It's still early in the morning when Valhalladawn comes crashing into camp– quite literally. It's not the daylight warrior's typical graceful entrance, for which he finds himself mimicking his suffix for. Always he would find his way to SkyClan's camp as first light touches the forest. His first meal would be warm in his belly and his eyes would be energetic and wide. Ready. Eager. But still quiet in it. Others rested a little longer than he, and in the middle of leafbare, they could not risk scaring any prey. So it's odd that he would be making any sort of noise. If anyone asks, though, it's not really his fault. It's his twolegs, clever and cautious as they are. It had always been fine, that he wanders off away from home throughout the day. Without fail he would return to cuddle between their blankets and purr the night away.
Why, then, did they find it necessary to tie this infernal contraption to him? It is clunky and uncomfortable, shifting against his chest and chafing around his throat. He's unbalanced, and that of course is why he's crashing. One paw keeps coming up to his neck as if to swipe the thing off, but the black box stays stubbornly in place. "This fucking–" His sentence devolves into a deep rrow of rage. "–THING!"
ooc: val's dads tie a gopro to their cat for entertainment, more at 9. (help him take this off and bury it so the clans aren't discovered by twolegs pls)
──── valhalladawn. daylight warrior of skyclan. ──── adult, approximately 40 moons. he - him. ──── pansexual, polyamorous. trans masculine.
──── a tall, broad-shouldered moggy with powerful hindquarters and a short, fluffy tail. his fur is long and dense, but kept rather neat. wears a leather and rope collar without bells or noisy tags.
❪ TAGS ❫ — Slate isn't too much of an early riser, as he is more of a night owl who takes to observing the twilight filtering between the pines and the glowing moon rise into the skies. Early morning is still a tranquil time; birds took to their usual routine of filling the forest with song, light beginning to warm the horizon even if the sun hasn't broken yet. Slate figures that this would be his second favorite time of day had he not loved the night so much.
However, the dark-furred rogue just so happens to be awake already, having unluckily rolled over onto a thorn in his nest. Figuring that he would have to get up soon anyway, he sat outside of the warriors den grooming his long fur and particularly the spot where he was pricked.
Pausing his grooming, Slate glances up to see a familiar figure gracelessly stumbling into camp, appearing agitated and panicked as if he were being attacked by something. Upon further observation, though, the Maine Coon spots an undoubtedly-twoleg device strapped around Valhalladawn's neck like some sort of strange collar. It looks vaguely recognizable; was this the same black box often attached to long sticks? Twolegs would carry them around on occasion in the city, for what reason the former rogue couldn't say.
While the large tom was initially going to tell the daylight warrior to take that twoleg nonsense out of camp and deal with it himself, Slate figures that there was a reason why Valhalladawn came running in the first place. Collars were not always easy to remove, especially if they were snug and locked tight around one's neck. He probably had no other choice.
Heaving a sigh, Slate gets to his paws and approaches the ashen tabby daylight warrior intently. "Okay calm down, would ya'? Lay on your side." The male grunted out, an irritated edge accompanying his tone. He had just about enough of the pets bringing twoleg rubbish into camp; first the bowtie collar in his nest, and now this. If Valhalladawn would allow it, Slate would place one of his large paws on the moggy's neck in order to hold the leather collar in place. His other paw would try and wedge into the crevice between the collar and the little box and pull.
