camp THE DEVIL WON'T LET ME BE — grooming

[SLATESNARL]

Slate had grown accustomed to many aspects of clan life over the moons — patrolling, hunting, different customs and even climbing trees (though not well). This life was far different than the game of survival he participated in on the streets; he was now part of a collective, a community to which he contributed to. However, it seemed that there was one thing that Slate had yet to master, and it was the skill of asking for help.

Rogues didn't ask for help. They didn't want help. They fended for themselves; such was the way of a street cat, Slate had learned. Of course there were those few who had companions or even formed groups, but a majority of the city dwellers were solitary beings. It hadn't been easy to adjust to living in a bustling environment after living on his own for many seasons, but Slate had managed to get by while still maintaining a comfortable distance from his clanmates.

Begrudgingly, the charcoal-hued brute has come to find that sometimes having the assistance of another was pretty convenient. Still, as stubborn as a mule, he was determined to solve his own problems and lick his own wounds.

Speaking of wounds, they were giving the lead warrior an awful amount of grief as he attempted to rasp his tongue over his lower chest area. It wasn't uncommon for the wispy-furred Maine Coon to have the occasional tangle or knot in his pelt, but he did a decent enough job of grooming in order to avoid heavy matting. However, the scratches and puncture marks he had gained from the WindClan battle were making it difficult to navigate the more difficult terrain of his form.

Slate couldn't even so much as stretch his neck out to groom his belly fur without the bite wounds flaring up in pain and stinging like hell. They weren't raw and had since been treated by the medicine cats (much to his displeasure) but they still definitely hurt whenever he irritated them. "Shit." The Maine Coon hissed through grit teeth, scrunching his nose as he soldiered through the discomfort. At this rate, maybe Blazestar would give him a new name like Slatetangle.​

 

[sparrowsong!]

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Although Sparrowpaw had joined SkyClan well after Slate, they had taken to its customs and community far better than he. They were a social cat. They needed the company, the affection, the friendship, and a Clan was the perfect place to get it.

For as skittish as they could sometimes be, it wasn't often that the chocolate tabby was outright shy. There were many faces within the pine Clan's ranks that most cats would consider intimidating, scary even, or just not worth the trouble. Slate was one of those cats.

Even so... the little Sparrowpaw wasn't afraid of him. What was there to be afraid of? He was gruff, sure, and less than friendly, but he was still a SkyClan cat. They had never seen him hurt a Clanmate. He hunted, he patrolled, he guarded. Maybe he might say that he didn't, but they were sure he cared, in his own way.

Sparrowpaw gazed quietly at the massive cat from where they lay, their maw adopting a small frown as he seemed to struggle with his pelt. His wounds must still be bothering him, they gathered, and their frown deepened. Why didn't he ask for help?

After a moment, the small cat rose to their paws and padded over. Trilling a mrr of greeting, they plopped down beside the much larger tom and began to groom his pelt, eyes closed as they worked at the tangles he seemed to struggle with.​

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[Howlfire]

Slate had been one of the more injured cats returning from the skirmish with WindClan. They seemed a bit better now at least, but he still seemed to have a while to go before he was back in fighting shape.

From their brief time training together, Howlfire had come to know his better but still found him to be a bit of a loner and not one for words or asking for help. It was a far cry from herself, priding herself on how open she was. When she heard him struggling to groom, she turns her head to look at him, frowning for a moment and debating whether to help him. To someone who only knew clan life, sharing tongues in such a manner was not unusual for her, but she could recall seeing Slate sharing tongues with anyone. Howlfire thinks their previous relationship as mentor and apprentice might allow her to get closer to him where others would dare not to. Whilst she's considering all this, Sparrowpaw quickly rises to his feet and begins to groom the larger tom. The size difference between the two makes her smirk but she controls herself from breaking out into full laughter. "You know, you can ask for help," Howlfire mews, teasing Slate lightly.​

 

[MALLOWLARK]

Mallowlark had done his job that night, has stood guard with the equally-large Quillstrike, bearing his fangs as the black-and-grey chimera had instructed. It was a shame that he hadn't been able to sink his claws into the cats who had ruined his home... who had spoiled everything... but, it did not immensely bother him. The blessing to this missed opportunity was that he knew the ending, anyway... knew WindClan could not last, poisoned and teetering and rabid. They'd die, devour each other... and only his mother, his sister, Heavy Snow- his kin, those immune, would remain. He was content, here- loved, and loving. The knowledge of the doomed moors only made him miss them less.

