pafp Start spreadin' the news (Suggestion)

[Badgermoon]

In Badgermoon's opinion, he was pretty easy to get along with. He didn't think he was too stern - just the right amount of stern, surely? - nor unapproachable. He liked to think he was a friendly cat, someone his Clanmates could trust to be fearsome when necessary, and caring as well. At least, that was how he tried to be - his success was not his to remark upon. Moreover, he tried not to think about it too much, as pondering that which he could not ever definitively learn felt like an exercise in wasting time and energy, and he had little of either to spare. However...occasionally, something came up which pressed him to the very limits of his self-imposed cordiality, and he felt compelled to do something about it. It was for this reason that he had sought out Ghostwail, catching the white-furred she-cat on her way out of camp. A somewhat pained look was present on his face as he offered a small smile, his yellow eyes eloquent in their expression of caution. Not because he feared the strange feline - though perhaps he would've, if he knew of what went on in her mind - but because he had no idea how to even begin this.

"Hi, Ghostwail." the deputy meowed in a tone he hoped came off as kindly. Badgermoon watched with alarm as a glob of snot oozed from the former rogue's nose, then continued hurriedly. "I just, I - I wanted to let you know that Wolfsong is a very kind fellow, and I'm sure he'd be able to, ah, help you with your..." what was it, anyway? Sickness? Weirdness? General filth and weird vibes? "...hygiene needs." finished Badgermoon lamely. "Or, you know, the Sun-Warmed Pool is an excellent place to, shall we say, refresh oneself...or, you know, maybe spend a little extra time grooming in the morning. That never, uh, hurt anyone." was this going well? He couldn't tell. He wondered if this was even worth it, if he'd actually accomplish anything - but he had to try, surely. She's bound to make someone sick, walking around like this. "Just, you know. It's important to take care of yourself...not just for your own sake, but for your Clanmates'. And if you need any help, you can always speak to Wolfsong, or me, or, you know..." he'd heard of elders who could no longer groom themselves, whether due to arthritis stiffening their joints or fatigue sapping their strength. Perhaps it was something like that in Ghostwail's case...though somehow he doubted it.

Badgermoon gave a brisk nod, and offered a small smile. "Err, that was all. Don't let me keep you from your duties...plenty to do, I'm sure..."

[ please wait for @GHOSTWAIL ! ]​

 

[GHOSTWAIL]

Hygiene needs. Ghostwail had never been a particularly clean woman. Grooming was one of the lowest priorities on her list, right next to 'becoming friends with other clan cats' and 'making sure that traitors have a good day,' and it showed. Mucus had crusted up under her nose and eyes from their constant running, a nasty symptom of consistent reactions to the grass that she and her clan-mates navigated. Wounds had been allowed to scab over in the midst of dirt and debris caught in her dingy pelt, causing ugly scars to litter her pelt that would otherwise be inconspicuous.

She was, indeed, a fetid woman with an equally as unpleasant disposition. As Badgermoon tries his best to approach this topic lightly, her burning eyes train on him completely and utterly, quickly narrowing into a glare as he continues to babble. Inanity, she muses to herself, is the death of respectability. If she had ever seen the deputy as respectable was up for debate, but at the current moment, he was nothing more than a rambling fool to the disgusting phantom.

Still, there is a sort of decorum expected in WindClan, an expectation of performance towards approbation. "I will.... keep your offer in mind." She drawls after a long moment. She had no plans on ever approaching Wolfsong or this foolish tom about her hygiene needs, but perhaps the statement would beseech him to find another target of his blabbering. ​

 

[STAGCREST]

Ghostwail's stink reminds him of the city. Somewhat. Its glittering stench might never leave him, even after moons of soaking in the wheaten sea of WindClan, sanitized in the unfettered sunlight. The city's smell is all corners, hard lines. The edges of a crushed can's shiny folds were sharper than any claw, sickly sweet to the point of nausea in the summer. Smoke stains crawled up building walls, who jutted out into the ever-gray sky like the ten thousand pointed ears of a mutated earth.

