed interesting at the time. The innate compulsion to collect and protect is, by this point, synonymous with the name ShadowClan. They hoard anything and everything if it has some measured value, practical or otherwise.

Black-striped forelegs folded over his dishevelled nest's lip, the deputy's regard flits upward to meet his daughter's as she enters the warrior's den. Bliss imbues him to be in any of his progeny's company, and as such, he also takes a keen interest in the knickknack cradled in her jaw. It's a skull. A rat's skull, and in an extraordinarily clean condition. His noggin raises aloft when it's given a spot at Swansong's resting place, then moves to take a seat beside it.

"Don't eat it, please," he meows cagily, sensing irony in the suggestion but making the plea nonetheless. A cursory glare trains on Ferndance shortly thereafter; the molly's somewhat of a collector herself, and capable of appropriating this skull for her own hoard if she so wished. "A beautiful find, indeed. Wonder what'd happened to the rat it belonged to." His muzzle gives rise to a gentle smirk, before a similarly gentle lick smoothes over the creamy fur between Swansong's ears. "No matter, it's yours now."