Slate had met the honour of fighting off the disease- he hoped the lead warrior had not been infected too, in the process. The pine-forest seemed heavenly, immune to that sprawling sickness... aromatic air and talented paws would ensure it.

From where he lounged, he let loose a chittering giggle at Howlfire's teasing- and Sparrowpaw had jumped at the chance to help, it seemed. Laughter rattled behind smile-fastened fangs, silver eyes wide-set and staring. Wounds, dotted across Slate's form, steel-scented and recently carved... trying to fight the pain to groom a pelt would only end badly. "Contort yourself too much 'n you'll rip 'em open again," commented the ink-footed tom. Rolling onto his side, he acted out with a flourish the event of blood spraying out of a wound, flinging one of his legs skyward. ​

☺PENNED BY PIN​

 

[SLATESNARL]

In the midst of trying to bear through the pain, Slate hardly noticed anyone approaching him until a mrr snapped him back into reality. Oh, one of the apprentices. Sparrowpaw, right? Too many faces to remember. What Slate hadn't been expecting was for the brown tabby to plop down beside him and dive into a grooming session. "Whoa, what're you—" Sparrowpaw's eyes were closed contently as they worked through the fur, as if there were no considerations to be had or concerns that the much larger of the pair would badly react and squash them under his paw. They acted without fear, quite literally sharing tongues with one of SkyClan's most daunting warriors like it was a stroll through the pines. Huh.

The Maine Coon instinctively shifted his weight, trying to scoot back as discomfort washed over him like a tidal wave, but the scratches along his stomach flared up once more. He winced, the physical and mental discomfort now battling to dominate the other. "Er, you don't have to do that, y'know." Slate rumbles, a shredded ear flicking backward. If Sparrowpaw didn't get the message, then he may be forced to be more aggressive with his warning. He himself was surprised that he hadn't immediately recoiled with a hiss and a swat; he would have reacted in such a manner for sure while out on the streets, but... this was a clanmate. Slate would probably get tackled from all angles if he dare lay a paw on the apprentice, perhaps even cast out. He would never see Clover again. That couldn't happen.

With his only physical reaction being uncomfortable shuffling, bristling fur, and a twitching tail, Slate frowned and hoped that Sparrowpaw would stop. He would gladly develop a mat in his fur over being licked all over by the other SkyClanners. "I can. Doesn't mean I want to." Slate responds bluntly to Howlfire, not necessarily sounding as fiery as he typically does but more so just... generally irritated. His issue did not lie with the young warrior. She wasn't the one grooming him, after all.

A burning gaze glances to the maniacally cackling black-footed cat now, the former WindClanner who had up and abandoned the moors for the pines. Slate hadn't talked to him much and still didn't fully trust him, even if he hadn't really done anything since his joining. Those WindClan cats were thieving and vengeful snakes; it would not be wise to fully trust any of them, in Slate's opinion.

After watching Mallowlark's little "performance" through a half-lidded stare, Slate muttered aloud to no one in particular, "I can see why he's mated to Dawnglare." Maybe they had always been so eerily alike; Slate wasn't sure. He didn't know either of them particularly well. They were both unsettling in their own ways, though Mallowlark seemed more... eccentric. Dramatic, he should say. The two of them made quite a pairing, to say the least.​

 

[sparrowsong!]

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They had found and had just begun working out a mat in the large tom's mass of fur when they felt him shift away, bringing them to pause and look up at him. Slate seemed disgruntled as he attempted to wave off their help, and confusion entered their gaze. Sparrowpaw frowned. For a moment their mouth parted to respond, but the presence of Howlfire beat them to it.

Just the same did the dark warrior waive her off as well as them, denying the help while a cackle of laughter announced the arrival of Mallowlark. He put on a display of death, miming a spray of blood, and their ears flicked back, quickly averting their gaze.

They responded at last, voice soft, but they didn't look back up at Slate. "You just seemed like you were having a hard time," they said. "Like it hurt. And I don't... You shouldn't make it worse so you can get better."

Sparrowpaw's gray eyes remained fixed on the mat they had been working at moments prior. "It's nice to groom with others. It's nice to take care of each other," the small tabby continued, trailing off as they once more began to work at the matted fur.​

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