pafp LILY OF THE VALLEY | introduction

Aug 20, 2023
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"Honey! Honey! Wait for meeee!" Came the little squeak of the soot-grey molly, like the lithe spoor of the wildfire's walk, the ashes that fluttered upon destruction's wake. She was but a specter to her more boisterous clanmates, if that could even be attributed to the glum nature of those who made their home in the swamp. 'Little Ghost' was what they tacked onto her, though she much preferred the name her mother called her. Chervilkit. Cher-vil-kit. She swore she must have been named that after 'Little Ghost.'

Still, tiny paws pitter-pattered against the peaty ground, like the soft song of the drizzling rain, the background refrain to a much louder and raucous world. Even the meekest of melodies deserved merit, she figured. As blind as her naivete was her forbearance, for what else could she do but forgive what she did not understand? I forgive you!, chirped the porcelain girl to the wind that blew without cause. I forgive you!, called the featherweight molly to the larger titans that bumped her aside. I forgive you!, Chervilkit mewed to a sister without heed to spare. The shadow to the sun, the gloaming to the glow. That's okay, Chervilkit reasoned. I don't mind being a shadow if I get to spend time with my big sister.

Dull mint-green eyes swam along the furls of Honeypaw's pelt, as though they had been plucked from the dawn, strings intro tapestries from the molten morning. It was certainly much more vibrant than the swamplands around them, for the shadows clung to the rough flesh of the pine and the night overstayed its sordidly-undue welcome. It was Shadowclan's birthright, after all. Even varnished pitches seemed to embrace themselves upon Chervil's own statue, revenant and retentive of the haunts that came before. A wraith of a girl, with none of the wrath.

And suddenly, Chervilkit found herself upon the cold earth. The same floor that led her step and hugged at velour pawpads now deigned her to her doom. The despondent kitten barely even noticed she had fallen until the outstretched palm of the dirt cushioned her with no penance. Owwww.

She glanced backwards and saw that an errant root reared a crimped limb in her stead, as though some horned beast that stood upon some mawkish-heroic path of derring-do. Chervil hadn't even seen it, when had it gotten there? Perhaps it had simply emerged then, in a blinding flash of white-hot misfortune. She wasn't often graced with luck, was she? Forever the fool with a fracture in her footfall and a fog in her fantasies. She wasn't any match for the great beast that was the knoll.

The kitten's fur soaked in all of the mud's glory and triumph as if the filth was far too eager to mar her tortie-colored coat, sinking wet and smeared talons into the purity of stupidity. A 'waaaah' softly rolled out of velvet lips, as though it would summon her sister back to her. "Wahh! Wait for me, please!" She mewled a mere susurration now. A folly of a meadowlark's monotone, the throes of a little ghost.

( @honeypaw & please wait for them to respond :3 )
 
sweet like honey
———— ( ) ————
Foul weather had lend to a foul mood that followed Honeypaw like a raincloud. A little speckled gray raincloud that followed her every pawstep. A little raincloud she could've sworn was named Chervilkit. Their mother's favorite, Honeypaw's least favorite. She'd rather babysit the crybaby ShadowClanner that had fumbled his way into their medicine den while he recovered than she would her crybaby little sister released from the nursery. Since when was it Honeypaw's job to take care of kits? Chervilkit calls for her and Honeypaw's walk quickens to a trot. Her sunglow tail lashes behind her with poorly hidden irritancy as the gentle of patter of raindrop paws continues to follow her across camp. Honeypaw had half a mind to just leave camp altogether, but she knew the trouble she'd get in for that one. Either Chervilkit was stupid enough to follow and suddenly Honeypaw had her paws way fuller making sure she didn't hurt herself, or she stayed behind and cried about being left behind. Either way Honeypaw knew an earful from their mother waited for her at sun fall.

