camp my turn to please | intro

[Needledrift]

CW: self-deprecating thoughts

It used to come so naturally, hunting that is. How difficult was it, really? Crouch, ears up, whiskers twitch once.... twice.... feel the prey in your paws, soldier, if you can't feel it, you'll never get it. She still moved through the marsh-land with an ease that was gifted rather than taught - she had been borne to a long line of swamp-folk who had never known anything different - she could still scent out her prey as easily as any other member of her clan, could still ambush as well as any other warrior, but that final killing bite...

It had been months since her initial injury, but it never quite set back right, did it? Her jaw now sat at an awkward angle, twisted and mangled so that a few teeth were always on display on the left side of her face and her tongue always stuck out just a little. It was a pain - both literally and for hunting. Hard to catch things in your mouth when you could only open your mouth so wide.

Needledrift tried to stay positive but today? Today her mood was just as dark as the overcast sky above. It took all of her self-control not to just ..... grrrrrowl! .... at her condition as she watched the morning hunting patrol depart, full of cats much more qualified than she to be part of the clan now.​

she smells like lemongrass and sleep​

 

[BONERIPPLE]

Hunting like she used too before the stars proclaimed her different path has long since become a secondary thought. Even as skilled as she is she hasn't been hunting in a while. Her hunts pertained to herbs now, catching plants meant to ease the pains of her clanmates. It's strange really. She used to be a killer, one with less emotions and only caring about her family. Honing her deadly skills to mangle and maim. It came so easy, like breathing. And she never thought that Hare Whiskers would change that, change her. She now walks separate from her own clanmates, emotions well up in her, ferocious. It's harsh. But her molten hues try to hide what she has been feeling lately. Even in the beginnings of leafbare. The medicine cat steps out of her den with dried and useless herbs in her mouth.

She wants to clean and prepare her small stock for the worse when she notices the way that Needledrift watches the morning patrol and the white stained woman steps over lightly. Dipping her head in greeting, a silent good morning she places down the browned herbs. "Is everything okay this morning, Needledrift? Have you eaten?"​

 

[betonyfrost]

POST CODE

• Daylight had a way of bringing the parts of the marsh previously unseen into focus. Even with the sky the same gray as the soot-strewn ground in the days after the fire, the whole of the world felt much more stark than how it seems in the comforting dark of night. There was a realness to it, the knowledge that they were here, that what they do and what they don't matters.
  
  And Betonyfrost cannot help but notice what others don't do.
  
  In a way, Betonyfrost envies Needledrift. She doesn't need to worry about the things Betonyfrost does. She doesn't have an untrainable apprentice, she doesn't need to go out and provide for the clan, she doesn't need to do shit but sit around and look pitiable. Betonyfrost is the one who needs to hunt, who so often needs to fail, while Needledrift gets to not even go through the shame of trying. Betonyfrost boils under her skin, but it doesn't show on her carefully neutral expression.
  
  "She seems to be doing well," Betonyfrost says, her voice calm as ever, "I hadn't seen her eat."​

• "[color=#ddafeb][b]speech[/b][/color]"

shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 15 moons | tags​

 

[smogstar]

Callous like a morning's frost, there isn't too much which arouses sympathy from the tom. He generally views others through a lens of critical analysis, paying heed to one's faults and flaws without any emotional attachment whatsoever. And typically, the more shortcomings one had to their personality or physical appearance, the more he shunned them, as it was likely their responsibility for being burdened with those problems. But in the case of Needledrift, Smogmaw feels nothing short of pity. Poor girl is probably going to be cursed with her wretched jaw for the remainder of her sorry days.

Having been scheduled to attend the evening hunting patrol, the pewter-toned warrior finds himself left to his own devices during the day's first half. With nothing on the go, he naturally drifts towards the first sign of conversation, which seemed to be fixated around Needledrift. Meandering over on weather-worn paws, the tom gives the impaired she-cat an apologetic expression in light of her peers' patronising.

"I don't know anybody who's eaten today," quips Smogmaw, citing the clan's meagre prey situation. He's also seeking to shake Bonejaw and Betonyfrost off their high horse; what pompous drivel coming from the likes of them, Needledrift is more than capable of feeding herself. She did seem to be rather sullen, though, so he can understand where the medicine cat's concern originated. "There's not much to be happy 'bout. We could chase around some apprentices if that'd make you feel better." ​