PICKET FENCE DREAM | prompt; sweets

[FERNDANCE]

If anybody was going to bring something weird into the camp, be it deadly disease or cutest little button, it would be Ferndance. There was great pride to be found in her collection of things whose origins were lost to her, so far did it spread that it spilled onto the nests of others. Once, it had been the white-pawed molly's rank that prevented dissent for her hoarding, now, it seemed to only be habit that protected her - those that shared her spot in the warmer corners of the Warrior's den had likely never known a properly clean nest, didn't know how to ask for it, it was something Ferndance would take advantage of as long as her friends forgot their autonomy. Today was another today of conveniently poor memory; a solo-patrol amidst the mirelands in hopes of seeking the rogues out and a failed hunt later and the tabby had found something that she was confident would make her happier than any old frog. Twoleg stench hung off the orange trinket like meat off the bone, but it was not the weird, hollowed-out pumpkin the cat was interested in.

Instead, it was the shiny bits inside. A touch from a paw revealed a bobbly texture, tree knots perhaps, but the smell was sweeter than any sap. No amount of kneading seemed to unravel what was inside, it only made crinkling noises, satisfying in its own right. Ferndance could imagine fidgeting with them from moonhigh to sunrise, that had been enough to take the little bowl from its perch close to the Carrionplace. What Ferndance didn't realise was that she had stolen some child's personal Halloween project to get their own kitty cat involved. The ticked tabby strutted into camp like an overly proud rooster, head craned towards the stars as she tried her best to keep the basket upright. Each paw seemed to step higher than the last until Ferndance herself was confident she could walk on air, instead, the former Lead Warrior had just managed to find the one patch of terrain that wasn't marred by mud. With no time to explain herself, Fern made a blind beeline for her den, the sweet-smelling food crunching like leaves within their cave. Perhaps Dogfur the omniscient would be able to give her more insight into what she had just brought to ShadowClan, for now, she decided it best to keep it a secret from her friend until they discovered it themselves.
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[Wheattail]

Oh lord, what had she done now?

Ferndance had been one of the first cats to find Wheatpaw on Shadowclan territory, but it seemed nearly four moons of added time hadn’t made the she-cat any less strange in the apprentice’s eyes. Normally she would find such behavior annoying, unbecoming and childlike. However, the warrior had a way of making it charming, like a slight sting of spice in an otherwise boring soup.

That was why when the figure at the end of her gaze shot to cover like a criminal while carrying some strange twoleg object, Wheatpaw raised an invisible eyebrow and wondered just what flavor Ferndance would turn today into. Autumn legs lifted the apprentice up as she let out a sigh, using a cover of exasperation to hide her excitement. Ambling over to the warrior’s den, the Somali lookalike stuck her head inside, gaze briefly flicking around to ascertain the best sleeping spots for when she moved in here.

As Wheatpaw made a silent vow to abandon Shadowclan if she was made to sleep next to Ferndance’s perpetual mess, the apprentice’s nose twitched as she realized the former lead warrior was flavoring the day with something quite sweet.

“What do you have there?” The apprentice asked, taking an authoritative tone against someone above her in rank. “Is it some strange swamp-prey?” ​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

◇────────────【☆】★【☆】────────────◇​

XXXXXStill in self-exile from Starlingheart’s den of plague-infested cretins, Granitepelt curls in a nest used by departed warriors, their scents fading from the moss like ancient perfume. He can’t recall whose it had been, in truth—Honeyjaw’s, maybe, or Clearheart’s. He half-expects they won’t be returning to reclaim it, but if they do, he’ll be happy to return the damnable thing. He misses laying close to his mate, nose pressed into thick black fur and inhaling her unique honeyed scent, clove and spice and a faint astringence from medicine. He’d give anything to clear the forest of yellowcough himself, if only he could have what belonged to him back.

XXXXXGranitepelt looks up as Ferndance enters the warrior’s den. He regards her coolly—only until recently, she’d been his superior, but in one quick meeting their roles had been swapped. He now carries the higher rank, and with that new authority he says, “What is it you’ve brought into our den? It reeks of Twoleg and trash.” The bridge of his nose crinkles, ear flicking sideways. It’s shiny—he can see just a glimpse of it between fawn-colored paws—and small, round.

XXXXXWheatpaw, intruding where she shouldn’t, asks if it’s some bit of swamp prey, and he has to snort. “Are you telling me you don’t recognize Twoleg nonsense when you see it?”

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[STUMPYSPOTS]

”Hmm? What?” Stumpyspots mumbles as she groggily opens her eyes. At last when she had just finally fallen into light slumber cats had to pool in and start causing ruckus… ”Did I hear that right? What about twolegs?” Then a loud, obnoxious yawn sounds from her maw.

She stretches out and then rises onto her paws, nosily leaning in to try and get a better look at what they’re talking about. Her nose twitches, her sensitive senses do indeed pick up a whiff of twoleg, but what was that it was mixed with? She screws up her nose, ”Unwise to meddle with twolegs.” are her words of wisdom.

*.☽ INFO BATTLE

• 
  » Half Maw . Stumpyspots
  » ShadowClan Warrior
  » She/her ․ Twice Widowed
  » Calico she-cat with rounded features.
  » ”speech”․ thoughts ․ attack
  
• 
  » A heavy hitting foe capable of standing her ground
  » Excels in slow, but powerful blows and kicks.
  » Fights to defend and protect
  » May powerplay minor harm. Can powerplay healing

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