Her shadow left her side ever so briefly to stumble into a puddle, the wet squelch of mud reaching Honeypaw's ears before Chervilkit's pathetic cries for her. Her head twists over her shoulder to see what had befallen her little sister; her splotched coat was even uglier now, soiled with mud that oozed off of her fur. Honeypaw's steps faltered as she stared back. She knew better than to keep walking away, as much as she wanted to. She knew she was in the view of her Clanmates, and her behavior would be whispered straight into their mother's ear. Honeypaw's nose wrinkles as she realizes she has no choice but to turn around, begrudgingly turning around to slowly approach Chervilkit. "Get up," the molly instructs, voice lacking warmth. "Watch where you're going. You made yourself filthy, Chervilkit." Why was she so insistent on following Honeypaw around? To the point where she'd tripped and fell staring at her. Honeypaw couldn't stand it. Couldn't stand that in their father's death, Chervilkit found her way into the nursery alongside their mother and Honeypaw had been booted out to the apprentice's den. She loathed the distance she felt after the passing of their father. But whatever. Right? She was a growing cat. She was rapidly approaching becoming a warrior. She wouldn't always have the time to fuss over unimportant cats.

(Was it fair to take all her anger out on a kit? Her sister no less?)

Copper eyes narrow at the ever so brief fleeting thought that was quickly chased away by another wave of anger. Honeypaw extends her paw forward to help Chervilkit straighten herself. "Don't you have anything else to do today that isn't-" annoying me, she barely bites back, "getting yourself messy? Or do you like playing in puddles?"

 

━━ι═══════ It is not Clearheart's favorite downpour today. There are differences, of course, for all that they lack terms to describe what is not a measure of intensity. Yes, at times it drizzles and at others it storms, but what of the difference between thunderstorms, or between the faint sprinkling? What of the temperature, the shape of the droplets, their crescendos and decrescendos? Clearheart has categorized the weather to such terms, and today, the clouds are thick, yet the rain itself is hardly heavy. It seems a deceptive excuse to hide the sky from them. Will they remain at nightfall, obscuring StarClan from them?

His gaze wanders back down to the earthly plane, where he notices Honeypaw with her sister, Chervilkit, trailing behind determinedly. Honeypaw must be aware of her, and yet her pace does not shift to accommodate her younger sister, and Clearheart alters his course in their direction. It is then that Chervilkit trips and muddies herself in the process, which is not so uncommon a sight in ShadowClan, where warriors return from hunts sometimes thickly splattered. Yet Honeypaw chides her without compassion, and Clearheart does not understand why such a chill lingers between family.

"Peace," he says, a firm instruction. "Are you all right, Chervilkit? Do not worry for your pelt— it can be cleaned, and I do not know a ShadowClanner who has not had to groom mud from themselves. Even Halfshade has." He glances briefly at Honeypaw. "The rain will roughen soon. Perhaps we should move to the nursery, and there participate in a game."

  • CLEARHEART / / 40 moons old / / amab and uses masculine pronouns but will also accept the use of neutral terms.
    — a warrior of shadowclan / / currently mentoring dragonflypaw / / excels greatly in combat above most all other skills.
    — former loner who wandered great distances & rarely remained in one place for long / / arrived after the great battle.
    — devoted to starclan above all else (aside from his idea of the common good) / / not prone to enter battle mindlessly.

    — of a height slightly above average / / trim and athletic with a sense of immovability about his posture/stance & size.
    — chocolate sepia w/ low white / / fur is quite short for the most part / / tail is naturally bobbed // full-body reference.
    — fairly warm demeanor much of the time; there is a "softness" about his features so that neutrality doesn't seem surly.

    — lawful good, in the sense that he likes to maintain order and work toward bettering lives around him without cruelty.
    — often misunderstands figures of speech and may interpret them literally. as such, can seem to lack a sense of humor.
    — deeply genuine; dislikes lying immensely, and so (most of the time) he is wholly earnest, especially with compliments.
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Smogmaw is left mostly unblemished by the coming rain, if we were to talk about physical appearances and the like. The droplets thicken his long pelt and give it a heft it did not regularly carry. This causes it to sag and, at intervals, form dripping tufts along his stomach resembling dark grey icicles more than all else. When coupled with the grimace forever carved into his features, the dark-smirched and waterlogged tom presents a visage displeasing to the casual observer. But, ultimately, that which is spoiled cannot be spoiled anew. Smogmaw is already reviled by some of those who live alongside him, regarded as someone worth dodging altogether should his form be even glimpsed in passing. Or, at least, that is how he is treated. And, at least, he presumes it is because of his physique.

