no angst Never love an anchor | rocks

[SMOKESTAR]

The water washed over his paws but only made it halfway up his legs, it didn't brush his underbelly or lower chest, nor his tail he held high and aloft in the air to avoid it become a sodden mess. With careful scrutiny he continued to shuffle about, a paw kicking at the sand and cobbled undergrowth of the river's edge, disturbing minnows and setting bits of debris to float and murk the waters around him. Smokethroat's orange gaze narrowed, a gesture that made him wince because the scars on the left side of his face were still very tender; still in the process of healing fully, but at least he was free of Beesong's stinging plaster of plant substance that he'd had to wear across it for days.
There were a few fish on the shore who had dared interupt his prodding about and were swiftly punished for it with a quick snap of teeth and sharp flick onto stone but eventually they stopped bothering him, not moving toward the area where the water rippled in disturbance and the dark tom continued his idle rooting about in the shallows. Occasionally his head would dip down, vanish into the froth and he'd withdraw it dripping and teeth clenched, a stone held firmly within his maw to be taken to the shore and examined; but more ofte than not the quick glance was enough to tell him this was not what he was after. The shadow spill of a cat gave a hiss of annoyance, paws kicking stone and sending them skipping, trudging his dark form back into the depths to continue kicking about until he found something worth his while. Gillpaw had been quite informative, this place was littered with smooth river stones; just ahead the water turned sharply at a bend and the rushing current worked its way around this section with the force of the waterflow daily; every rock here had been whittled down to its core, a flawless surface where the colors and grooves of the stone shown in all their abstract brilliance now free of uneven edges and sharpness. He felt like those stones, at time, that he was being battered down to his core to become soft and complacent; lose his claws, lower his hackles. RiverClan was both a refuge and a prison sometimes and he found himself restless more and more the closer leaf-bare began to approach. The cold of the winter winds, the river a frozen sheen of mirrors that reflected the crisp sky, the sharing of warmth, tails twined in the dark cradle of the den's abyss; gray fur tickling his nose with ever inhale and exhale of breath. Smokethroat gave a start, shook his head and blindly dipped his head back into the water if only to douse his thoughts of such things.
Shaking droplets from his face and neck he caught the glimmer of another stone and gave it a swift slap with his paw to toss it ashore. The river had rippled across this one, blending its white and gray into a glistening marbled surface; the edge of storms, the scent of winter come, the swill of cold breath in the air.
"...perfect."

​

 

[Redpath]

Redpath was coming down the river with a fish in her mouth, still struggling. It was a big one, and she was pretty proud of it. She could see Smokethroat up ahead and smiled the best she could. The autumn breeze ruffled her fur and she shivered a bit, being a little wet, but what was she to do, just let this fish live it's life? No.

She set the now dead fish to the side and saw Smokethroat had a stone betwixt his paws. "Hello, Smokethroat! Are you looking for rocks?" She greeted.

She bounced over happily. She loves looking for rocks. Rocks were pretty. She had considered starting a rock collection if it weren't for the fact she had no idea where to put it.


"I can help!"

She was so down for a ROCK ADVENTURE.
​

 

[FERNGILL]

The clatter- he knew that noise, falling rocks making their descent! There stood ebony in clear water, easily picked out- Smokethroat, the flame hued pelt of Redpath soon catching up. And on the shoreline glistened wet stones, fished out of the river like prey; he knew what he was hoping! That those stones were for him, for maybe the lead warrior had heard of how hard he had been trying with training lately-

That was likely a pipe dream. A foolish thought, but he hardly cared, for what that clatter mostly meant was that there were stones to be found, hiding from his grasping paws beneath the water. The unsightly apprentice toddled over, craning his neck over the water's edge- if only he could brave it! But... after what had happened to Lilybloom, Fernpaw found himself reluctant to enter. Encroaching those waters with no proper training- the idea of it was frightening, and he imagined doing such a thing would probably be one of the only ways he could get Dad mad at him.

"Can, can I have one?" Fumbled tones raised above the splashing, his polite request offered despite his unshakeable urge to simply swipe them. That wasn't nice- he knew how much he'd flip out if something went missing from his stash...​

( penned by pin )​

 

[GILLSIGHT]

He follows along the same route as the lead warrior, though his paws remain on land, rather than in the water. Though he wasn't deemed ready to collect the rocks the river kept in its watery grasp, he could still find pretty ones at its edge, against the riverbed.

Sunny eyes keep focused on the ground below him as he walks, a mission to find the perfect rock to add to his nest back in camp his focus for the day. He's sure Smokethroat can find his own rock for his surprise friend, but keeps his ears alert for any sort of questions from the lead warrior.

It's not long before he's found a rock of his own - smooth, flattened by the river's current, a glint of sparkle to the grey stone. This one. This is the one he likes. It'll look perfect next to the rest of his collection, he decides. Gillpaw scoops it up in his jaws, just in time for him to hear Smokethroat's own declaration.

