MAKGADIKGADI | looting

[FERNDANCE]

She had awoken with an uncharacteristic uneasiness, not because the camp was clearly unsafe for kittens and elders alike, but because her belly felt as if it were spinning around a tree branch. It hadn't taken long for her to decide that it was something inoffensive that had caused the upset, a stray flea that entered her mouth perhaps, or the remnants of yellow cough from her clanmates trying to infest her. The cure was the same no matter its root, but with no ability to call upon a patrol this time around, Ferndance had ventured out alone into ShadowClan's wilderness, the groans of frogs and cricket songs her only friends as she moved south. She followed them until they went their separate ways, the frogs to the eastwards marches, the crickets to the westward grasses, and the ticked tabby left with the most linear journey toward the black tree. Her tail tip hummed excitedly in the air, turning left and right and right and left as she let her imagination run wild. Four clans had made their homes there - four. They had obviously left bedding behind, but within all great bedding lay the opportunity for prize, plunder, and adventure.

A pink nose was quick to dive into the dried moss, inhaling its scent and freezing at the memories it brought. A RiverClanner had once lain there if the smell of fish scales and sadness was anything to go by. Nostalgia flashed within her emerald eyes as she tentatively continued nosing about until said flesh pressed against something cold and smooth. Ears bounced upwards at the sensation. Ferndance moved her muzzle left and right until she'd uncovered her first successful trophy, a pebble, likely from some RiverClan brook. "Wow..." She breathed excitedly, cupping the precious stone within her mud-slicked forepaw. "You must be the most well-traveled pebble in the whole forest." First it had been fished up in RiverClan, then it had gone to SkyClan, now, it had been abandoned in a ShadowClan nest. Mentally, she made a note to take the thing with her on her inevitable Thunder and Wind patrols, to sneakily push it over the Thunderpath border and back again, if only to make it the first-ever object to have ever seen the five clans' territory. Marking her scent onto a stray patch of bedding, a warning not to touch her stash of new goodies, the Warrior continued looking for interesting things to take back home with her.

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[smogstar]

Whispered tales draw up an unflattering image of the four clans' layover in their humble lands. Cats clustered together tighter than a kitty-kibble container, bitterness hot on their lips and harsh-spitten words crossing freely from one to the next. What struck Smogmaw dumb was to learn the interclan rivalries hadn't flared up into physical exchanges. One would think, given the prime conditions for it—the loss of their homes, their combined stress risen to a fraught crescendo—that they'd have clawed out each other's eyes and ears at first provocation. But, miraculously (and from Smogmaw's perspective, disappointingly), they'd reduced themselves to an uneasy, unspoken truce, united without enthusiasm underneath a common cause.

To ruminate over it in that light summons a shallow chuckle from the deputy; it's reminiscient of the initially-uneager union the journeying cats had found themselves a part of. The focal difference lies in how he and his travelling party had (mostly) set aside their differences to emphasise their strengths, whereas those stranded by the Sycamore fell into a cycle of bitching and moaning at every setback—which, to the other clans' credit, they were certainly skilled at.

It marks the first time since the layover that he'd even seen the Great Sycamore, and what a sorry sight it is. Bedding bestrewn all about the earth. No doubt they'd turned the temporary camp into a makeshift dirtplace as well. He typically ventures out this way to sharpen his claws against the weatherworn treebark, whetted to a fine point. Today, he isn't as inspired by the prospect, and it is only the ever-furtive Ferndance who keeps him from turning tail.

Ferndance. A lead warrior once, but since robbed of her status by reason of overt silliness. Such a line of logic cannot be argued against. Not because it made sense, mind you, but because it came from the leader's jaws. "How d'you figure?" asks the ashen tom, approaching on inquisitive footfalls. She deems a pebble to be well-travelled, which wasn't necessarily a trait he'd attribute to a small stone. "I don't reckon anyone was runnin' around with a mouthful of rocks." Carrying lungwort between his teeth had been hellish enough.

A cursory glance is sent to portly outlines dwelling amongst the grass. Mossballs, rolled into existence by younger visitors. A frown touches his mouth then, and he can't explicably place why. ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

Sharppaw had not been here to see the clustering of four entire clans within the dank, muddy hollow. He'd thought that seeing would help her believe, but even as she steps over dark, gangly roots on the heels of her mentor, the place did not seem any more lived - in— or she guesses, like it should be lived it. She supposes that's the point. Chilledstar served them no additional hospitality. To house them here and reduce them to huntings at Carrionplace was a decision Sharppaw heard of with surprise, and— get this— some pleasure. Let the plump river cats and plumper kittypets experience what it's like...

—Or were they kittypets at all? Chalk ( he hated that he remembers his name ) had confused this to an annoying extent. Sharppaw didn't want to spend more time thinking about SkyClan than she did about the fat flea hopping up it's way up Smogmaw's greasy back. Her eyes flicker to and fro, searching for nothing at all.

If she squints, she can see hints of it here or there. Scraps of bedding left behind. Something that looked like some kind of shittily - made structure now collapsed on the ground; maybe from when it had rained, or something. If she payed attention, she could see it. But why should she? Why should she go digging her nose in past matters and leftover junk; make her a stereotype of a ShadowClanner why don't you? No better than an overgrown rat scrounging for garbage.

Smogmaw and Ferndance both aggravatingly fit that bill. Sharppaw is both paying attention, and completely ignoring them as they talk about things that do not matter. Everything here was a thing that does not matter. Why was she even here?

Whatever. " RiverClan might. Or SkyClan, " she offers, looking blankly at the burnt stem of the sycamore while she's at it. " Material sorts. Until they're not, " he adds vaguely, thinking about that one not - kittypet's collar, suddenly spliced from her neck. Good riddance.

ooc ⋆｡˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☽˚｡⋆ look, see, isn't it interesting? no, you're not even listening...

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• ( IS THAT NOT BRAVE ENOUGH FOR YOU? ) SHARPPAW: Mentored by Smogmaw
  —— he / she , no pref , icked by they prns ; fine with gendered terms ( tom, molly, etc... )
  —— currently 17 moons old. warrior ceremony delayed due to lackluster progress.
  
  a dark smoke feline that stands at an above average height. Easily identifiable by her namesake – an unruly mat of fur, destined to be cluttered by inconsistencies between her chimera fur. Burdened with a broken tail. Recently, she has realized it can still function, though she has wholly believed in its utter uselessness for so long that it cannot without great effort. Anxious, antisocial, paranoid. Sharppaw has not known peace for a single time in his life, and lives anticipating inevitable dangers to the detriment of herself and others.
  — Obsessed with the perceived 'game' within ShadowClan, the rules of which she is unaware of. Striving to be someone more likeable due to this.
  heavy ic opinions! he sucks.

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