No clue {RTA} what I'm doing


Soft words and Gentle paws
Jun 14, 2022


Chamomile wasn't what one would call....graceful. No, not by a long shot. It seemed almost every day that the pretty cream tabby found herself in some strange or hilarious predicament that caused most of her clanmates to either roll their eyes in annoyance or chuckle in charm.

Today would, yet again, be one of those days. Chamomile would be heard before she was seen, soft 'ow...ow...ow...' would come with each paw step, and the look of her would be enough to make most of her friends recoil back in shock. Her pelt was covered in burrs, her normally warm and sparkling verdant gaze was dull with pain as each time she moved the burrs would tug on her fur and skin.

She slipped into camp and looked around for Beesong, trying her best to steer clear of judging eyes. She fought back the tears that stung her eyes as she limped towards the den the medicine cat lived and worked in, because how could she further her shame by crying? What would Willow think? She already knew that any cat who spotted her would likely sigh in exasperation and just shake their heads in disappointment. It was just as much mystery to her why Cicadastar hadn't kicked her out of Riverclan yet.

She was almost to the den when a few NPC apprentices suddenly ran past her, and in her panic of not wanting any of them to get caught by the burrs in her pelt, she scrambled backward, letting out a soft whimper of pain as she did so. Chamomile would lose her footing entirely then and would flop onto her side into a patch of sunlight as if the universe wanted to place her sorry state on display for all her clanmates.
Chamomile has become a familiar face in the medicine den. Every day, she seems to crawl to him in need of medical aid... Others have grown annoyed by her clumsiness, but Beesong remains patient if not amused by her ineptitude.

Her pained murmuring is far too soft to reach his in-tact ear, but his watchful eye catches her entrance as the parched tom laps at the cool river water. He snorts as she flops onto her side like a floundering fish. Whiskers gleaming with droplets of water twitch as he lifts his head, drawing his tongue across them. "Get too friendly with another burr bush, Chamomile?" His teasing voice drifts out, light paws bringing him over to her. "It's a wonder you haven't lost any limbs yet, y'know that?" She must have some extremely good luck to have survived this long.

Tilting their head to one side, Beesong hums. "Start trying to dislodge some of those burrs," they say as they turn on their heels, already running through the list of what they'd need in their head as they pad towards their den... Damp moss to clean the scratches, cobwebs to staunch any potential bleeding, dock leaves to soothe the scratches...
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It was hard not to notice the cream tabby sprawled in the middle camp, his voice raising in a stern "Careful with running around the camp like that." at the apprentices rushing by, his immediate trek to the edge of the camp to leave was promptly put on hold as he moved to scold the rambuncious young cats, warning them to be more mindful less they accidentally trample a kitten next time. It was a quick way to get your ears torn by a vengeful queen and an even quicker way to get put on tick duty with the elders. Once assured they would be a little more considerate of their roughousing he let them continue onward with a dismissive flick of his tail. 'Kids these days.' He found himself thinking wryly, shaking his head with a snort at the realization he was turning into his mentor. He was 35 moons, he was hardly an old soul like she'd been near the end of her life but her habits had ingrained themself into him like the sharp burrs currently dappling Chamomilewater's tabby pelt. Smokethroat slowly padded over to the Medicine Cat and dispondent warrior, giving a quick glance over the tangle of spiky seeds scattered about the molly's form and Beesong's thoughful expression. When the smaller tom wandered off to fetch his supplies he sat down, "Got into a bit of a mess did you? Happens to the best of us." Well, it had never specifically happened to him to be honest-but he had gotten his tail caught in places a time or two more than he'd care to admit. "You might loose a bit of fur doing it but try plucking them with your teeth-might be a litlte more delicate than claws." He gestured with a light wave of his paw in what could only be described as a scooping motion. He doubted there'd be any bald patches if she was careful enough but he knew how vain some of the other cats could be with appearances. He himself wasn't much of a looker to begin with so it had hardly crossed his mind that losing fur could be upsetting.

riverclan --- warrior--- tags
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( ᴛᴀɢs. )  ❝  It'd been moons since the last of Hound's troubles. As a child he'd been all sorts of trouble– thorns and burrs, snakes and an oddly defensive raccoon, one that he'd foolishly refused to back down from. Thankfully, time had turned him from the one in trouble to the one pulling other poor souls out'f it. (Every now and then, he wonders if Flint'd been through something similar as he grew. The ashen tom was far from open about anything in the years past.) It was part of the family they'd made. A growing circle that did what they could to take care of another. Even if the ones getting into trouble did it so often it'd seem anything but an accident. On another thought, it's not as if any soul'd be so intent on attention they'd suffer with any intention of doing it. That it's an accident is far more amusing than it'd any right to be. Bee is patient and Smoke is kind, but Hound comes in with the light of laughter warming verdant eyes. "Least it's nothin' worse," he offers.

He sits opposite of Smokethroat, gently reaching one paw out to hook one claw through a patch of fur and work out a burr he could see. "If it'd be any help, I've another set of paws to offer."

  • 50335651_ibz4tSApItgOjRI.png
  • ──── hound. trans male, he/him pronouns only.
    ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
    ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.

    ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
  • "speech"
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Relief would flood her gaze as Beesong would be the first to find her, amusement clear in his gaze as he instructed her to start removing her burrs before turning to gather whatever it was he needed to treat her scratches.

With that, the molly would carefully sit back up and go to work trying to use her claws to dislodge the barbed plants from her pelt. Chamomiles' ears would flatten when one of her fellow warriors approached her, and her chest tightened as she remembered her interaction with Lightning. Would this tom chastise her too? Glare at her coldly and make her feel like she was worse than dirt?

She looked away in shame, waiting for lashing words and condescending tones, but to her surprise, Smokethroat gave her neither. In fact, he was gently scolding the apprentices who had run past her and then turned to her to offer that 'it happens to the best of us.'

Cham would exhale the breath she didn't realize she had been holding, and then looked at Smokethroat's paw as he mentioned that she may lose some fur from this ordeal and that she might have better luck using her teeth. Giving him a soft grateful smile, she would meow shyly, "Y-Yea, though I think I inherited all of Riverclans bad luck when we moved here." It was spoken as a joke, as an attempt to lighten the situation, before she turned her head and grabbed a burr with her teeth and pulled.

She would wince as it came free and, as Smoke predicted, took some of her fur with it, but she flashed her clanmate a look of triumph regardless, "It worked! Thank you." She would purr lightly and turn her head to face Hound, her mood having improved since the start of all this. a blush would touch her cheeks as the tom reached out and began working another burr out of her fur, but she was now glowing with gratitude, "Thank you, Hound. This is very kind of you both."

Once Beesong gathers up the last of his supplies, he'd begin to head back towards Chamomile, squinting momentarily as he pads from the cool darkness of his den. It seems Chamomile's began to garner some assistance, and Beesong's whiskers twitch. Coming to her side, the medicine cat drops the bundle onto the ground and begins to work on the scratches that'd been freed from the burrs, cleaning them with the dampened moss ball with practiced ease. He couldn't exactly talk with his mouth full, or at least he couldn't talk and be legible, but he's content in listening to the others.

Once they've cleaned the visible scratches, they'd snatch up a couple of the dock leaves and chew them into a poultice before applying it to the scratches. Beesong forgets to remind Chamomile that it might sting, but they assume that she's accustomed to it by now... Besides, a little sting now would be worth the relief once the leaves' juice sinks in.

"How's it comin' along?" Beesong asks, poking his head up from his work to glance between Hound and Smokethroat. "You aren't gettin' tangled up, yourselves, are you?"
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