The sudden eruption of a rage induced swear gathers Coyotepaw's attention from his little makeshift nest in the corner of camp. Mint colored eyes snapping in the direction of angry tabby warrior slashing at some strange contraption firmly fixated upon them. The boy's brows pull together, knitting tight as he watches Slate approach Valhalladawn's writhing form. It wasn't hurting him was it? Quietly he stands to his paws, shaking pine and other loose debris from his pelt. Cautiously he walks a wide breadth around the pair, proceeding to give them plenty of room as uncertainty gnaws away at him. He's not sure if his presence will be tolerated or not, but he decides to tentatively test the waters. "How did they get it on you like that?" Coyotepaw asks softly, watching with his face twisted in moderate confusion as Slate pries at the black box. Twolegs were such strange creatures and he would never come to understand some of the odd things they did.
when you're lost in the universe don't lose faith
☁"Such a strange thing..." Sharpeye has never understood the unusual objects that the twolegs opted to decorate the kittypets with. He found himself staring at Valhalladawn as the fellow tried to deal with the unfortunate object attached to his neck. Slate was even there trying to help. Though he couldn't help but question whether brute strength would truly deal with the issue given the trickery of some twolegs. Sighing, he then glanced over at Coyotepaw when the youth spoke. "The twolegs are quite dexterous with their paws. They have their ways of getting such bizarre things on to cats." He explained whilst he peered down at his own paws as he took a mental note of the differences between the two species. "Could always try smashing it against a rock."
Throughout his brief tenure in SkyClan, Shrimpy Boy has gotten a fair grasp on the inner mechanisms of the clan's make-up. There's a wealth of different rules and etiquettes to follow, and it would be dishonest to say he remembers each one, but every passing day sees the ginger tom become more familiar with the surrounding faces and names. Ranks, too—and the most fascinating rank of them all is the half-kittypet, half-warrior rank. Those who inhabit the forest at dusk, before leaving for their homes at dawn. Daytime warrior, is it called? Pah, it's on the tip of his tongue.
Anywho, Valhalladawn happens to be one. The fellow's smoke-tinged coat comes as a conventional sight every sunrise, creeping into the clearing whilst the shadows are still long-drawn over the clearing. Shrimpy Boy would very much like to ask him about his special arrangement one of these days; there's a portion of his soul that yet yearns for twolegplace, and he cannot keep it subdued for much longer.
This morning is not the time to ask that question, if the sheer chaos of Valhalladawn's entrance was anything to go off of. Eyes widened by disbelief watch on as the other tom comes to a skidding halt on his side. Shouting reaches his ears, which makes them pivot backwards. But, amidst all the carnage, he zeroes in on the object at fault: a twoleg device.
"Slate has the right idea," remarks the orange tom on approach, as much as he didn't like to admit it. It has been clear from the get-go that the scarred warrior isn't a fan of him. For this reason, he maintains a mellow volume, so that only the others watching idly could hear. "I wouldn't smash it... not when it's so close to his neck."
Hijinks, thingamabobs, and doodads. That's basically a fool-proof way to get his attention. Slinking into camp following the decent amount of time he'd spent gawking at the tom before, he was quick to sidle beside him, offering absolutely no useful commentary whatsoever. What kind of guy did you think he was? Oohs and Ahhs flit through his maw before it quickly descends into a flurry of giggles. "Woahho-ho! You've got the whole package wrapped round your neck!" Expert as he was, Wyrm was no stranger to twoleg thingies, but this thingy was exceptional, he could smell it.
The big brute is focused on trying to help the guy out, but Wyrm has better concerns, namely, leaning forward so he can tap at the shiny sun-reflecting thing with a claw. It makes a fun little sound. He is so damn content.
And he was gonna keep doing this until Slate pushed him away, to be honest. His grin stretches wide, pinching at the corners of his eyes, even as some guy asks one of the dumbest questions he's ever heard. Well– like, he shouldn't judge them for being uneducated on something he's never experienced; but like, he's still going to. "Huh? S' easy, dude!" As he says this, his paw would take a swift detour to paw at his own collar, before returning to his very important task of clinking the funny shiny thing. His pupils are so big the sliver of silver is barely there. "Obviously, we find them as a free prize as we're tearing through kibble. You see a glimpse and it's like 'You are the chosen' and then it attaches itself to us between our half-moon-long naps." Wyrm, rolls his eyes. Smashing it sounds like an awesome idea actually. "No no, Smarmy's onto something!" He says seriously.
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