PINS & NEEDLES — intro, flowers

[SWAMPWATER]

The melting of frost has hardly ever heralded good things for Swampwater. They had suffered a childhood of watching older she-cats welcome new little joys into their lives each spring, a childhood of being expected to do the same someday. They had feared such a fate for so long, a coward down to their deepest core. Their fate had spoken, however. It seemed there was no running forever from the gifts of springtime.

A fluttering of white in their periphery catches the warrior’s attention—they whirl so fast on their paws that they’re nearly sent to the dirt with how dizzy the action makes them. There on the ground, not a fox-length away, lies the barest blur of white. Sun-speckled eyes narrow, vision sharpening along with the ache it causes in their brow.

A poppy. A single poppy flower, white as snow, rising from the ground in a place where it should not reasonably be found. Almost as though the flower—the land itself—is mocking him. Reminding him of what he once had. What he never wanted.

He slithers closer, settles a paw on either side of the plant. A treacherous ache has begun winding its way through his chest, digging thorns into something surprisingly soft. Vulnerability has never been a comfortable cloak to wear, but it chokes him now. A year ago, he was still happy. A year ago, he would surely have already been pregnant, but the Ness of a year ago did not know that. He was living in blissful ignorance. He thought he could be happy forever; it seems that happiness is just not in the cards for certain creatures, though.

If he had stayed… No. He could never have stayed, could never have reared his young as his mother had reared him. He didn’t want to. I don’t regret it. I can’t regret it.

He’s snapped from the confines of his own aching head by the sound of another cat approaching behind him. For a moment he is still frozen in place, claws digging into the dirt, the echo of his daughter’s name ringing in his ears. Then he straightens abruptly, clears his throat. "What is your favorite flower," he questions whatever clanmate has joined him in the clearing, blazing eyes narrowed to better make out the other cat’s shape.
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[ BURN THE WOODS ! ]​

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[DARTERWING]

(=^･ｪ･^=))ﾉ彡♡ — ”The lotus.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, her answer is given with no hesitation. This was an answer she’s known by heart for a long time, her favorite flower was the lotus, for it was the namesake of a long lost lover. When she utters the name of the flower, she utters the name of her childhood friend and keeps her memory alive.

Seems unbeknownst to the two RiverClan warriors, they were both reminiscing on old flames, lost in some manner but far from forgotten.
She tries to peer over the shoulder of her fellow warrior to catch a glimpse of what they peaked at, ”Why you ask?” she inquires before coming more interested in admiring their luxurious fur. How pretty he wore it.— tags​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

He had never given much thought to flowers or their ilk, plants were not his interest nor did he understand much about them outside the poisionous ones Beesong often fretted over ensuring cats knew not to touch. Smokethroat saw them as he saw most things in RiverClan, flippantly unecessary; pretty things with no purpose-though perhaps he didn't feel as strongly as he once did. He would not begrudge the clan their little enjoyments, especially now so soon after leafbare and with cats still recovering from the flood and near starvation that nearly swept them from the earth. The dark tom considers passing by as he overhears the faint conversation, the question and whispered word almost as if he were intruding upon something sacred, but he pauses as he glances upward in silent thought; his form a shadow spilling behind the two. The question isn't directed at him but the spotted molly but he finds himself musing over it all the same.
"Sunflowers." He said suddenly, without realizing he'd spoken out loud before looking sharply to the side as though embarrassed at the sudden remark unbidden from his maw. He'd spoken, he was now in the conversation whether he'd intended to or not so he cleared his throat to pad over, standing alongside Darterwing as though he'd intended to all along. Idiot. Stop thinking out loud.
"...I just think they look nice." Bright, golden, eternally facing the sun-a hopeless plant. Or a hopeful one depending on how you viewed it, longing for the light that never lingered long in the sky; always drifting along to the end of the day to bask the world in darkness once more. He wondered if plants felt anything, did the Sunflower know the sun would return or did it wish desperately each night that the morning would come and it could be swallowed in that golden light again. Always chasing something you wanted, never obtaining it...
'Why you ask?' Darterwing follows up and he turns to the old tom curiously as well, why DID he ask something so sudden? Was it a fleeting thought?
"And what of yours?"
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[BEESONG]

beesong overhears the question by accident, stumbling across the clearing while on the search for herbs. your favorite flower. darterwing and smokethroat answer without hesitation—smokethroat's answer comes as more of a surprise than darterwing's. who knew the brooding lead warrior loved sunflowers, of all flora?— but the healer pauses. worries with the inside of his cheek. his favorite flower? he's never really thought about it. there have always been more pressing matters to concern himself with, little time to ponder over trivial things such as his favorite flower or his least favorite prey.

