TEAMWORK — camp inspection

[CICADASTAR]

the last time pallid luminaries had lain rest upon this drained island, it had been in ruins. bellows of fear beneath the creak of splintering reed and twine, snow and floodwater muffling the sound of youth unable to claw their way from the darkness. murk had lapped at his paws, submerged his knuckles where claws sank into receding soil to keep him fixed in place. dens decimated, layered with thawing blizzard. he remembers keeping sablepaw, a kit at the time, distracted enough to prevent her from seeing the wreckage that had become of their home while they evacuated from the dangerously cold waters. he can still feel the creeping tendrils of raw ice lodging into tangled curls, spite and adrenaline the only thing keeping thin, drenched limbs from trembling. the frost eats him alive still, crept into his nest at moonhigh and chilled him to the very bone. a long, barbed tongue slinks from his mouth, whisks over the scar tissue where the freeze had taken a bite of his maw.

but now, patrols of able warriors mill about, cleaning the debris that still scatters haphazardly over their dried camp. the willow tree in which hed rested airs as he passes it, though it’s insides still reek of mildew and the beginnings of wood rot, the thought of curling into the cushion of his nest once again is a nice one. it’s a phantom memory now, the rock that juts from the furthest part of their camp gleaming in the midday light as if to call his eye. he’s the urge to ascend it now, to gaze down his curved nose at the warriors that flock towards the small stream at his mere movement. dens lie tangled in the reed and river flower, dens twined of dried flora hidden amidst the heavy undergrowth. bits of material and drying moss lie haphazardly about the clearing, twigs snapping in busy paws and plucked scales catching light where they’re gathered to the side. " what a mess. " he murmurs to one of the warriors at his side, pulling his lips back as he steps carefully over a pile of splintering sticks.

though much less of one now, he can feel the nerves grow in his paws. they’re close, close enough for him to taste, to feel the soft moss and solitude of his den once more — he itches with it, ” though much better than it was submerged in water. “ that didn’t say too much. the mottled felidae pauses, looks about the reconstructing camp with eyes slitted in judgement. a long, coiled tail curls at the arch of his heels, ” it’s looking like home once again. “

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

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[LIGHTNINGSTONE]

Judgmental eyes sweep across the littered camp, a clump of dead reeds in his jaws. He strides forward to stand alongside his leader just in time to hear him mutter the words. He follows his gaze to the River Rock and lowers his head to set down his bundle. "It's not pretty, but it's functional," Lightningstone replies dryly, turning to look over his shoulder at the warriors cleaning out the elder's den uphill. He can still remember the mad rush out of camp, remembers when the apprentice's den was swept away in the current and the nursery flooded. It seems like so long ago, seasons ago. Now, his own kits will finally get to sleep here. They'll get a chance to play in the shallows and get used to the water they've been missing out on. I hope it's not too late. My kits can't be drypaws....​

 

[hyacinthbreath]

Hyacinthbreath listens as they talk about the camp, dainty paws carrying her over to the group as she sets down a few reeds herself. A quick dip of her head is made towards Cicadastar, then to Lightningstone. "It does look a lot better than when we found it." She remarked softly, lifting up her reeds in favor of handing them off to an NPC that offered to take them from her. She doesn't know much about constructing water-proof barriers for dens, but she'd learn. With time, she could even add her own touch to the Warrior's den to add more comfort to their stay. "What if.. We pad the nursery with something sturdier?" She offers, head tilting to the side.​

RIVERCLAN WARRIOR ✦ WARTORN SOLDIER ✦ 53 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

"The pretty can come later and I leave it to the more experienced cats." The shadow of a tom wandered over, muddied paws and bits of debris littering his coat from shoving out old moss and whatever other mess the river had deposited into the camp. Despite his disheveled appearance he found himself smiling all the same and padded over to bump his head into the patchwork leader's chin since he could not quite reach his forehead for the more appropriate gesture. For once, he did not care that there was an audience, that Lightningstone or Hyacinthbreath was right there. They didn’t matter, no one did. Nothing did. They'd be settling in back home soon, it would be a lot of work to get the place feeling comfortable once more, lived in; he knew the den in the willow tree was already going to be a pain and he needed it scraped out entirely before they could think of resting in it once more, but the relief of the familiarity was enough to spurn him forward with the work. He could sleep again, perhaps. He'd been struggling with it for a moon or so again recently, having had once thought the ailment that kept him up at all hours of the night had passed but apparently his stress had drawn it right back in time.
Smokethroat does not linger long alongside Cicadastar, he was filthy and he'd not go rubbing his dirtied pelt on any other cat even if the impulse was there.
"We can use stripped bark from the trees to help reinforce it perhaps-" He adds on, voice rising in a tilt of a question but not quite one, "-branches too. The apprentice den needs to be fully rebuilt."
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