camp SHAWSHANK // intro

[FINCHPAW]

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Thump!

He's a little too used to this now.

"All that strength and he doesn't even fight back!"

His back hurts. Everything hurts. Its just training.

"Chip is a soft paw, he can't fight back, not like a real wild cat would."

'That's not my name, that was never my name-' His name is Finchpaw. His name is Finchpaw but the words won't come out. They never do. They're right. He's a soft paw. He doesn't want to raise a claw to any of these apprentices, even if its just training. Maybe its because its just training that he won't.

None of their mentors were around, it was just supposed to be a simple spar and then they'd go back to camp, yet now he'd been thrown against one of the tree trunks and was frankly being used as a punching bag. This was normal. A near every other day occurence in which his 'friends' metaphorically sharpened their claws on him. They weren't stupid enough to do it in actuality, so long as Finch wasn't bleeding from cat claws, the mute apprentice made for a good way for one to let go of their stress, in any way possible. It had been like this for a long time, he'd at first thought it was a normal thing for friends to do, to be useful for one another. Being of kittypet blood he wanted to prove his worth to the clan in any way possible and not rock the boat, but in the end, it had ended up like this.

Slowly, he had gained real friends, figured out how real positive relationships were supposed to work, but he could never tell these cats off. He didn't know if it would make it worse, if doing so would hurt them.

So he sat there, took all their blows, and ambled back into camp behind them. With each step he strained to not wince and keep his nervous little smile on, he didn't want to worry anyone. That would just mean he had failed. So he meandered over to a little corner of the camp, and began to pull out his current weaving project. 'I wonder if doing it this way would leave less airflow...'​

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[DogTeeth]

Dogteeth was chewing on a small perch, his eyes planted on the river from his sunlit spot in camp. The cold drags at his curls but it doesn’t effect him, he is peacefully munching when he spots a small group of apprentices returning through the reeds of the camp walls. The sandy hued warrior pays them a smile in greeting, blissfully ignorant of the battered apprentice, the lord of the flies game children play at times, mistaking cruelty for normalcy. No.

However, what did acquire his attention was the quiet one- as he tucks himself into a little cozy corner of camp and starts fussing with something. Dogteeth tilts his head, and thins his eyes as if it would make it easier to see whatever the kid was doing.

Snatching up the remainder of his fish, the warrior trots over toward Finchpaw with a smile around the scaly prey. Tripping over a lazily placed paw briefly, but recovering smoothly- he always has been the clumsy sort.

Dropping his prey and himself unceremoniously. He tucks his paws under his chest and looks from the weaved thing to Finchpaw. " ah~ " he hums, " you’re a little creative genius aren’t you " Dogteeth offers with a squinty smile.

​

OOC INFO REF

• —
  
  
• — Dogteeth | twenty-five moons | cis-male
  — warrior of Riverclan
  — gay | crushing on n/a
  — small curly-furred blonde and tan tom with dazzling blue eyes.
  — very gentle soul / easily upset and sensitive
  — deals a nasty bite | physically medium / mentally easy
  BIOGRAPHY——— ✧
  
• 
  
  

​

 

[iciclefang]

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮​

Iciclepaw, like her Clanmates, is blissfully unaware of the way some of the apprentices in RiverClan treat Finchpaw. She is Clanborn, a natural-born huntress, streaming through the river like a fish with a pelt and whiskers. She walks through their camp with confidence, lifted tail and clear, gleaming blue eyes, and the other cats speak to her the way she expects to be spoken to (with the possible exception of Smokethroat, though she's starting to not mind; her retorts are swift and plentiful, and he doesn't do it to demean her, after all.)

He's quiet, this pale fawn-splattered tom, withdrawn. Kittypet-born. Iciclepaw pities him for this knowledge alone. Kittypets are weak. They are not made for the forest, for the riverland she loves, and they struggle to assimilate. She knows some of her Clanmates do not share this opinion, but she can't help the natural prejudice that rises like bile in her throat when she thinks about Finchpaw's background.

"What is it for?" She glances at Dogteeth, but her words are directed at Finchpaw and the thing he's working on weaving. She peers curiously at it. "Is it gonna be a nest?"