Even as objectively disgusting as Ghostwail is, her filth is still...round. Soft, he could call it, to much laughter if he did so aloud. The borders of her scabs and crusts flake gently into her pale fur, wind-whorled with tufts of grass-seed and dandelion strays. The sheen on her upper lip is lumped and silvery; the shading beneath her eyes a fading, raw sunset. She is the ugliest sentient creature Stagcrest has ever seen, but she is alive.

Though, Ghostwail isn't his problem, and if he's done alright for himself in WindClan, she shouldn't become one. He's known her since gin's rogues—known of her, he should say. The ghastly molly has never been one for socialization. He supposes she doesn't have the instinct to care about herself, and being the solitary creature she is, has never really experienced any peer pressure to develop it. Better yet, as a moor-runner, she wouldn't be clogging up the tunnels with any of her trailing bits and globs. They sleep amongst the wheat and the stars, letting her stench dissipate in the night instead of confining it to a shared shelter. He echoes Badgermoon's thoughts on disease, but dismisses most of them. If her existence could be reduced to plague rat, then they would've all been wiped out already come winter. (Leaf-bare, they called it.) He's only surprised she hasn't succumbed to infection herself.

Badgermoon, on the other paw, well. Stagcrest should admire his attempt. He limps to the deputy's side and gives him a light bump with his shoulder, letting faint amusement infuse the corners of his eyes and the small smile he gives him. "Badgermoon. I ran into an abandoned fox den the other day," he rumbles. The sunlit glance he throws seems to say, "Hey, you tried. On behalf of a someone who has to patrol with her, I appreciate it," muted sympathy coincidentally obscured from the white warrior by his ruff of windblown cheek fur and a turned face. "Though, I didn't examine it too closely. It's near the Horseplace." Stagcrest tips his head to the other side, letting his gaze now settle on Ghostwail. He gives her a cordial nod, if she hadn't already stalked off.​

 

[Bluepool]

Bluepool is no stranger to the lack of hygiene some of her clanmates possessed. How one did not take pride in the appearance, she would never know. She herself would often spend multiple hours of the day grooming her pelt to perfection. She was a lead warrior after all, she must look presentable if she were to hold herself in any esteem. Her clanmates did not view themselves the same way, however. Some had little care for how others perceived them, how they perceived themselves. They did not care if others around them thought them disgusting, and she did not understand it.

As she nears the small group a musty smell invades her nostrils, it makes her wrinkle her nose in disgust and she swings her head to look at Ghostwail, the source of the smell. "You better take his offer before I dunk you in the sun warmed pool" she warns, a slight growl tinging her voice. Her attention is quickly shifted though when Stagcrest makes his report. A fox den. A chill runs down her spine and she finds herself hoping the creature is well and truly gone. Her halved tail aches, as if she can still feel the jaws snapping through it. "Perhaps I could lead a small patrol to investigate" she suggests, her voice steely. Really, it is the last thing she wants but it had to be done.

​

 

[SOOTSTAR]

SOOTSTAR ♀​

Prim and properly groomed she once had been, it was impossible to keep constantly clean when you were a tunneler. Dirt, grit, sand, and clay always smeared and embedded into her fur, sometimes if she tilted her ear to the side grains of sand would spill from her tufts. Ghostwail, however, was beyond the natural ‘dirtiness’ of a tunneler. Sootstar is uncertain that she’s ever witnessed the pale feline taking her tongue to her own fur. Aside from occasionally losing her appetite at the sight of Ghostwail, Sootstar hardly is bothered by her hygiene struggles. The former rogue was one of her best warriors and a question of loyalty has never been a problem, Sootstar doesn’t feel inclined to ask for more. She is merely summoned by passing by and overhearing Stagcrest’s report. An ear twitches, she shares a look with her deputy before looking to Bluepool, ”Very well, take Stagcrest and gather a couple other warriors to join you. I want to be reported to directly upon your return.”

 

[✧ Marmotbite.]