but, considering it now, beesong thinks their answer would be tansy. they could lie, and say that it was because of its many medicinal uses... that would be the rational answer. but it would be just that; a lie. tansy reminds them of home, of the moons they lived beneath the pines. clusters of the yellow, bulb-shaped flowers bloomed within the pine colony's camp every greenleaf. they'd fill the clearing with their overwhelmingly sweet scent, and some would even complain of a headache from the aromatic herbs.

whenever he's harvesting the flowers, now, he finds that part of himself he's tried to bury time and time again. the homesickness that calls him back to the pines with an ache in his incomplete heart. he wishes that he'd just get a headache, instead... it would be easier to eliminate than the longing.

beesong smiles, but there is no humor behind it. he glances back to the three warriors, and with his deceitful tongue, he says, "asters." there is no rhyme or reason behind the lie; it was just the first flower that came to mind. even with something as seemingly inconsequential as his favorite flora, beesong would not open his heart up fully, fearful that they could condemn him for the melancholy they might find there.​

 

[SWAMPWATER]

Swampwater is taken by surprise with the way that Darterwing answers immediately, with apparently zero hesitation. The lotus, delicate and soft, as far as Swampwater remembers. She asks after their question’s origin, and their maw twists into a frown. A distraction. "Curiosity," they respond curtly, slitted gaze landing on the form of their dappled clanmate. A sharp roll of their shoulders punctuates their words, an attempt to shake off the dread that sinks in their stomach. "Would I be overstepping to ask why the lotus? You seem very certain."

Their attention is grabbed next by Smokethroat, who stakes his claim upon sunflowers. An odd choice, much less suited for RiverClan than Darterwing’s response. But sunflowers are towering, unforgettable things. The other warrior only explains the choice by saying they look nice. The smoke-swirled tom scoffs. Shallow. But far be it from them to criticize the answer to a question that they asked in the first place.

They’ve been anticipating their own inquiry to be turned back upon them, and as if on cue Smokethroat is the one to do so. Their gaze turns to the poppy, And them back to their clanmates. "Never liked flowers." A lie. Once upon a time, he looked forward to flowers left atop his nest, or woven into the moss of it. If giving gifts were any sort of love language, then Swampwater had become fluent in it. Now, though, all flowers have thorns. He shakes his head. "This one is my least favorite," they say, and gesture to the white flower they’re hovering over.

Beesong, quiet and unobtrusive both of voice and of presence, a healer amongst warriors. An invaluable member of the clan, and one who Swampwater finds themself looking to now, as they eventually offer their flower of choice. "Asters. Which are those?" They don’t recall having seen the flower before—ah, their memory’s never been the greatest, though, so they aren’t concerned for the lack of recollection.
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[ BURN THE WOODS ! ]​

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[DARTERWING]

(=^･ｪ･^=))ﾉ彡♡ — Sunflowers? Darterwing contemplates if she’s ever seen them before… but how could she forget the tall, stalky, yellow petaled plant? The name was certainly fitting, for at the height of a cat they certainly did look like they reached up into the sky exactly like the blazing sun. ”Ohhh, those are those really tall ones, aren’t they?” She inquires for clarification, to ensure she’s not mistaken. She’d love to be more well versed in flowers one day, but there were all so many and some looked dreadfully similar. How did some cats ever tell them apart?

Beesong shares that his favorite flowers are asters, this she knows of. They’re a lovely purple color with a yellow center, she’s worn some in her fur in the past. She nods to the medicine cat in silent acknowledgement of his good taste, suppose it makes sense he would having to deal with flora and other foliage every day in his life.

When inquired about why lotuses were her favorite she blinks, unsure of how to respond at first. Did this lovely outing really need to turn into a sob feast for herself? She thinks not, she would not have such attention today. Perhaps sometime she would tell them the full story as of why, but for now she keeps it furiously plain, ”They remind me of a cat I once knew.” She meows, there is a certain way she said it though that makes it clear she doesn’t wish to delve further into that territory.

Swampwater expresses that poppies are his least favorite, that he’s never been fond of flowers. She’s puzzled, how could a cat not like flowers? Not like poppies? They could be a stunning red, one they otherwise rarely witnessed in nature. This one in particular is white. ”Why don’t you like poppies? I could see thistles or even dandelions…” She trails off in sudden awarement she might be treading on a sensitive topic, much like her own.— tags​