- ,,​

​

 

[FERNGILL]

A tiny toddling scrap that somehow had an apprentice name, Fernpaw was rather used to being looked upon in a funny way. Though ever blissfully ignorant to hardships of the world, he knew not the extent of what Finchpaw faced with his kittypet blood- in fact, if asked Fernpaw would likely be unable to answer any question about the other apprentice's heritage. Bulging eyes found his sister's patchy pelt above all. Strides ahead of him in training, the most juvenile part of him- which was a rather large part- figured that if he was to tack to her side and watch what she was watching, he would soon improve and be just as good. Just as up-to-pace.

It was not a lesson Iciclepaw had stopped before, though. The disappointment that flared in his gut at the sight being just a nest soon snuffed out, the flame of amazement lighting up his eyes instead. From how widened in awe his fishlike eyes were, it was a wonder they did not pop out of his skull. "Woo-ooah! Where'd you learn that...?" Voice a little fumbled, his tone spoiled any effort he might have made to hide the sheer impressiveness of this handiwork.​

( penned by pin )​

 

[FINCHPAW]

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Thread, fold, tie, untie, start over.

He's so absorbed in this little cycle of testing his ideas that Dogteeth's approach causes his tail to puff out like the plant of a similar moniker in his half-fright. Genius? He shakes his head. Its just weaving, anyone can do it if they set their mind to it. At this point he doesn't really see what could be so revolutionary about his patterns even as Iciclepaw and Fernpaw, named not even a few moons ago as he recalls faintly, show their interest in his work, however fleeting.

The tom shakes his head at the notion of a nest, but more in a 'so-so' manner. It could be a good pattern for it, but he taps the side of a nearby den gently to indicate it is more of a blueprint for that sort of thing. He then explains, in his own wordless manner, that it is to attempt to keep everyone warmer during leafbare, since the wind from the water significantly drops the temperatures in their territory. Offhandedly, he gestures to wanting to add non-decorative feathers into it as a sort of insulation, but seems to be unsure of if they would have enough birds hunted in a clean enough way to do more than the nursery and perhaps the elders den. It doesn't seem to be a comment on Riverclan's hunting skills, but rather how easily bird feathers can be rendered unusable.

Finchpaw stops midgesture as he realizes how much he's taken up their time without answering Fernpaw, and turns quickly to the other tom to mention that he had just 'messed around and took note of what worked'. He does make a notion of possibly trying to teach the younger apprentice if he would like, but mentions that he isn't sure how well he would be as a teacher. Everything he knew, he had learned and made himself after all.

No one would want to teach a soft paw to do anything useful anyways, better to try and get them to leave then strengthen those who wanted to stay, who didn't see the walls of a twoleg house as an easy life, who saw it for what it truly was; a doll house, a cage. ​

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[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : cicadastar was bad at weaving. a simple truth, although one he fevently denies despite the shoddy flower - laced threading reed lining certain parts of their camp walls. his paws were not so fine tuned, however much he wishes they were. the tall tortoiseshell comes up alongside dogteeth just as he trips over a single blond paw, dipping smoothly in attempt to catch him and — the curled warrior uprights, striding forth as if nothing happened. cicadastar blinks, taking a beat longer to recover than the tom himself, finally moving forward as iciclepaw speaks. is it gonna be a nest? a young fawn - spotted tom saying not a word lie amidst scraps of reed and feather, weaving petals between little paws. he remembers the boy, of course he does, it was ffffff . . finch. finchpaw. that was right. quiet thing, but so had he been in youth, “ my, thats beautiful. “ the tom wanders aloud, low timbre breathy with awe. he sniffs. “ perhaps you could teach leechpaw a trick or two. “ the tom adds, taking in the thick, nondecorative feathers before icy luminaries return to the apprentice himself.

the child was kittypet born. he knows this above his name, above the fleeting voice he’d not heard since it’s tremulous request upon their first venture to the riverside. named with an f. finchpaw. he imagines he can still smell the kibble - reek clinging to his well groomed pelt and shame douses him like rainwater, torrential and heavy, “ it’ll be good use come leafbare . . “ a single paw traces the arch of a mallard feather, bicolored features pinching in thought. an insulated den . . it was an interesting thought. he tries not to picture the fawn - spotted tom lounging lazily on a blinding fence, draped in a background of neatly trimmed tulips, “ most bird have flown off for the cold moons . . but we could get lucky, jah? “ a good old fashioned duck hunt. maybe, if he was lucky, a good time to teach the youth of riverclan on land hunting before the chill set in. if not usable feathers, it would be prey to the freshkill pile.

