camp my dreams are made of gold // intro.

[✧ Stalkingpaw.]

˚⊹ COME ON MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE ⊹˚
stalkingpaw | 05 months | polygender | any pronouns | physically easy | mentally medium | attack in bold crimson

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"What a beautiful day!" bright and sunny, not unlike the girls usual disposition, it is in fact a rather nice day. The new-leaf sunshine is giving way to an abundance of plantlife, the chill in the air pleasantly cooling rather than the ice cold chill it once was. As she stretches her limbs to release the tension that lingers after her nap, she can't help but look about the beautiful scenery. The fauna seem just as happy as the flora, she can't help but note, as the child of moonlight dances about, happily chasing after a butterfly that catches her attention. She may no longer be a kit in name, but she's certainly still a kitten at heart, happily contented by simple distractions and playful games. It easily slips from her grasp, fluttering off high overhead, and Stalkingpaw can only tip her head back to watch it vanish into the blue sky. Sometimes, she wishes she could fly too. No longer distracted by the fluttering creature, she turns her attentions back to her surroundings, a bright smile on her black-masked face as she greets the clanmate nearest to her. "Good afternoon!"

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[RAVENSONG]

When Stalkingpaw turned to her nearest Clanmate—which happened to be Ravenpaw—she would be met with a tight-lipped frown. The newly healing marks across his face had soured his mood for the past week or so. Even the sunshine, emergence of butterflies, and the promise of a fattening newleaf did very little to cheer him up. As the younger and newer apprentices had begun to move into the den, he found himself desperately wishing to move out—somewhere, anywhere. He could hardly stand those younger than him.

"Isn't it?" He mumbled, having to squint his eyes in order to keep out the brightness of the clear, sunny day. "You're lucky you weren't on dawn patrol this morning." Ravenpaw flopped down, resting his aching paws underneath him. "It was much colder and darker then."

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[FERNGILL]

Fernpaw had, not long ago, arrived back from an as-usual fruitless fishing attempt. He repeated a mantra in his mind that one day, one day, one day he would get there... but this afternoon would not be that day. A good afternoon, apparently- according to the shining voice that rivalled the sun in its brightness, leaping from the throat of- ah, that was Stalkingpaw! And it was Ravenpaw she was talking to- he'd recognise that shadowy pelt anywhere. The crow-pelted tom was good company- and as he voiced his condemnation of the dawn patrol, Fernpaw eagerly nodded.

"Oh- yeah, those- early mornings are a re-al killer," he hummed, voice fumbling a little. His smile settled unsightly-looking upon his disproportionate features, but it was at least genuine in its intent. "Sometimes you, uh - catch the sunrise, 'n- that's nice, though!" A hurried addendum- for he didn't want to discourage the recently-made apprentice into avoiding dawn patrols.​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[✧ Stalkingpaw.]

˚⊹ COME ON MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE ⊹˚
stalkingpaw | 05 months | polygender | any pronouns | physically easy | mentally medium | attack in bold crimson

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"Really?" she chirrups cheerily, blinking rather frantically at Ravenpaws response, head dipping to the side inquisitively. "That sounds like it sucked," she says, stating the obvious, though her commiseration seems genuine. Emerald eyes quickly flicker to fernpaw instead the moment the other boy speaks - giving a small but rather obvious wince as she takes in his appearance. She'd never been good at controlling her expressions, and even though she doesn't necessarily dislike the tom he's certainly not what one would call a looker. Head bobs furiously as she nods, tail lashing in her excitement - "Yeah - I love watching the sunrise! So pretty," paws swish emphatically as she speaks - eyes practically shining. "Though I like sunsets the best, 'cause they paint the sky red and that's my favorite color of all of them! Oh, whats yours?" she rambles on a bit before questioning the two with a pause - a brief calm in the storm that is her energetic personality.

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[BEESONG]

"is the dawn patrol that bad?" beesong queries from where he works, placing the herbs he'd collected that morning out to dry in the warm rays of newleaf. maybe it's because he's naturally an early riser, or perhaps it's because he doesn't sleep much, to begin with... but he's always thought that those who complain about having to wake before the sun to go out on the dawn patrol were overreacting in some capacity. it seems like a waste of breath when there are worse things to groan about.

they smile wrily at ravenpaw's comment on how chilly the early mornings are. best enjoy the nice weather while you can, before you're sweating the moment you step out of the den. greenleaf may bring bountiful prey and blooming herbs, but damn, if beesong didn't loathe the brutal heat.

they decide to keep those thoughts to themselves, though.

