pafp maybe i'm a total wreck — accidental projectile

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

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  ── There are few ShadowClanners near Rosemire's age. Part of it, he thinks, is thanks to the Great Battle's slaughter; some of the lives stolen that day were of his generation, and consequently, most of the survivors are still fairly young— but left with the burden of rebuilding (or continuing previous mistakes). Of course, age alone doesn't guarantee comaraderie. Rosemire's not gullible enough to believe Smogmaw considers him a friend, least of all for how many moons he's survived.
  
  Still, he's glad for the company. He supposes all that hermit business has left him hungry for coexistence.
  
  It'd be better if he were completely mud-free, but no one can have everything. "Do you think old is relative? Is there an objective standard or...say there's a group comprised solely of cats twelve moons and under." Rose is working the remaining gunk out of his pelt with a barren shrub, spindly sticks offering both a massage and cleaning. Somewhat. "Would a cat of seventeen moons be old? Or twenty-four, maybe?" His pelt snags a bit, which isn't an issue— he just gives a tug, and then again with more force when that doesn't work.
  
  He's freed, except he watches with something like horror as snapped debris sails in an arc for Smogmaw's face.
  

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• @smogmaw probably not what you had in mind but here it is akaksbdka​
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• ──── surr'oseal'isme (rosemire; formerly roseal). he/him. reluctantly shadowclan.
  ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
  ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
  ──── tall, scarred albino w/ sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail (voice).
  ──── ─── currently noticeably thin and haggard. ribs and spine are pronounced.​
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[smogstar]

One would expect to find a greater percentile of cats near Smogmaw's age in a group with roots as deep as this one. It seems, however, that the lion's share have died off or vanished.

Some credence may be given to Rosemire's theory about this phenomenon, as the Great Battle was more of a bloodbath than anything else—but in the tabby's eyes, the most reasonable explanation is far simpler. As marsh cats mature, they inevitably realise how much of a fucking scam this lifestyle is. Smogmaw himself has crossed this threshold. Yet, for reasons he cannot fathom, he hasn't mustered the nerve to pull a Bonejaw and scram.

It's a shame, too. Owing to ShadowClan's warped demographics, the younger generations have absolutely no frame of reference for ageing. Why, the tom is hardly on the cusp of his middle ages, and some look at him as though he's a senior citizen. Imagine!

It is because of this that he can stomach Rosemire's presence by default. Although somewhat younger, the alabaster warrior faces the same problem as he, thus it serves as a common complaint amongst them.

He lays upon the hardened ground, front paws curled up into the grey tufts of his chest. A wayward glance is given to his companion, who manages to speak in tandem with his grooming. "What the fuck are you talking about," he expounds, his tone as pleasant as ever and presented more as a statement than question. "When you need apprentices to clean dirt out of your den, that's when you're old," clarifies Smogmaw with a flick of the tail, "or when you can't- Pah!"

A thick glob of something hits him right between the eyes. Feline instincts kick in and cause him to reel backwards. He then rises to all fours with his spine caught in an arch; "Giddit off'a me," says the tom, glaring at the other dead in the eyes. "That better be mud."​

 

[Tornadopaw]

If you don't like me, that's your problem

Age was never a concept she really considered, as far as elderly cats go. But now that she thought about it she figured once an individual started pushing over a hundred moons they were certainly ancient. The burly, curly coated femme's features wrinkle with disgust as Smogmaw mentioned raking dirt from the elder's den. Did age make your legs stop working? "A job I pray I never get." She mutters, ears flicking backwards. She was nowhere near prissy or squeamish, but the tomboyish molly certainly drew the line there with a task like that. As mucky debris soars only to splatter across the slate colored warrior's forehead, Tornado sighs at Smog's stumbling. "looks like it's just mud...what else could it possibly be?" She questions. ​

When I let it bother me, that's my problem​

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[Redthroat]

Sprawled out in a corner of the camp, lengthy limbs twisted lazily over the other and his chin tucked comfortably into his chest; Redthroat half-way listens to the conversation between Rosemire and Smogmaw. His prominent ears flick to and fro, picking up the steady thrum of their voices before a small eruption of curses pierces the air. This gets the attention of the red tom, his golden irises resting upon the slate hued warrior, his shaded stripes and—a rather large splot of brown debris upon his forehead. Tornadopaw inquires what they all thought, it was just merely some mud. Right? Right? A bubbling chuckle passes over his tongue, increasing to a booming cackle as he watches Smogmaw grimace in disgust and the horror plaguing on Rosemire's expression.
"He better hope it's just mud. 'Else he'll be sleeping outside tonight or taking a dunk in a river somewhere! I ain't sleeping near shit-head." The tom wheezes with laughter, air catching in his lungs the wrong way till he sputters into a series of coughs. "Give it a smell, Smog. Then you can solidify your answer!" He barks out another series of laughter, ivory teeth protruding from his crimson lips. He inhales and exhales sharply, feebly attempting to control his breathing. But, the image of Smogmaw possibly having shit thrown on his forehead was just too much.
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[ FUCKING HELL ]​

 

[CHILLEDSTAR.]

DON'T YOU GIVE ME UP, PLEASE DON'T GIVE UP​

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they don't think of themselves as old physically. but mentally... chilledgaze might as well have seen 3 life times. this clan made them feel that way but they don't think they'd have it any other way. age seemed relative... except when it came to kittens. those little airheads deserved to stay their age for as long as they could. they did not need go be bothered with the triffles that being a warrior brought to them. with a sigh, they slowly began to clean out their pelt. a common sight– they fucking hated being dirty.

"whatever it is, if it touches even a single piece of my fur, i will make it my personal mission for you to meet every single cat in starclan. got it?"

they snapped, gaze pushing up before they turned back to their task at paw. shadowclan may have had its rumors about being disgusting, but chilledgaze prided themself on being clean. they planned to keep it that way, too.
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