private talk about your taste in women // cygnet

[► BUNNYPOUNCE.]

RUN RABBIT, RUN RABBIT, RUN RUN RUN
bunnypounce | 23 months | female | she/her | physically medium | mentally easy | attack in bold hotpink

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Bunny has always loved the dirt, such a pleasant change from the painful wire mesh and all manner of trash she'd once rested upon. No, dirt is soft and squishy and gentle on her pale pink paws, cool and soothing. Sometimes its dry and crunchy and crumbly, othertimes its slick and slimy and clings tight to her fur. It doesn't matter much to bunny though, because she likes it all the same. It's why she'd chosen to join windclan, chosen to stay - drawn to the idea of living deep down below, where the suns anger could not touch her, could not leave it's wicked bites across her delicate skin.

Pale gaze glimmers and glints in the lowlight, pale frame hunched and crouched down low, as she peers out the tunnel exit. Cool night air brushes her face with it's gentle touch, eyes closing for a moment as she savors it. Pink nose twitches, whiskers quivering, and she hobbles and thumps her way on out into the darkness with only a slight pause. The sound of crickets fills the silence for her, and she hums along idly - the sound high and sharp.

But she's not alone - keen senses catch a familiar scent easily. Like dirt and earth, but not the pleasant kind - no, this is not the scent of fresh rain and upturned soil, but of death and decay. Not that it phases the girl one bit - it's all the same to her. "Hello hello~ bunny is thinking is very nice out tonight," she says cheerfully, voice warbling for a moment as she speaks to the night air. She doesn't turn to face the figure she knows is somewhere, head instead tipped back to peer up at the stars and the moon, so nearly full in the night sky. "Mmm... hello to you too mr. moon, is you awake?" she mumbles, as though perhaps it might actually answer her. It won't but she likes to think it appreciates her efforts at conversation anyway.

// @cygnetstare
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[cygnetstare]

A pale and skeletal form lurks gangly in the cool and shadowed pockets of the tunnels; similar to several of her pink-eyed counterparts, Cygnetstare enjoys the cold soothing darkness of the underground, away from the hateful sting of the sun. As such, she spends much of her time beneath the surface of the earth, luxuriating in the peaceable quiet of the soil-lined warren, so different from the overwhelming cacophony that is camp; it's curiosity and the cool embrace of the night that draws her to the tunnel exit like a porcelain moth to a flame. The chimera's careful nose can smell the warm living presence of another somewhere ahead, and they ferret out the scent as easily as they follow that of rabbits or foxes beneath the earth.

Unsurprisingly, as she coils in serpentine frameworks of bone just inside the entrance, viscera eyes trained on the pale back ahead, she is noticed. It's not a startling thing; the cat she's followed here is as rose-eyed and milk-furred as a fragment of Cygnetstare is, and they've seen her—not literally—beneath the earth as well, a familiar specter in the small team of tunnelers. They must admit a certain admiration for how quickly this cat—Bunnypounce, they now recall—caught their distinctive grave-scent, a certain curiosity sparked by the strange and lilting warble that hangs ghostly in the sweet air of a greenleaf night.

The other cat's pale faced is tilted up as if drinking in the stars so carelessly strewn there, casting a pretty light on her face as she mumbles a sincere greeting to the moon; that low current of curiosity is sparked again. Cygnetstare slinks serpentine from the tunnel, appearing to a casual glance as though they're made up only of a spectrally pale foreleg and head, the short smoky fur blending in with the night-whipped moor. They pause next to Bunnypounce, vacant funeral stare bouncing between the sky and the other cat. She hasn't adopted their odd speaking habits, but there's a certain familiar lilt to her rough Northeastern voice as she mews, "Ayuh, these greenleaf nights are sweet, ain't they? Scarcer'n plover's teeth too. I'm damned sorry if I creeped ya out, lurkin' round the tunnels like one of them flatlanders."
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[► BUNNYPOUNCE.]

RUN RABBIT, RUN RABBIT, RUN RUN RUN
bunnypounce | 24 months | female | she/her | physically medium | mentally easy | attack in bold hotpink

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Gaze is slow to blink, before owlish optics finally turn to peer up at her fellow tunneler, taking in vacant eyes without any real concern. She is strange, but so is bunny - so are most of their tunneler brethren actually, all gone a little 'off' from so many days spent beneath the soil, toiling away in darkness. "greenleaf..." she echoes absently, memorizing yet another unfamiliar word. These colony cats have come up with the strangest of terms, and she finds herself learning new ones every day. "bunny is fine - the merrier the more- " or wait, was it the more the merrier? She shrugs it off, not caring much nor too concerned by her slip up. "Is cygnet-stare hunting~ " she asks, curiosity slipping into to high-pitched tone.

Though her mind is often lacking in many ways, she still seeks to know more - to learn more. What do her clanmates do above the surface? What must it be like to not be bitten by the sun - to find the heat pleasant rather than painful. And most of all, what do her fellow oddities do with their time- do they wander about the tunnels like she, or come out into the overworld. Do they even know that they are strange, that they have come out wrong, just like her? Did they have good parents to care enough to tell them so? Moons it may have been since she'd joined, but there is still so little she knows.

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[cygnetstare]

♱—— milkweed pale eyes, painted the color of viscera, meet those of a sweeter hue; another of her fellow tunnelers restrained to the shadows and the night by pale flesh. some of their moor-runner brethren might call them odd, whisper the soil drives them mad; cygnetstare is indifferent on that count. does the darkness really worm its way into their heads, or do the tunnel depths simply hold an allure unparalleled to certain cats, one those who run the moors don't understand? does the earth whisper songs only to their tattered ears? she is unsure.

"ayuh, glad i ain't disturbin' ya—i'm doin' a little huntin', i 'spose. not lookin' for prey, but not not lookin', if ya catch my drift?" her gravelly mew is offered in a thick northern drawl, so opposed to the other cat's high tones. blank eyes dart towards the night, the hot scent of prairie grass and greenleaf air; a privilege rarely afforded her, kept to the shadows and the twilight. cygnetstare glances to bunnypounce, curiosity dancing in the depths of her bleached eyes, "how 'bout yourself? catchin' some views neither of us get to see much?"

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┏━⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊ OOC ☽ ◯ ☾ INFORMATION₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆━━━━━┓ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ☄. *. ⋆♱･ﾟ:

• ooc: ——
  

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• ♱ cygnetstare — for their downy kitten-fur and perceptiveness (or uncanny gaze) she/they ; afab gender apathetic — windclan — tunneler — 16 ☾s —— cygnetstare is a corpselike chimera, split between long albino fur and a short black smoke pelt; their eyes are an unsettling pink. her creepy demeanour distracts from a strange fascination with death and an obsessive loyalty to windclan. —— smells like grave-dirt and blood ; sounds like vc tbd ; speech in #BF959C, thoughts in #000000 —— peaceful / healing powerplay permitted ; attacks/contact in underline ; will start fights ; won't flee unless ordered ; won't show mercy ; will kill or maim —— pansexual panromantic monogamist, single, not looking ; open to friendships, enemies, casual interactions, long-term romance, plotting ; not open to unplanned battles, flings penned by dejavu— desklamp9 on discord for plots

• battle stuff goes here for fights

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