Tybalt had begrudgingly trailed behind the ThunderClanners, keeping his distance from the absolutely loathsome Quail. He had arrived in their camp, drowning out the droning explanations of what and where everything was, and then excused himself to stretch out on a rock by himself. He was here only to avoid being pushed out by a group he knew he couldn't fight. Here for his own benefit. No one else's. None of these cats had earned his respect, and suddenly being surrounded by so many made his pelt prickle with unease. The city had held plenty of cats, but they all stuck to their own small groups. Never something as large as this.

He wasn't here because he was lonely--absolutely not. His parents had always said they didn't need anybody else. So what if they were gone? He'd been just fine living on his own, hadn't he?

Hadn't he?

Extending long claws, the curly-furred tom began to scrape his claws over a patch of moss growing along the side of his perch, absently watching the ThunderClan cats through narrowed eyes as he did.
( ✧ ) He swears, ever since he's lost his sight, his other senses have become alot more... irritable.

In the past, he could always decide what sounds to focus on, and what sounds to drown out. What scents were important, and which weren't. But now... just about every rustle in the undergrowth seemed to bother him. Perhaps it didn't help that his days were now dedicated to lounging around. Allowing his body to soften up, no longer participating in his daily hunts or spars... whatever.

Thus is the natural order things, he's going to be annoyed when some rando starts doing nothing but scraping at something with no percevable end in sight. "Can you knock it off?" the complaint falls from his maw before he can think about it, and even when he does, he doesn't have it in him to have much of a moral code. "...Please." he tacks on. Quite frankly, it doesn't sound like he means it at all. It's a noncommital compromise.

And now that he's bothered, it's hard to go back to not being bothered. Blinding Star stretches, a strange, half-growl, half-whine rumbling in his throat as he does so. "You're new," he observes flatly. "You do alotta scraping where you're from?"

A new face had joined their throng; Berry supposed he should start getting used to that. Now they were fixed in place and had a name, through word of mouth news of their existence would travel, hooking the attention of many a lonely stranger. This one, who sat scraping at moss- and hopefully not wrenching free any of it, for wouldn't that be a waste?- had been one Berry had been present during inauguration. For now, Prickles spoke his judgement- and from where Berry lay nearby, body curled in a patch of sunlight, he listened in.

The star-bright tom's question was a pointed one, yet layered with an interesting motivation of understanding. Persistently interested in eavesdropping- he had found there were a scarce many ways to learn information better than simply listening- his attention settled. Perhaps he would be educated more on groups outside of their collection of five from the irritated maw of their newcomer. Dappled ears were swivelled, though Berry's askew chin remained rested upon his paws; the signs of his piqued attention were, as ever, subtle.
He had just gotten comfortable when the white tom asked him to stop. With an annoyed huff, Tybalt retracted his claws, the strip of moss now lying shredded at the base of the rock.

Narrowing his eyes at the next question, Tybalt sat up and answered sharply, “I do whatever I want where I’m from.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie. He had done what he felt like, or what needed to be done to keep his family safe. Most of it by the way of sharpened claws and teeth. And in the end, it usually did get him whatever it was he was after.
Quail feels as though Emberstar's arrival has been nothing but trouble. At first, she'd been happy to share her space with the outsiders, her forest, her fresh-kill. She'd reveled in their companionship, the easy conversation, the easier silences as they basked in sunlight and dozed together in safety.

But then the stranger, half-mad, had appeared to slaughter Emberstar in cold blood before the rest of ThunderClan. Quail and her Clanmates had been told everything was fine, that Cinderfrost could stay. Then the other joiners -- this little kitten in particular -- had only added insult to injury.

Her peace has been disrupted, and she still doesn't know what to think about it.

The elderly torbie rests sage-colored eyes on the brown tom clawing the moss from the edges of the stone. Blinding Star asks him to stop, please, and Quail flicks her gaze to Berry, who listens noncommittally nearby.

It's Tybalt's response, though, that draws an irritated hiss from her. Cinderfrost's arrival has scraped her welcoming facade raw. The old forest queen has become as irascible as Blinding Star, as wary as Tybalt himself, and she stalks close to the young tom with narrowed eyes.

"Well, young tom, you aren't in wherever that forsaken place is anymore." She glowers at him, chin held high. "Mind yourself. You're speaking to your elders. Don't you have anything more productive to do than waste moss? I'm sure I can find you something to do." Her rare ill temper is flaring, she knows, and it's not entirely at Tybalt. Her joining ThunderClan has likely shortened her long life to nothing, and the thought is a nagging one.

Tybalt suppressed a groan as he caught sight of Quail. come to pester him once again. Didn't she have anything better to do than bug him? As the queen approached him, the wavy-furred tom rose to his paws atop his perch, glowering down at her with distaste. As far as he was concerned, he hadn't said anything wrong. He was simply telling the truth--was that such a crime?

you have anything more productive to do than bother me?" he asked coolly. And then she was complaining about moss, and he looked down to the shredded green at the base of his perch. "And it's barely a scrap. What'd you want me to do with it, make a nest for an ant?" He glared at her, as if daring her to try telling him what to do. The only cats who could even try telling him what to do were gone now, and he'd been just fine making his own way. Hadn't he?