Having orchestrated and fielded the day's dawn patrol, the deputy takes his ease atop a comfortable segment of mud. It's a semi-thick slurry of soil and rainwater, and it embraces his rump as he settles into a seated position. It is during these intermissions amidst deputorial duties when he merely observes the clan around him. Fortunately, today's backdrop was drizzle drumming against the puddles and muck comprising the camp floor, as opposed to an overbearing amount of conversations which claw at the ridges of his skull. White noise, some would call it.

That is, until a duo of young ones come blathering into the midst. Heavy-lidded eyes trail them while they journey the camp's breadth, taking a grudging interest in the youngest of the two. She's a punched-down runt left out in the cold by her older sister, and as she comes crashing chin-first into the sludge underfoot, the deputy finds himself emitting a low hum. Watching children fall over is one of those simple pleasures even the most stoic of felines appreciated. And then she's berated, and belittled, and extended not a speck of sympathy by her sibling at the forefront. How alike the dynamics of sibling rivalries are to the governing forces between the clans, Smogmaw finds himself musing.

His initial reaction is to overlook it. He sees no need to play hero here—if anything, this may prove an important learning moment for young Chervilkit. She could very well come to understand the importance of resilience in the face of embarrassment, in a manner akin to how Smogmaw had himself. Clearheart, however, takes it upon himself to teach a less impactful lesson: those who cry loud enough are to be pampered and picked-up after.

As he plods over, dripping with mud and donning a smirk at the example of his mate, Smogmaw's focus zeroes in on the eldest of the two. "Your anger's amusing to me," he says upon halting just before Honeypaw, whom wouldn't realistically play a game with the kit she'd just sneered at, regardless of what Clearheart suggests. "I'm certain that, had it been you to trip over, you'd want a helping paw." Eyes flit towards the soppy Chervilkit for but a brief moment thereafter. "Wherever you go next, you will clean the mud from your sister's fur. It is not just to push someone down further after they've fallen. Remember that."

 
Honeyjaw'd only ever had to deal with one kit at a time. Dragonflypaw was certainly more than a pawful in her own right, but– in physical form, at least, it had only ever been the two of them. Slowly they grew. Elkrush took her in and helped mother her in a way that he never could. His lessons in grooming and eating didn't match up to someone who knew just what to say and how to say it, how to pick her up when she fell. And then there was Clearheart. None of them kittens, none of them anything like a sibling to the growing feline. If this is how they act with one another, maybe that's really for the best. He startles when he hears them– a crying kit and an apprentice's bitter-sharp words.

Clearheart and Smogmaw get to the scene while Honeyjaw is still in shock. Also for the best, he thinks. It's not often that the warrior is shocked silent, but his mouth opens and closes as one paw stamps against the muddy earth. "H–" he exhales, the beginning of a sharp hey! maybe. The white tips of his toes are turned as dark as the rest of his points as he plods a little closer through it. Smogmaw's intended lesson is not one he even considers. It passes right over his head– Clearheart is not here to coddle, and neither is he. And those who are harmed should not be ignored, no matter the lesson it might teach. "I've so rarely seen someone act as such a poor clanmate," he chides Honeypaw. Siblings didn't matter. Kit didn't matter, or wounded or muddy. Only that she had seen and chosen frustration instead.
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  • ooc:
  • honeyjaw ╱╱ 36 moons old ╱╱ he - him - his ╱╱ warrior of shadowclan.
    ──── a former loner who joined the clan approximately six months ago (give or take).
    ──── named for the deep honey-brown of his pelt as well as his too natural charisma.
    ──── has an apprentice-aged kid he joined with, def scared of watching 'em grow up.
    ──── bisexual- kinda flirtatious yet never seems to really pursue a relationship. single.

    a short-furred dark chocolate point tom with the smallest splashes of white on his forehead, front paws, and tail tip. well-built, but overall average in size and unremarkable aside from his lightly curled ears and the magnetism of his smile. seems to show signs of aging earlier than expected, with a salt-and-pepper dusting around his jaw and muzzle.
  • "speech"