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers
  
  
• 
• none.

​

​

 

[leechpaw.]

He didn't know his own heritage. Nobody did. But he had never known the warmth of a twoleg den like his mother once did, nor the guaranteed processed meals and silly little collars ― unknowingly, he wrinkled his nose and turned his snout up at any kittypet luxury like every good Riverclanner. He knew as much as anyone else; that one morning, a lone cat uninterested in the clans set down a wriggling black-furred bundle on the border and never looked back. Leechpaw didn't want to remember his father, despite the scar slashed across his face appearing in every reflection like a haunting spirit glaring back at him. No, he refused to remember his father, though he wished he could've met his mother.

"Teach me what?" Cicadastar's second shadow interrupted, almost materializing behind him. Speak of the devil or something like that. The dark apprentice loomed over the weaving, sniffing at the feathers and preventing his muzzle from curling into a sneer. He remained unblinking, pale eyes scanning Finchpaw instead. It was no secret to many apprentices that the other was picked on, often by cats younger and smaller than him. A pathetic display, if anyone asked him. But nobody did, and so he kept silent about what wasn't his business. Leechpaw personally didn't give two scraps of crow food about where a cat was from, only focusing on the present. Tangled tail sweeping the ground behind him, Leechpaw glanced upward at his mentor, momentarily searching for the correct reaction. "Okay," he agreed, though he inwardly grimaced at the idea of weaving lessons.​

 

[DogTeeth]

Comically, Dogteeth did not notice the tall leader’s attempts to catch him from a plummet on bumbling paws. The blonde had long since accepted his clumsy ways on land, he didn’t notice the subtle chaos he was at times.

Smiling dumbly and simply enjoying the presence of another, was something that could be done without speaking. Dogteeth, having been raised in a giant family of siblings was so used to the chaos of many that the sudden swarm of apprentices was simply an idle buzz around him. All kindly interested in Finchpaw’s tethering paws.

Big blue eyes, though not quite as enlarged as Fernpaw’s green- watch now as Finchpaw describes without words. He was good at it, personality in his movements. Dogteeth could never- and a sad frown pressed his maw as he ponders what happened to this kid. What damage those twoleg creatures had inflicted on him to think or perhaps feel unable to speak. Perhaps it was exhausting, physically and mentally. What if he never spoke again.

Dogteeth’s eyes suddenly gloss over with unexpected emotion for the kid. Cicadastar’s thick accent floats in the air around them, speaking with both praise and suggestion. An uplifting set of words with a beautiful yet terrifying accent. However, Dogteeth couldn’t focus anymore. He quickly daps at his eyes and smiles brightly for Finchpaw once more. " the feathers are a good idea " he agrees and slowly stands.

" I’m off to go fishing. You keep up the good work kiddo… give yourself some credit " he bows to dismiss himself before trotting off toward the riverside.
​

OOC INFO REFS

• — out// <3
  
  
• — Dogteeth | twenty-five moons | cis-male
  — warrior of Riverclan
  — gay | crushing on n/a
  — small curly-furred blonde and tan tom with dazzling blue eyes.
  — very gentle soul / easily upset and sensitive
  — deals a nasty bite | physically medium / mentally easy
  BIOGRAPHY——— ✧
  
• 
  
  
  

​

 

[FINCHPAW]

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Finchpaw seems to freeze upon hearing Cicadastar approach, looking like he's been caught doing something treasonous instead of simply chatting with his clanmates about his work. He feels too vulnerable, too seen. It would not be an incorrect statement that the apprentice tended to avoid Cicadastar and his high ranks (even Beesong) as much as possible. 'I can't be accused of anything and thrown out if I'm rarely seen.' It wasn't as if he slacked in his duties, often times, like now, he did more than what would be asked of an apprentice.

And he supposed now, the leader had made him a sort of weaving teacher. He didn't see that there was room for him to refuse, he never did.

There is a nod of agreement, before he fiddles a bit with the weaving as Leechpaw approaches and Dogteeth gives his final remarks before heading out to hunt. The warrior's words jar him, but the leader's mention of getting feathers for his project snaps him back to the conversation. The praise from those outside his rather small group of compatriots doesn't fully register, and he almost looks confused before stiffly signing that he does not wish to be seen as the originator. 'No one would take it seriously if anything came from me, and I can't imagine the pushback.'

'I just want to earn my keep from behind the scenes...someone else can be in the light.'​

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