Gillpaw makes his way over, sets his own rock down as he looks at Smokethroat's choice.

"I-I like that one," he decides, a hint of envy in his voice. Someday. Someday he'd be able to find rocks like that on his own. Smokethroat's friend was going to be lucky to have that in their own collection.

Fernpaw's voice causes him to tear his gaze away from Smokethroat's treasure, to look at the fellow rock collector instead. "I-I can find you one," he tells him, though... Smokethroat could probably find better - lucky him, being old enough, big enough to wade in the river on his own, "S-Sometimes the p-pretty ones w-wash up on the shore."
​

 

[BEESONG]

the clatter of pebbles, beesong assumes to be from one of the apprentices searching for a new addition to their nest or clayfur seeking out a snack. it comes as a surprise to see the gruff smokethroat, of all cats, rummaging along the shallows of the river and observing pebbles. with a twitch of his whiskers and a curious hum, beesong draws closer to the lead warrior and his posse of children. (redpath is included in the latter, seeing as she often acts more akin to a child than an adult.) "i never took you for a materialistic guy, smokethroat," beesong teases, voice light.

they glance towards fernpaw and gillpaw, observing the childlike innocence with features softening for a singular heartbeat. they hope, beyond all odds, that the kids keep that innocence for as long as possible. but the world is cruel, with a penchant of turning children into warriors before they've even seen all four seasons.​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

He had not expected his splashing about to draw so much attention but he was less bothered by how many of them were just curious apprentices, he had slowly begun to prefer the gathering of youthful energy and enthusiasm over the drag and drawl of the older warriors; which was hilarious given he was probably one of the more stoic of the bunch overall. Children were just heartening to be around, they brought a whimsy and excitement to something that he found quite boring and uninteresting on its own. Looking for rocks was not enjoyable, looking for rocks with some kits wallowing about in determination to find the best one was amusing.

Smokethroat watches Redpath go foolishly floundering about before noticing his collection of rejected rocks had garned some attention. Fernpaw's already large eyes seemed even bigger as he peered over the shiny stones, he notes the oddly fidgety way the apprentice holds himself as if barely restraining the urge to grab a rock and run; he had to give him credit for asking, at least. Not that the dark tom had much interest in the rocks outside the one he had set to the side as his actual pick. "Go right ahead, Fernpaw. You and Gillpaw can help give away the others too." Perhaps the other kits and apprentices at camp would enjoy the trinkets. Making a deliberate point to pick up his own marbled stone to move to sit on a smooth rock further into the water where itchy paws would not make off with it as well, Smokethroat hauled himself out of the river and gave a brisk shake to send droplets hurtling in every direction. If no one here planned to get wet they would be sorely disappointed to find that most river ventures ended in dripping fur one way or another.

Beesong's little comment earned himself an amused snort and he shook his head, "I'm not, I'm..." How to say it without saying it, "Indulging in the culture. You tell me to lighten up then pick on me for making the attempt? Is that it?" It was all in jest, his dry tone aside it was clear the remark had not bothered him and he took the teasing in stride.
​

 

[BEESONG]

smokethroat comments that he's simply indulging in the culture. beesong copies the lead warrior's snort, nose scrunching. "of course. how silly of me." the healer cocks his head with a hum, rocking on his paws. "and how is your indulgence going?"

smokethroat's retort lacks any bite behind it, and beesong's eye goes half-lidded in a lazy smile. "when did i tell you that, smokethroat?" spoken with the innocence of a lamb, and with a flutter of eyelashes to accompany it. they could recall plenty of times where others have suggested that smokethroat should lighten up; the lead warrior is as dry as a mouth full of sand, with a resting face from hell to match. but beesong savors this banter, a rarity to come by nowadays.

they've never been good at honesty, anyhow. they've forgotten how to speak that language fluently long ago.​

 

[willowroot]

( ☾ ) a soft yawn stretches the jaws of the smoke hued lead warrior as she lazes in the shallows beside beesong. the air is chilled but the water still runs smooth as ever, and it soothes her aching paws. the chatter of voices from foxlengths away cause her drooping eyelids to snap back open, and amusement dances within their verdant depths as she watches the little group sort through smokethroat's rocks. padding over after the caramel medicine cat, willow nudges her fellow lead warrior, pressing into him. "glad you're appreciating the wonder that is rock collection, smokey." she teases lightly, flicking her tail across the tom's side.

fernpaw and gillpaw bend over the rocks, sorting each with slender paws and a purr escapes the femme's throat. "do you two have a favorite kind of rock?" she asks, thinking back to her days of collection, nights spent frantically laying each stone out in color order, slotting every one into a different hiding place, as if anyone in the world would want to steal a river rock. she still has the ones most important to her, tucked away inside her nest in the warriors' den. ​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )