ꕀꕀ Being a warrior feels strange, but Sandpelt is glad for it. All his hard work, his diligence as an apprentice, has paid off at last. One downside, though, is that he’s busier than ever now that he holds the title of warrior. It has come with extra responsibilities, and it’s taken him a few days to catch up with the duties that seem to be running away from him at every chance they get. In fact, he’s been so busy that he’s hardly had enough time to look after himself—his pelt appears dull and unkempt, and the leaves and flowers stuck in his fur have dried and crumbled over time.
On his fifth morning as a warrior, the tom wakes up earlier than the rest of the den, before even the sun has risen. He cautiously tiptoes through nests, trying to avoid stepping on tails or bumping against slumbering figures. A quick dip in the river and a vigorous grooming session later, Sandpelt feels refreshed, and his fur once again lies flat and silky like it should. Still, there’s the issue of the flowers, but luckily he finds a few pale blue blooms at the fringes of the island camp. They find their places amongst strands of cream fur, and at last he feels fully like himself again.
The only issue now is that while he can fix his pelt and the flowers in it, he can’t fix the problem that lies across his face. This idea stresses him out, and for a while he merely stands at the river’s edge and stares down at his reflection. It is only when the sun rises and cats begin to shuffle and wake around him that he finally turns and stands from his perch. "What’cha think?" He asks to the nearest cat, yellow eye flickering up to meet their gaze. Every other time he’s done this song and dance, he’s only asked jokingly, without weight behind the question. This time, there is tension in the lines of his face, the clench of his jaw. Does he still look… pretty? Are the delicate flowers pretty enough to distract from the gruesome scar that mars his face? "Are there enough flowers? Should I add more?" He feels oddly twitchy, like there’s excess energy rippling nervously under his skin.
SANDPELT❯❯ he/him, warrior of riverclan ❀ pretty, silky-furred tan tortoiseshell with one yellow eye. calm and hardworking, but can become snappy if angered. ❀ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted ❀ penned by foxlore
The question from Sandpelt catches her off guard and an owl-like tilt of the head comes from the apprentice. The sand-toned chimera warrior was always pretty or handsome (since some males don't like being called pretty). “Huh? Oh—” Mothpaw as she examines the placement of the flowers within his coat which seem to try and pull the attention from the scar on his eye and she smiles brightly at the newly graduated warrior. “You've always looked pretty— I mean, handsome!” The apprentice would exclaim happily with glistening eyes reflecting her happy spirit and being able to compliment someone.
“May I?” Mothpaw would inquire as she grabs a small flower with a soft ruby colored petals as she attempts to place the flower behind his ear. After getting the flower perfectly placed behind her ear, she steps back and nods her head approvingly. “Wow! You look so good!” She gleefully compliments as her bushy tail sways side-to-side after assisting in the finishing piece to Sandpelt's decorated coat. Her gaze shifts toward his now healed eye and she offers a soft smile before speaking up once more again, “Your scar makes you look even better. It gives you personality.”
Childhood vitriol had given way to constant challenge, an almost possessiveness over his enemy in apprenticehood, and now—what? His behavior as a child, in the early days of his adolescence, had hardly been appropriate then ( it was no wonder nobody had liked him ) and it certainly wouldn't be now, when the combined industries of Smokestar (the name stings), Petalnose, and, most of all, Iciclefang, had finally smoothed all his sharp edges.
He feels a little like one of the Twoleg dogs he'd seen once—lashed to a post, straining and frothing until its collar dug into the meat of its neck. When the Twolegs had come around, it'd grown bashful, ducked its head under their hairless paws and bayed for attention as blood oozed down its broad chest. Like there's something terrible he's always felt inside of him, and it's waiting to get out; once, it had run free, unleashed and snapping, and Sandpelt had been one of its victims, he supposes.
Tamed dog that he is, early rising has been trained into him; he's inured to long mornings of sparring and waking up with the sun to pull fish from icy rivers. Even lacking the presence of a mentor at his shoulder for the first time, he keeps with it, rising when the sun does. The path he tracks to the riverbank is comfortingly familiar—a routine of his own invention, each morning, he'd rinse his face and paws in the river. It woke him up in the bracing days of leaf-bare and became a steadfast, concrete thing—as parents disappeared and mentors changed and the world spun a hundred thousand times, there was always the water waiting for him, sparkling with the dawn.
Single-mindedness is his deficiency; it's not until he's splashed water over his face and shook droplets off damp curls that he notices Sandpelt nearby. Standing stock - still on limbs he's finally grown into, he listens to the pale - furred tom's questions. Would it be rude to just . . . leave? He certainly wants to, would much rather avoid having to look Sandpaw in the eye, knowing how he treated the poor cat during earlier times of their apprenticeship.
