camp oh mom, i've got the heart of a dancer || seeking advice

[betonyfrost]

POST CODE

• Worry isn't so much as a thing that blooms, but is rather the brittle remains of a wilted hope.
  
  Still, worry feels like it takes root. It feels like it grows from a seedling into something grand. Although the metaphor has become long overwrought, Betonyfrost thinks there is a tree in her chest, coiled roots as wide as she is long and barren twisted branches reaching ever upwards towards an out of reach sky. She thinks, with the same twirling dance as loose leaves in the wind, in tighter and tighter circles. She thinks of a gentle touch to her shoulder, of kind words; she thinks the unforgivable thought that maybe Chilledgaze feels even a fraction of what fills Betonyfrost's hollow heart.
  
  Sleep isn't something that evades Betonyfrost often, despite the seeming whole of her personality. She sleeps comfortably through sunhigh most days, coiled under a sunbeam with an expression that could almost be mistaken for serene. Now, Betonyfrost is woefully awake. She aches, oh, she aches. Camp looks different beneath daylight-- stark in unexpected ways, shadows pooled at the bases of things. Brighter than Betonyfrost is used to. She squints, first about camp, and then upwards. The moon is visible even now, ghostly white and strangely faded against the cloudless blue of the sky.
  
  Worry isn't so much a thing that blooms, but it grows her flower heart gourd-large until its beating against her creaking ribcage.
  
  In an instant Betonyfrost is angry. The same speed it takes for a spark to blossom into a flame-- the time from one breath to the next. She stands as if pushing herself upright is a great effort, and yet the steps that follow feel more natural, more fluid, than anything Betonyfrost has ever done. She's never wanted before, not ever like this, never this desperately. Betonyfrost doesn't know what to do with that want, doesn't know where to place it. For the first time, Betonyfrost wishes she could declare her love dead and bury it.
  
  Standing now in the center of camp, Betonyfrost wants to do something permanent. She wants to shatter something and crush the shards. She wants the points of her teeth to meet skin.Rather than that, Betonyfrost swallows her anger, and swallows it again. She eats it like the familiar meal that it is, and yet it still sits just behind her teeth. She would tremble out of her skin, if she could allow herself to tremble.
  
  Rather than that, rather than any of that, Betonyfrost sits in the middle of camp, twisted thoughts and barely tethered rage, and ready to combust says in a voice soft enough to not betray her anger, only her fear, "I need someone to talk to me."​

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

shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 14 moons | tags​

 

[BONERIPPLE]

A feeling of anger and rage she has held many times. Never has she tried to cast it aside but work with it, use it to her advantage. It helps in a way to not ignore most things and though she never allows her own feeling to manifest upon her face unless in dire straits she does feel. Even just a little bit. She wants things to be better. Wants things to shift in the every drowning tide that Shadowclan is being constantly pulled down into. With a small breath in the womam emerges from the medicine den just as she notices Betony. Burning eyes blink with confusion for a split second as she notices how the other carries herself and then settling herself in the middle of camp a request is made. Talk to her. With a flick if her tail Bone makes her way over with ease. "Very well. I have time to talk and you don't look too good. Are you okay?"

Easily the molly tilts her head, but her molten hues give nothing away. But she is concerned that much is certain. ​

 

[Honeysong]

Honeysong was up tonight, enjoying the cool breeze. She had just brought back prey, and was going to prepare to go to sleep when Betonyfrost strode out and asked for someone to talk to them. She seemed upset.

Oh woe, what had befallen poor Betonyfrost, to request the company of one of her clanmates? Shadowclan was cranky. Gloomy. Depressed. To ask comfort from them was like asking a porcupine not to stick you.

Fortunately, Honeysong was here! She hopped to her feet and bounced over, sitting beside Bonejaw.

"You wish to talk? I also have time! Plenty of time to while away with my lovely clanmates~" She said in her sing songy voice. "Tell us of your woes, maybe we can help!"

Somebody had to be a positive influence around here, after all.

​

 

[betonyfrost]

POST CODE

• Perhaps it is a strange thing to forget, but it is often that Betonyfrost doesn't realize her clanmates live their lives beyond their interactions, however brief they are, with her. They don't exist as the backdrop to the long line of humiliations that Betonyfrost knows to be her life; they have their own fears and doubts, just as Betonyfrost does. Yet, she thinks, with a small worm of shame in her gut, that should a clanmate approach Betonyfrost with any amount of distress, Betonyfrost doesn't know if she would lend an ear.
  
  She should care, she knows, but--
  
  Better not to dwell on it.
  
  "I'm just so full of love that it's making me sick," She confesses. It's a weight off her chest to say it, and yet Betonyfrost feels just as heavy as she had before, "And I just can't stop thinking-- that, that either everyone must feel as I do, and I'm uniquely terrible at handling it, or that I'm the only one who has felt this much about-- about anything."
  
  And Betonyfrost feels so much. She thinks in the privacy of her head that anyone who feels half as strongly as Betonyfrost does daily, they wouldn't be able to rise from their nest. The weight of it would stay them.​

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

shadowclan warrior | blue mackerel tabby | 14 moons | tags​

 

[smogmaw]

Smogmaw strolls over on unhurried paws. Having heard the young she-cat's initial request, as well as Bonejaw's and Honeysong's responses in the affirmative, the tom's curiosity is passably tickled. Whatever bothered her likely isn't any of his business, yet Betonyfrost made a conscious choice to seek counsel from her clanmates. A bold decision on her part considering the people who lived in these parts. He dips his head in greeting on his approach, and stops in his tracks a good fox-length away from the distraught warrior. On the condition that providing his honest-to-StarClan input would help her recuperate, Smogmaw obliges without any problem.

"Full of love, maybe," he meows, speaking in a leery manner. Attached to his jaw is his omnipresent frown, which makes the tabby come off as more reserved than he intended to be. "You sound full of worry, too," continues Smogmaw, "full of anxiety. Hell, you're worrying about being worried."

The underlying context to her concerns is unclear at the moment, but Smogmaw's perspective is pretty set in stone. Here you have Betonyfrost, someone less than half his age, caught up in a sweat over how no one has ever felt the way she did. Not only is her line of reasoning erroneous, it's unwittingly self-centered. Although he could not analogise himself with the young warrior, given that love is something he's always been deficient of, it's safe to assume her reverse-heartsickness is far from a unique experience amongst the clans' collective population.

Lukewarm eyes offer her a look of pity. "I, for one, do not feel as you do," says the tom in an almost sardonic way, "if anything, it's hard for me to care about stuff. But, to me, it sounds like you're troubling yourself over how other people think - which you shouldn't do, 'cause you can't control how other people feel, unless you're a great manipulator or sum'n." ​