camp Oxidation Is The Compromise You Owe (Sharing Tongues)

[Wheattail]

Why was she wasting time?

The plan was simple: join Shadowclan, plan a route back to her homeland, and leave at the earliest convenience. Instead of doing any of that, Wheatpaw had spent her time training and trailing after kits. If this kept up for much longer, it was possible that moons of memories might fade, and the wanderer would lose the way back entirely.

These were the thoughts running through the nine-moon-old’s mind as she spent the afternoon grooming herself.

Yes, it seemed there were some things Wheatpaw valued over her self-appointed mission, one of which were her looks. Staying in Shadowclan and playing kit-wrangler had not done her pelt any good, and it was long overdue for a cleaning. The she-cat sat in the center of camp, relishing the chance to show off autumn-colored fur, tail especially. However, it wasn’t long until the Somali look-alike’s smile faded as boredom set in. What good was attention if she didn’t know who she was getting it from?

Wheatpaw had told herself she wouldn’t get too attached to anyone here, the wanderer not wishing for any hurt feelings when it came to abandon them. However, there wasn’t any harm in learning a few names, was there? And if any information came afterwards, well that was just unavoidable bad luck, wasn’t it?

Turning to a nearby clanmate, sharp amber eyes saturated with self-delusion took them in before she spoke. “You, your pelt is in shambles” Wheatpaw said matter-of-factly, beckoning them forwards with a flick of her tail. “Here, let me help you” she mumbled before attempting to clean the cat. “You clan cats are such busy-bodies” she mumbled between licks. “What is the point of living if one never has time to look their best?”

//Feel free to have your character be the one she’s speaking to! ​

 

[mottlefox]

"Who, me?" Mottlepaw turns to look behind herself, but those expectant golden eyes are still fixed on her when she turns back around. Gulp. Almost sheepish in the way a kit would be if caught ungroomed by their mother, the skinny-legged apprentice pads over to their denmate and plops down next to her. Wheatpaw is on the job immediately, tugging at sepia strands and muttering to herself, and Mottlepaw gives it a few moments before banishing her awkwardness to respond.

"Well, I mean," he says, and tilts his head so that Wheatpaw can have better access to the part of his neck he can't reach, "what's the point in looking your best if you're just gonna get messed up from the marshes anyway? It's nice that you keep your fur so nice though, Wheatpaw."​

 

[smogstar]

Wheatpaw's remarks carry a connotation of naivete. Perhaps it ought to be expected, given her status as 'new kid on the block'—still, by now the apprentice should have grasped some familiarity with the stereotypes of her newfound people. ShadowClan cats, by and large, are not a cleanly sort. It comes from the territory more than all else. When the soil one walks upon exists in an everlasting state of viscous semi-solidness, brined in bog slime and a wealth of other undesirable elements, the notion of well-groomed fur is naught but a fantasy. And though there are certainly outliers amongst them, those clanmates are the exception rather than the rule.

The sooner young Wheatpaw came to understand this, the easier her tenure in the swamp shall be. Embrace the stink, learn to revel in it, since lamenting it won't alter the outcome of living here.

Odd cowlicks tear the furs along the deputy's neck asunder. Days-old mud and muck create a dingy film around his limbs from the ankles down, and the sludge that squelches with every pawstep has taken up a permanent residence between his digits. Having called this horrid fleapit a home for many seasons, Smogmaw has grown ignorant to such discomforts. Hence his mild bemusement upon seeing Wheatpaw work so diligently on a fellow apprentice's pelt. Mottlepaw was an outsider as well, but at least her protests showed an awareness to the functioning of this place.

"That'll last until night patrols, at the very least," comes a dry comment from Smogmaw's equally-dry throat. On languid paws does he rove towards the two, his features singing the same song of flagrant apathy as always. Creased brows and eyes aweary fixate on the ginger-toned molly in particular. "Your priorities is off-kilter, Wheatpaw, if your main concern around here is lookin' your best. Dirty paws never hurt no one."

A mental note is made on how she doesn't lump herself in with the rest of ShadowClan. It's curious, very curious, that she addresses the "clan cats" as a separate entity. ​

 

[Wheattail]

Wheatpaw felt a mix of satisfaction and disappointment at Mottlepaw meandered forwards, their coffee-and-cream-colored pelt practically bursting at the seams. One one hand, it felt good to be listened to for a change. On the other, it was clear that the concept of cleanliness so foreign to Shadowclan that they seemingly paid no heed to their own pelts. “Yes, you. Come, I do not bite.”

Another wave of satisfaction washes over the wanderer as Mottlepaw finally makes a response. After all, if Wheatpaw wanted to clean with no conversation, she would be licking a squirrel. “What is the point of eating if you will just get hungry later?” The she-cat retorts lightheartedly, vaguely aware of the ridiculousness of comparing unkempt fur to famine. “There are some tasks you simply cannot put off for too long, lest you face the consequences.” To show that she wasn’t taking the debate seriously (and as thanks for the compliment), Wheatpaw reached around with her tail and tickled her peer’s nose.

As if on cue, a case-in-point of her speech padded forwards in the form of Smogmaw. From Wheatpaw’s perspective, Shadowclan’s deputy was long suffering a lack of humor, the consequences of which were etched all across his face. Perhaps that was why he made the perfect number two to Chilledstar, the duo at least having company to go with their misery. Amber eyes narrowed to slits as the apprentice took in her superior’s stare, now quite sure she wouldn’t miss this one after leaving.

“Have you never heard the phrase ‘an hour of life is still life’?” Wheatpaw responded, tone stiff. Again, it was a bit of a dramatic comparison, but the beauty took self-care that seriously (at least when talking to Smogmaw). “And it is not my main concern, but it is a concern, and one I do not plan to toss away anytime soon.” sharp eyes scoured the Deputy’s form, eventually turning from disdain to pity. It seemed even Wheatpaw couldn’t turn away a cat so clearly in need.

“Come, sit.” she urged with the tip of her tail, tone still less friendly than it had been with Mottlepaw. “I will fix you up next, and I do not care how long it lasts. Even If you only look presentable for five minutes, the work will be worth it.” ​