pafp PROUD LORD ╱ O. INTRO

[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

( ᴛᴀɢs. )  ❝  The lazy days of recovery have passed him by all too soon. Testing the river's shores, hunting for those that yet were not able to– this had been an easy adjustment, and yet still the hardest thing Hound had ever done. To know that they'd split tore up parts of his heart. Too many familiar faces were left in those hungry shadows. Too many more were buried beneath the shaded battleground. He'd not let it be all of him. It didn't cross his mind so much as settle heavy on his delicate spine, discomfort at the base of his skull. A breathing reminder'f all he'd failed. In this, at least, there was to be a new beginning. It'd been half the reason he left. Belonging aside, nothing short of love could have kept him in that marsh, the newly named ShadowClan. Surely he'd not be the only one to think this... parade of new traditions was a foolish choice, but he supposes they all need a distinction. Somethin' clean, a beginning and an end all at once.

We aren't the same cats that hurt each other as we once had. We are new. We are different.

Hound most certainly felt no different, no fresher for the name that they carried, but he could not fault those that clung to it still. A paw swipes over his jaw, splashing water to the thick fur so it might seep beneath the collar. Not even the battle'd managed to tear it from his throat, though each test seems to wear at it. With time it'd come from him, and he'd be himself once more. "Clean yourself up," Hound mutters to the boy near his paws, reaching with one to prod 'im gently towards his stomach. "It'll do you no good to start a new day 'thout the one before it washed off." Advice he's nearly parroting, the voice of his mind layering over his own. He ducks his own head to press it into the water, ignoring the instinctive fear of his ears ducking under the water's current and only pulling up once his lungs're threatening mutiny.

†  ooc notes information †

• 
  ooc: please wait for @SWIFT !
• ──── 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"

  [b][color=#c5c897]"speech"[/color][/b][/tab][/tabs][/color][/justify][/box]

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[SWIFT]

He doesn't know if he likes it here. The water's fine, he supposes, but nothing's like it used to be, not even his own face in the river's edge, wavering with the current. Everyone has left and gone their own ways because of advice from— from the people who died and became these specters of stars. But he hadn't seen his mother or father with them, and Swift doesn't know what that means, if they weren't good or powerful enough to wear constellations on their pelts. They were good and powerful to him. Swift never wanted for a thing, never thought he'd want what they didn't already give him. Never wanted what he couldn't have.

It's all he wants now.

It hurts and it hasn't stopped since it started, and it's not like the new wounds on his face or when he's stepped on a sharp prickle hidden underpaw, or when he'd tussled with his brother too roughly and earned a fair bruise. No tender, soothing touch is to come from his parents. It's just him, and he's too afraid to ask comfort 'cause everyone's hurting the same as him, and his skin crawls whenever he so much as imagines some stranger mothering him.

Hound's doesn't rankle so much, but he can't ask him either. There aren't words that won't make Swift out to be a pathetic kit. It's why he doesn't protest, just dips his head and splashes his face and says nothing about the stinging when he's done. "What if somebody else doesn't, and day before gets back on me?"
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INFORMATION​

 

[Frostdrop.]

GOT A HEAD FULL OF SPIDERS​

---

The more Frost had began to stay within the clan after joining the more she realized how many of them were not well equipped in living within the river's safety, some feared the currents and what it brought, others had their own beliefs that clashed with another and then there was the few loners who had joined, some melding in with the new group easily while others only joined so they were not forced to leave their home that they had grown up within, resenting these new cats who only brought bloodshed.

She had been out by the river, collecting shells and other things for her own new nest when she came across Swift and Hound, a fictive brow raising upon her as she caught a word of what they were saying before approaching the two. She had yet to see them within Riverclan wondering about but the scent that cling to their fur told the newcomer that they were indeed members of this new group and she sighed a bit before approaching, tail swishing slightly as she watch them both soil the river and she rolled her bi-colored eyes at them. "This is the most fish-brained thing I have seen. You're only going to get dirty again and what you said is just, silly" she said a bit bluntly towards them. "So why go through all the effort?" Frost asked, the apprentice aged she-cat tilted her head staring at them strangely, no hints of coldness lingered in her words, just more of a tone of curiousity and not understanding the two.​

"speak""Thoughts"​

 

[CLAYFUR]

Clay doesn’t mess with the river. Not after seeing how fast it could move at times, and definitely not after falling into it and making a fool of himself in front of everyone. It was unfortunate, really, falling into the river like that. He feels the need to impress these new clanmates of his, to ensure the leader from the marsh that not all pine forest cats were useless idiots. Clay’s starting to think such a description might apply to him, though.

He observes his new clanmates from afar most of the time, if only because most of them don’t show an interest in talking with him. That or they poke fun at his clumsiness, which is kind of worse. He’s been watching from a distance the actions of a couple of dark-furred tabbies who’ve barely drawn his interest, and only truly begins to care about what they’re doing when the larger figure dunks their head beneath the water of the river. Is he crazy?! is the immediate thought that pops into Clay’s head. Then the smaller feline copies the action, and Clay can’t imagine how fearless the two of them must be. He can hardly stand the feeling of water lapping at his toes—much less closing in over his head!

He’s not the only one who’s noticed them, and the gray she-cat’s words are loud enough to reach his pricked ears. "Fish-brained," he says under his breath, not quite realizing that he’s repeating her words. It’s a fun phrase. Maybe he’ll start using it. Never mind that, he forces his attention back to the pair of tabbies. His tone is devoid of the sharp edge that the younger feline’s holds, but he hopes it communicates his confusion. "Is that good for you?" Surely dunking one’s head underwater can’t be beneficial in any way, right?
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[ PENNED BY FOXLORE ]​

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