private Skeleton you are my friend ✘ SHREWFLIGHT

[PRICKLES]

*+:｡.｡ "Aw man aw no not again"

The whine comes out tinny and muffled, echoing within the confines of a very enclosed space. Prickles has found himself in another awful situation, blind and unable to properly breathe- "OW!" he gasped as the can suddenly smacked into his nose by some outside force he couldn't see. He tried swinging his head away, only to trip over his paws and tumble backward, the tin can thrumming again when he smacks it - and his head - onto the ground. "AUGH!" he moans pathetically, trying to roll to his feet by feel alone- only to smack his head again as he had rolled under a tree's root when he landed. "C'moooon" kicking and scratching at the metallic death cylinder, he tried and failed to get a good grip on the smooth surface. He was thoroughly in defeat! "I can't believe I'm going to starve in here..." he sobbed, sounding quite comical with his newfound metallic voice.

*+:｡.｡ Updated 1/9/23

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  GENERAL:
  ✘ Prickles
  ✘ DMAB— He/They — Bisexual
  ✘ 12 moons — Ages 1 moon every month real-time
  ✘ Member of the red water rogues
  
  
  
  
  COMBAT:
  ✘Physically medium | mentally medium
  ✘ Attack in bold #f35336
  injuries: None currently

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[shrewflight.]

He was trying to hunt.

Was he doing good? No, since his catch as a new found warrior, he was trying harder though. His nose pressed against soft powder of the ground, and the brown tortie moved foreward, ears tight against his head.

There had to be something out here.

He didn't expect to find a somebody.

Body thrashing around, and a vaguely familiar object over his head- olive eyes blinked before sniffing to see if it was another skyclanner he just didn't recognize. This male, he was not.

A stranger.

Anxiety unfolded in the boy, before swallowing and lifting his head. "St-stop moving," He stuttered out, placing a paw on the other. "Y-youre going to be okay, just, pull when I say to okay?"

Why was he even helping him? But why wouldn't he help? If he was in such a pickle, he would definitely want help.

The brown classic tom would place white paws on the can, gripping claws on the edges beside the rogues head, gripping the tin with the strength the small boy could muster. "Okay, pull!" He said, before attempting to pull away from the tom.

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