pafp swamp treasures — gift giving

[lambkit]

❝ BAD THOUGHTS GIVE ME BAD DREAMS ⃤°.✦ ————————————
Lambkit walks across camp, overlong kitten limbs tangling with each step and nearly tripping them up. Their thick eelish tail drags a path in the ground behind them, collecting little bits of debris. A leaf-wrapped bundle is cinched between their jaws and they move with a swaying purpose, targeting a cat across camp, "Pretty, pretty ..." She mutters under her breath; the warrior she's seeking out to whom her bundle is intended has been designated as 'pretty' by Lambkit, a category whose criteria seems to change with their daily whims. Chittertongue's pelt is a soft lilac color that appeals to Lambkit's wide eyes, but it's the unique rosette markings that first caught the kit's staring attention.

Thus, Chittertongue gets a 'present' from Lambkit. They keep a little bank of treasures in their new nest, separate from Addercoil and her biological kits; they had no objections to this relegation, indeed she loves having somewhere to keep her special things. Lambkit finally completes her cross-camp journey, which feels like a massive pilgrimage to her tiny frame, and stands swaying in front of Chittertongue. What bright eyes he has, they notice; two colors, almost like Lambkit's own. Except hers are two colors in the same eyes, but his are entirely different ones.

"Pretty." They mew plaintively and yet blankly. Lambkit dumps down the wrapped bundle, spilling out a pawful of ... teeth. This is Lambkit's present to Chittertongue; teeth they'd carefully culled from the prey-pile and a couple bigger ones found by the elder's den, probably lost by the old cats. She'd clumsily rinsed and polished them as best she could in a puddle, and now Lambkit takes a seat in front of the warrior, tail swishing a slow arc behind them, staring up at Chittertongue, chirping, "It's for you. It's a present."

[penned by dejavu - ]

———————————— ✦.°⃤ AND MY BAD DREAMS MAKE ME SLEEPWALK❞​

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// @CHITTERTONGUE

 

[CHITTERTONGUE]

જ➶ A leggy sticks up high in the air as he takes the time to groom along his long limb. His eyes glimmer with many different thoughts, eyes watching the surroundings of camp as he goes about his sporadic routine. Given he never knows when he will be cleaning himself again or not at all. His tongue pauses against his fur, body become still as he seems to listen and he can hear something approaching him. He doesn't often get many coming over to talk to him and this brings a bubbling chuckle from between sharp fangs as he drops his leg and sweeps his two toned eyes up. It takes a moment and a shifting of his head to finally see the kit and he grins bright, a smile stretched so wide it almost seems unnatural. Though he seems curious about what the child could possibly want with him. Precious little Lambkit. Normally he doesn't talk to all the kits that have been scampering around here. Yet it seems today is a different day as the young child calls him pretty which makes him burst forth with a ruckus cackle. "Oh, really? You think so, little Lamb?" Truthfully he has never thought of himself as such but he is well intrigued by the compliment.

But more so he becomes enraptured by the teeth that the kit lays out in front of him. These are for him? His head tilts and his grin never falters as he stares at the child and then too the teeth. One thing is very certain. "I love them! Thank you. Maybe we can use them to decorate the warrior's den. Everyone will love it, kehhehe!"​

 

[hitch]

There's just...something a little odd about Lambkit. Everyone's odd in their own ways, and clans have the luxuries of living in such close quarters that it's obvious when your nest-neighbor has certain peculiarities. Like needing to turn four circles before lying down, or sleeping with a graveyard of ladybugs. Weird things. Eccentricities. But most of the time, Rosemire isn't unnerved by them, and it doesn't seem fair to her that he should be so perturbed when they're just a kit.

It's fine. He's not the kind of asshole to say something about it, at least not obviously.

Rose gets pretty close today, though. He watches her present Chittertongue with an array of teeth and it takes all his will to keep his face neutral. "The warriors den?" He echoes slowly. In his mind's eye, he sees himself waking up to teeth strung through the bramble bush. "That's...a great idea." Leave it to Chitter to make it worse. Fond as he is of him. "I love waking up and going to bed to reminders of my mortality. Just hope none of my teeth wind up with them." Clearing his throat, he turns a pale gaze to Lambkit. "That was very sweet of you. You uh, collect anything else?"

I N F O R M A T I O N
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[SHARPSHADOW]

† Sharppaw is privy to the beeline Lambkit follows, snuggly holding a leaf within their maw. It's clear that they have a target in mind, eyes aimed straight ahead and staring blankly. Who knows what for or why. Kits could be unpredictable in the way their minds work. Not for any evil reason, but just that... they were unpredictable. Unpredictability is uncomfortable.

Sharppaw steps out of her way as she closes in on her target, then mind and eyes wander further, trying to put together pieces of what someone like her might want. Was the leaf a bundle of something? Was it to be delivered, or simply to be held within tiny, grubby paws. Kits could give excessively or take excessively. The odd eyes and blank face betray no intentions. Sharppaw shuffles discomfortingly. A thought leaning on a nursery story makes her think there might be something horrible within the leaf. Could something horrible be that small, though?

A weary head rolls slowly to look after where trails. The kit halts beside Chittertongue, a warrior that makes Sharppaw's fur prickle the same way Lambkit did. She felt that way often. His stomach rolls into knots.