Also, he's certainly not the cat to come to on the subject. While his fur isn't quite the knotted mess it'd been when he was younger—half genetics, half river water, perhaps a touch of actual effort has converted tangles into silky curls—he still, for the most part, relies on his swims to keep him clean, and certainly abstains from the Clan's decorating sessions. If you asked Cicadaflight, who still wears a faded claw - mark on his shoulder and a gap where a tooth should be, scars are something that signify battle prowess on some cats ( like Iciclefang and Lichenstar ) and are just ugly on others ( like himself and . . . actually, just on him ).
" You look . . . acceptable. Like a RiverClanner. " he states briskly, tone carefully colorless. The warrior stands stiffly, tall frame gathered as close as he's able, watching awkwardly as Mothpaw works to tuck a flower begind the other cat's ear, marvelling at the thoughtless ease with which she leans in to place the decoration, the grace with which her words leave her. Cicadaflight nods in agreement with her words, adding, " Scars show you're . . . capable. That you fought and survived. "
This might be the most words he's ever really said to Sandpelt.
ꕀꕀ The immediate response from Mothpaw brings a slight frown to the tom’s face. Why does she seem so caught off guard, uncertain? Self-consciously he shuffles upon pale paws, ear swiveling slightly backward. But then the tabby-striped apprentice assures him that he’s always looked pretty. She backtracks quickly, calling him handsome instead, and Sandpelt’s muzzle tilts in a grin. Pretty, handsome, it’s all the same. He’d grown up being called precious, pretty, by his parents. And he knows… he was pretty, once. Now, maybe he’s considered more ruggedly handsome—because his face no longer holds the delicate beauty that it had before, does it? He’s not a dainty, pretty apprentice anymore. The younger she-cat asks a careful may I, earning her a small smile and a nod of approval from Sandpelt. Her paw slots a flower behind his ear as he dips his head to allow her to reach, and a true grin splits his face at the compliments that she showers him with. It’s… kind of pitiful, the way he feels so happy with compliments given by a cat so much younger. Is his confidence truly so low?
A paw raises to trace over the flower, feeling feather-soft petals beneath the callouses of paws not built for such softness. The juxtaposition is amusing, even if it paints Sandpelt as something sharp, something rough. He doesn’t truly believe that his scar makes him look better, but at least Mothpaw hasn’t outright called him ugly. A honeyed lie is always better than the sour truth, isn’t it? "Thank you… I’m glad." For a moment he’s deeply grateful to the younger cat, but his attention is drawn away from her by the halting words of his fellow warrior. Cicadaflight speaks awkwardly, like each word is a tooth ripped from his mouth. With the affirmation, though, he’s taken aback. He hadn’t really known, up until now, that the other tom was even capable of speaking to him with anything akin to normalcy. It isn’t friendliness—stars, no, they still hate each other, of course—but it’s also not a venom-spat insult or the catch of claws at his ear. "Heh, wouldn’t say they show I’m capable. Kinda just show I was too confident. Thinkin’ I could fight a fox…" A scoff escapes his mouth, recalling his own foolishness. He’d been told to stay back, but he simply hadn’t. He’s lucky he even became a warrior at all after that.
SANDPELT❯❯ he/him, warrior of riverclan ❀ pretty, silky-furred tan tortoiseshell with one yellow eye. calm and hardworking, but can become snappy if angered. ❀ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted ❀ penned by foxlore
"Flower!" Algaekit's sprightly voice chirped through the crowd's conversation, the dilute tortoiseshell toddling up to the rather tall warriors around him, with a step as mercurial as an array of posies. She still wobbled in every step she took, but she had been getting better at it, day by day. Ever since Robinheart had moved dens to that place with all the weird-smelling leaves, Algaekit had promised to herself that he would at least hone his walking... He wanted to see his mother, after all! Unblinking stare continued to burn into Sandpelt's tan hues as she tilted her head, like a bloom teased by a slight breeze, an owlish and lightweight motion. It was as if to ask where he had gotten such a pristine thing, and especially why he put it on his pelt, of all places to place a floret. She continued to stare, in the manner that a child who hadn't learned decency or decorum yet would. Sensitive ears could not exactly parse out the verses that Sandpelt and Cicadaflight and Mothpaw all exchanged with each other, but curiosity had gently led him here anyhow, like a jaunty sort of omen that she duly listened to. Maybe, if she stared hard enough, she would get a flower too.
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