beesong raises his brow at stalkingpaw, glancing away from the herbs he's laying out in the sun to watch the peppy black-and-white apprentice. the wince that contorts her features when she looks to fernpaw is obvious enough for him to catch, and he huffs a quiet laugh. fernpaw's been rough on the eyes since birth; rough enough to have had the cinnamon tabby doubting whether the pathetic runt was healthy or not. though beesong doesn't allow the ginger tabby's unfortunate appearance to affect how he sees him—how hypocritical would he be if he did?—to watch as another flinches is somewhat amusing.

stalkingpaw talks of sunsets and her favorite colors, and beesong hums when she asks her audience theirs. "blue," they answer after a minute of silence, hiding the nostalgia from their voice. they would not share why; that blue reminds them of their twoleg's favorite pelt to wear, of skyclan's namesake, of simpler times.

beesong's paws itch to do something, uncomfortable with the sentimentality, so he turns back to his herbs and trifles with them under the guise of sorting.​

 

[RAVENSONG]

"It's terrible." Ravenpaw cemented his feelings on the topic when Beesong approached. He was no early riser—a night owl might be a better term for him. Just thinking about the dawn patrol made him feel the aura of a migraine coming in on his skull. Ravenpaw's feathery tail lashed against the ground and he hummed. The sunrise was nice. He could agree with that. He was startled by Stalkingpaw's sudden question. Blinking owlishly for a moment, he did not say anything until Beesong answered.

Blue. Somehow that was a startling revelation for him.

"Black." Ravenpaw finally rasped.

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[CLAYFUR]

The days pass by slowly, but RiverClan is recovering. The wound across his chest is healing well, but it will scar for sure—and, honestly, he’s glad for that. It’s a reminder, for Clay. That he fought for his love, and he survived. Howlingstar may take away precious memories, but she can’t take away this, the mark he’ll wear on his chest until the day he rejoins his mate.

It’s good to see that at least some is his clanmates are still in good spirits, though. He trots over to stand beside the others, listening to their conversation for a few moments. Whatever they’ve been talking about, it’s shifted to discussing favorite colors—Stalkingpaw likes red, Bee likes blue, and Raven likes black. Stalkingpaw, at least, explains why they like their favorite color, the red of sunsets, the red of blood. Beesong offers no explanation for his choice, but Clay hesitates to bother the healer. He’s been in their den too much over the past month, so he’s trying to keep his distance, to keep from being too much of a nuisance.

"Is black your favorite color because it matches your fur?" He asks, attention shifting to Ravenpaw. It’s an interesting choice, the darkness of nighttime, shadows cast upon the water. "Red is a good choice, though," he says with a short nod toward Stalkingpaw. He tries to think of his own favorite color—once upon a time, his answer would have been green, like pine needles and fresh grass.

Now, he isn’t sure what his favorite color is. It’s not red; red has been ruined for him from the moment that he saw it upon the slate-blue fur of his mate. He thinks of those last moments, the closing of sunflower eyes for the last time, and… "My favorite is yellow. It’s usually in sunrises, so I like them a lot." Yeah, yellow.
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[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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[✧ Stalkingpaw.]

˚⊹ COME ON MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE ⊹˚
stalkingpaw | 05 months | polygender | any pronouns | physically easy | mentally medium | attack in bold crimson

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With the sudden topic change, more friendly faces arrive - the medicine cat which stalkingpaw gives a respectful if enthusiastic nod to, and clayfur whom they just wave merrily at. They can't help but listen attentively as their clanmates give them their answers - blue, black, yellow. A veritable rainbow of favorites - though, they might be missing a few. They nod along absently, a look of contemplation upon their face. "If colors were favorites just because of our fur mine would have to be white then," they say thoughtfully, though they suppose that might actually be ravenpaws reasoning. Its not as though their fellow apprentice has given one.

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[BEESONG]

beesong snorts a dry laugh at ravenpaw's blunt response. terrible. as if the dawn patrol is one of the worst fates to fall upon a cat. "if you say so," he comments, hiding the sarcasm in his voice with a smile.

black, yellow. ravenpaw and clayfur give their answers to stalkingpaw's question, and beesong hums in feigned thought when clayfur asks the dark-furred apprentice if he loves black the best because of his own shadowy coat. "i never took you as a narcissist, ravenpaw..." there's a teasing glint in the healer's eyes that betrays them despite their phlegmatic voice and serious expression, pretending to appraise the young tom with a tilt of his head.

stalkingpaw comments that if they had to choose a favorite color based on their own fur, theirs would have to be white. beesong glances down at his paws; one scarred, one laced with cinnamon stripes. then, his would have to be... "brown." he shrugs. there are no strong sentiments attached to the color, aside from being associated with his appearance... which he tries not to think about. he's never liked it, even before the scars. "i think i'll stick with blue," he concedes after a minute of silence, his stubbed tail flicking.​