Sharppaw blinks. " W-where did you get those? " he can't help but ask. Gloomy eyes flit to the ground and then to the sky. Dredged up from corpses? Fallen from above, instead; dropped on the way to StarClan. That's stupid to think, she knows. Who knows if what any of the others say is genuine?​

 

[lambkit]

A landscape of kitten-bone, simply scrawnier than such a young kit should be, Lambkit stares up at the new arrivals. The pretty cat responds brightly to her gift and the kit smiles; it's a rare and terrible sight, her face stretched in ways that are somehow just wrong and what feels like too many little teeth on display. The white cat with the fancy eyes is asking her something, and so is the spiky black one with the funny patterns. Lambkit's own pelt is quite plain by her standards, and she advances readily upon the new arrivals, scrambling to overlong legs. Wide-blown eyes survey them, deciding. Lambkit considers their questions, momentarily forgetting Chittertongue's (her initial target) response.

"I pull them out of the prey. The big ones I found by the elders' den," their strangely adult syntax emerges, answering the second question first, then, "I collect lots of treasures. Bones, and teeth, and feathers, and dead bugs, and rocks, and stuff." They ramble on for a moment, eel-tail swishing with some effort, half-submerged in the rusty and confusing machinations of Lambkit's own mind; like a smoked mirror, slightly crazed and perhaps quite old, who knows what it's seen. They have lots of treasures in her nest, Lambkit thinks; she should give some more to more pretty cats. Not her bones, though; those are her special things, the special-est. She's quite sure, with her unnatural sentencing, that's not a word, but still.

Massive, bulging eyes turn onto Sharppaw once again, surveying with an uncomfortable precision the apprentice's form. His ears are big and spiky, even bigger than Lambkit's own, and so is his fur. It sticks up in big mountain-ranges of spikes and tufts, even her limp tail, and the apprentice's pelt interests Lambkit as Chittertongue's had. It attracts them visually, so delicious to the kit's eyes, and she drifts closer of her own accord. Lambkit looks up at Sharppaw's fur, admiring her swirly patterns and monotone gradient. "You're pretty too," The kit mews quickly, shaking, eyes widening impossibly more, and moves forward suddenly, attempting to bite down with little kitten-teeth on Sharppaw's leg.
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[SHARPSHADOW]

† "I collect lots of treasures. Bones, and teeth, and feathers, and dead bugs, and rocks, and stuff. "...Right," this kit was not the first, and probably wouldn't be the last. There wasn't a lot to look forward to in this place. Maybe grasping at straws– bugs, bones, rocks... was the best anyone could do. Rubber - black lips form a shaky line, unsure how to feel about the kits answer. It quiets all of Sharppaw's stupid ideas, at least. He didn't think he was much of one for stories, not really. And yet...

The kit falls quiet once their mumbling is over, maybe not knowing what to do with themself. That's fine. It's fine. Sharppaw could be similar, inthe rare moments where worthwhile words came to him. (Or maybe they weren't. Sharppaw cannot tell what matters and what doesn't. Therefore she prefers not to speak at all.) It's fine. Less fine, is the way their nondescript stare levels on him, of all cats. Sharppaw replies to their visual prodding with a crease of her brow; slight tick of the jaw. Should he say something? Was Lambkit interested in his teeth now, too?

You're pretty too. It catches him off - guard. She'd expected them to say something terrible. (Why had she?)

He doesn't know what to say. He's never been called that before. Not really. " ...Thank yh–? " Kitten teeth sink into his leg. Suddenly, she's brought back to when Magpiepaw was just a kit, and Sharppaw had only been apprenticed for some moons. Pitchstar had only been alive then, and Magpiekit had inexplicably decided to pounce on her tail.

Sharppaw's eyes are blown wide in an utter state of shock. " Wh–? W-why–??? " she exclaims. It doesn't even hurt that much, but why her? The impossible thoughts resume at full speed. Something - something teeth, something something corpse. Was this kitten going to pry his bones from him in his sleep? Sharppaw lifts his leg with the kitten fangs still attached, gentle shakes growing frantic every second they might stay clung to her. " Get off, get off, getoff. "​

 

[Swansong]

————— ☾ —————
NOW I KNOW WHAT'S REAL, WHAT'S FAKE

Oh, what a lovely gift Lambkit brings for the odd-eyed warrior, a pale array of prey-teeth pristine and pretty. They don't understand why the bone-furred tom speaks so hesitantly, without the same enthusiasm as Chittertongue. Jealousy, maybe? He looks even more alike to the teeth than the gift's recipient. Oh well, maybe Lambkit will give him some teeth later.

Lambkit speaks of all kinds of treasures... Swankit does not doubt her; she mist be quite the collector, to have so many of these beautiful teeth. But the collector's bulging eyes are drawn quick to another, to the spiky apprentice with his nervous stare, and something overtakes them then. They begin to shake,to widen their strange eyes. And then — they strike. Kittenteeth latching on, grasping at Sharppaw's foreleg. Why, she cries, and yet... They have an idea. Perhaps this is the complusion that draws them to collect, to hoard such treasures in ther nest. Sleepy eyes fix on Sharppaw, assessing. "You are pretty..." he confirms, softly.

He pauses, trying to figure out how to explain. "Um. I think she wants to keep you..." Another treasure for their collection. Perhaps Lambkit is dreaming bigger now, graduating from dead-things to living-things, and what better living thing to take than a whole cat? But this doesn't seem like the best way to go about it. Living-things don't like being grabbed like that. They turn their attention to the other kit. "Lambkit, you should stop. You're hurting the pretty cat..." Maybe they should try asking nicely next time.

RATHER SLEEP THAN STAY AWAKE
————— ☾ —————

☾⋆⁺₊⋆ info ; visual

• //
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• SWANKIT named for his pale fur, after his maternal grandmother.
  — he/him. 2 moons.
  — shadowclan kit.
  — quiet and dreamy.
  
  penned by saturnid.​
• "SPEECH"
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• 

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