running out of time to hold you close // hunting

[✧ Snailcurl.]

I JUST LOVE YOUR PUPPYDOG EYES ​

snails shell | 30 months | female | she/her | physically easy (heavily pregnant) | mentally medium | attack in bold pink​

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Living in shadowclan had certainly been an adjustment. There were rules and traditions and all manner of things that Snails Shell was having to get used to. But there was one thing that seemed universal in this world - the need to eat. She finds solace in her hunts - a familiar action that even her pregnancy cannot and will not stop. With wounds mostly healed from her run in with the coyotes, she finds herself stalking about the marshes, sights set upon familiar prey in the form of lizards and the occasional snake. The reptiles are growing slow with the cold - beginning to hibernate for the year. Those that remain are easy enough prey. Green gaze locked upon one such morsel, the petite feline stalks forwards on near silent paws.

She'd once had to do all the hunting for them - her mate had been so utterly inept at it that she'd often wondered how he'd survived before they'd mt. Not that it mattered now. He's dead and gone, she thinks bitterly, and no amount of praying to the stars will bring him back to her. A quiet growl slips past her gritted teeth as she pounces - the poor lizard pierced by angered claws as she uses it as an outlet. Already out of breath from that one simple catch, she picks up her meager offering and turns back towards the direction of the camp. Her appetite is gone now, swallowed up by her darkened thoughts, but perhaps one of the kits will be able to make a meal out of the pitiful creature.

 

[smogstar]

Clasped in his jaw is the slack form of a songbird. A smug expression is put on display, for he generally found better luck in capturing water-bound creatures like amphibians than ShadowClan's airborne prey. What made this one such an easy catch was the fact it'd been ailed with an injured wing of sorts - Smogmaw had found the poor thing writhing around at the base of a tree trunk, flapping about in a wretched manner. That isn't the story he's sticking with, however. No, should his clanmates inquire, the pewter warrior leapt graciously off the ground, about a fox-length high, and caught the thing mid-backflip.

He starts off in camp's direction so he can deposit his yield. Just as he begins his return trip, an incredibly pregnant she-cat emerges into view. If it weren't for the creature gripped between his teeth, Smogmaw would have condemned her for her trespass. Since he doesn't, the pitiless tom is allowed an extra second of forethought, and he recalls that an expecting queen did in fact join their ranks just a short time ago.

"Mmm!" voices the mackerel tabby, his speech muffled as he drew near. The songbird falls to the forest floor, temporarily, so that he may speak clearly. "Getting the little'uns a bit of exercise, I see," he jeers. "Nothing wrong with giving 'em an early start."​

 

[Starlingheart]

Being her aunts apprentice was harder work than she had originally thought, a job that came with many more new things to learn and new responsibilities that Starlingpaw had not thought of when she had accepted the position. New worries plagued her mind, adding up to her already growing anxieties about what they were going to eat in leaf-bare. Now, on top of starvation she had the good fortune to also be concerned about sickness. It was all almost too much.

The black and white she cat makes her way out of the camp, to scour their marshy home for what little herbs she did actually know about. Anything helped right? Instead though, she finds herself practically running into two clan-mates. Smogmaw and Snailcurl. Of the two she is only familiar with Smogmaw. He was a nice tom, a good warrior. She would not forget how when she had been trapped in the medicine cats den he had checked in on her, offered to go find and kill the opossum that had sent her there. He had a grumpy toward attitude but his heart was good, just like another gray-furred tom she knew…

Her eyes flicker to Snailcurl, a she-cat she did not know much about other than the fact that she had joined them recently and was heavy with kits. "Bo-bone-boooo-bonej-j-jaw w-w-woul-would wa-wa-want yoooouuu you to to rest" she says thought it comes out quiet, muted, unsure. She is not used to giving adults orders but she supposes she does have some sort of authority now.
​

 

[PITCHSTAR]

when chilledgaze had brought back a heavily pregnant and injured queen, pitchstar had groaned and rolled his eyes to the starry bastards above. of course, of fuckin' course, kits and queens would wind up at his doorstep at the beginning of the harshest season. that's just his luck. but what kind of monster would turn those poor, helpless souls away?

he wouldn't, and he didn't. he isn't a monster. (and, if he's honest, he enjoys the rush of excitement he gets at being perceived as a savior to those in need.)

pitchstar follows starlingpaw out of camp that afternoon; although she is no longer his apprentice, she is still his baby sister and he intends to watch over her, keep her safe. especially after the opossum attack. (he couldn't lose her, too.) if he had to guess, he would say that she's headed out to try and find any herbs that've survived the chill of leaf-fall. but there isn't time to find that out for himself, as the pair runs into the newest face within shadowclan. snail's shell, huffing from exertion and carrying a lizard. a meager thing, more skin and bones than meat, he notes with a slight curl of his lips. but, then again, so is every morsel that sits upon the thinning prey pile.

cursed swamp. how he hates to love it so.

starlingpaw, in her wavering voice, suggests that snail's shell should rest rather than hunt. pitchstar snorts, aiming to flick his baby sister's ear with the tip of his tail. "nonsense. if she wants to hunt, let her. besides, if she hadn't, there'd be one less lizard on the fresh-kill pile today." he angles his critical gaze onto the queen, then. "good to know that you can hunt." it's spoken with a wry smile, one that appears more condescending in nature than appreciative.​

 

[✧ Snailcurl.]

I JUST LOVE YOUR PUPPYDOG EYES ​

snails shell | 30 months | female | she/her | physically easy (heavily pregnant) | mentally medium | attack in bold pink​

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Snail's Shell gives smogpaw an easygoing smile, nodding at his words "You look like you've had some luck as well," she says gently, politely. She knows what these cats think of her - showing up here, bringing extra mouths to feed. But she refuses to feed into their narrative - she doesn't want to stay cooped up in some silly den, she needs to move - needs to hunt and stalk prey. It's the only thing that keeps her mind off the memories. It's the only thing that let's her forget.

At starlingpaw's words, the molly sighs and nods obligingly - apparently, bonejaw was some sort of expert in these things, and while she didn't regret her actions she guessed she should probably be more cautious about leaving camp in the future. If not for herself than at least for her kits wellbeing. As pitchstar joins in the conversation green gaze meets his stubbornly - she may not like to fight with fangs and claws like these cats, but she knows how to command a battle of wits and words when necessary. "Yes, no need to waste a perfectly good set of paws laying about the nursery." it's something she finds terribly silly about shadowclan - they don't let their kits and queens fend for themselves. Her mother had hunted until she was in her last week of her pregnancy, and she'd had them going out on hunts with her by two moons of age.

"I should get back," she says finally, nodding respectfully at the leader before padding over and past starlingpaw - back towards the camp. She is starting to feel just a tad bit worn out - perhaps a nap is in order after all.