♢​♢ THE BEST MISTAKE YOU EVER MADE ♢♢​

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marmotpaw & 09 moons & female & she/her & windclan tunneler apprentice​

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Though its not as though she particularly likes the rotten stench of the woman (she hates it in fact, keeping quite a wide berth from her fellow tunneler) she's amused to see the black and white furred deputy point out such a thing. And to her face at that, attempting to convince her to do something about her lack of hygiene. She thinks its about time - though she is more than glad it's not her, lest she lose an eye, or an ear, or some other vital organ. She gives a quiet snort before she can help it, gaze averted just in case she draws attention to herself, but thankfully the conversation is quickly changed to something safer. A fox den - abandoned. Curiosity lingers even as her pelt prickles, visibly recoiling at the thought of the savage things moving into the territory - she hopes stagcrest is correct, and that the beats are long gone. even she is not so confident as to want to face down a fox, not now at least.

— it sounds so fuckin' beautiful when you say my name ♡

• Actions && "Speech," && ' Thoughts/Quotes '
  
  ooc: —
  tw/cw: —
  
• 
  — a shockingly tiny she-cat with pale blue and cream ticked tabby fur, save for a single patch covering her right eye that is brown instead, and mismatched green-orange eyes. she has heavy scarring along the entirety of her left side, from her face all the way down her chest, belly, and flank; which has been there since kithood. she is a twitchy little thing, known for her bad attitude and an unfortunate habit of biting when startled.
  
  — physically medium && mentally medium
  — non-violent powerplay allowed && healing powerplay allowed && minor injury powerplay not-allowed
  — please attack using [b][color=#9ab973]action here[/color][/b] and tag account

 

[Badgermoon]

Badgermoon decided his attempt had had...mixed results. She hadn't attacked him (even if being stared at with such intensity by her weird, wet pink eyes felt like an assault on his person), which was definitely a victory. Yet he somehow doubted that she would actually take what he said and act upon it...he had a sneaking suspicion that the only person whose opinion mattered to Ghostwail was Sootstar, and she seemed unbothered by the white-furred she-cat's general, vaguely diseased state. "Good, good." he said halfheartedly, giving a blithe smile and gratefully shifting his attention to Stagcrest as the stocky, mottled tom approached and offered a nudge which Badgermoon chose to interpret as sympathetic.

Thoughts of Ghostwail's filth were quick to slide from his mind as the three-legged warrior brought something of greater importance to his attention: an abandoned fox den? He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, wondering if it had perhaps belonged to the fox which had menaced Sedgepaw and Snakehiss. "I see. Thank you for telling me. It was wise of you to not attempt to handle it by yourself." he turned and tracked Bluepool's approach, finding a flicker of gratitude as she took a sterner approach, threatening to bathe Ghostwail by force. She also offered to lead a patrol to look into the business of the fox den.

Badgermoon opened his mouth, preparing to give his instructions, when Sootstar appeared and issued an order of her own. The black-and-white tom gave a low hum of acknowledgement, noting Marmotpaw's apparent unease at the mention of a fox. Rightfully so - the reddish beasts were a bane to all cats, in his opinion. "That's that, then. Bluepool, who will you take with you?" he inquired of the elegant tabby. He'd like to know ahead of time, the better to organize the remaining warriors and apprentices.​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Had Bluepaw been born with a different stature, she’d likely be sitting beside her mother’s sister instead of Sootstar herself, fur windblown and soft, nurtured like a flower in the sun. As it is, she spends an egregious amount of time at the end of each working day detangling her long fur and gnawing clods of clay and silt from her pelt. The taste of dirt is one she has become accustomed to, and the tingling pain of tugging at tufts of fur for hours on end is familiar and almost comforting in its ritualistic nature. She has always been vain—many say she is lovely as Sootstar herself, and she takes great pride in her appearance. Snot-crusted Ghostwail, on the other paw, is akin to some nightmarish creature the bored older tunnelers whisper about stalking the abandoned paths beneath WindClan.

She wants to add her opinion to Bluepool’s and Badgermoon’s, but she’s interrupted by Stagcrest’s fox report. Her mother’s attention shifts to that instantly. She is glad she is not a moor runner, chasing foxes across the moor under the blazing sun. She looks at her aunt and adds, “Good luck.” She will pad after Sootstar for the remainder of the day.

✧ INFO.

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  — bluekit . bluepaw
  — she/her, apprentice of windclan
  — bisexual ; single
  — long-haired blue she-cat with white and green eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — art by Meg

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