this icy force, both foul and fair | thunderclan patrol

[Flycatcher]

ooc - please note this takes place just before the clans got snowed in!

Flycatcher keeps a brisk pace as he leads his patrol along the border between RiverClan and SkyClan. It is not snowing mercifully at this time, but there is a chilly bite to the air, and the clouds look grey and foreboding in the distance. The patrol has been rather uneventful so far, which is a small mercy to Flycatcher as he did not particularly want to get into a scuffle with any of their neighbours today. "Once we've finished marking along here we'll head home," Flycatcher mewed to the two warriors with him. As they set off to do their own duties, he invited Roepaw forward with a flick of his tail. "Draw in the air, Roepaw," He instructed calmly. "Tell me if a patrol passed through here recently."

tagging: @Badgerstrike @covecatcher and obligatory apprentice tag for @. Roepaw . ​

 

[covecatcher]

Another day, another patrol. She can't find it in her to complain, tail swishing back and forth as she walks alongside her patrol in silence. She does what she always does: watch the scenery as it passes along, the icicles hanging on the trees, the way the snow glistens in the low sun. Its a winter wonderland out here and she hums in content, turning her eyes back to her patrol before they drift off once more. The river, marking the between of their territories, looks half frozen over and she tilts her head. She never thought she'd see the day.

Another hum in response to Flys statement, lashing her tail before its finally still. She moves to mark, keeping a watchful eyes on the Rivers side of the border. Hm... Shes tired. She hopes they go home soon, her paws are freezing in this snow.​

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[CLAYFUR]

It would be a cam patrol, a nice little walk around the territory, if not for the bitter cold of the world around him. He knows he isn’t the brightest, but at this point the tabby-striped tom is certain that it’s the cold that’s making his hip ache. It sucks. He’s been clinging to Clearsight like a kit lately, not wanting to get up in the mornings even to go eat any sort of breakfast. It’s not like they’ve had enough prey to eat a regular morning meal, anyway.

He spots the ThunderClan patrol before he smells them—the weather has been messing with his nose, and he’s all congested and it’s kinda gross, but at least he isn’t sick with whatever the cats in the medicine den have. Flycatcher is immediately recognizable, but the others alongside the lead warrior aren't as familiar. He trots over, gait uneven as he comes to a stop at the mostly-frozen edge of the water. "Hi, guys! How’s it going?" Clay punctuates to question with a friendly wave of a snowy-white paw.
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[ WHAT'S MY AGE AGAIN? ]​

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[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : he’s cold. he’s hungry. the chimera stalks through brittle reeds with his nose to the powdered snow, ears settled low at either side of his narrow skull. a small hunting patrol, the three of them leggy enough to traverse the wintery riverlands — but there was nothing. nothing to be found beneath the thick frost, ice rubbing pink pawpads raw and painful with each delicate step. he was barely smell beneath the thickness in his nose, sinuses drooling despite the occasional sniff. as his duty, behind him tags both @leechpaw. and @RATTLING WASP. , and he finds he would be embarrassed by his consistent almost - sneeze if it could be heard above the roar of battering winds around them, “ can you smell anything, leechpaw? “ comes his dark accent, loud above the blizzard and its calm — not a twitch upon his steely expression to indicate that he had not scented anything either. he aims to make eye contact with his brother over the apprentices head once the tangled boy looks away, furrowing his brows just slightly. they had to find something.

clayfur’s voice, then. suddenly, coming from the waters and icicle eyes pull from wasprattle to fixate on the brown tabby, just tail lengths away through sparse flora. across the way, barely seen beyond the haze of fog layering the rivers, mill about a small thunderclan patrol. his tail waves in greeting, but he says nothing, does not move to step any closer to the freezing waters than he was. he was busy.

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−−−−−⠀⠀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, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• none.

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[cranecatcher]

TAGS — Patrolling was a nice distraction from the dour leafbare season, though sometimes he thinks Cicadastar embodies the emotion quite well. Such has never been Cranecatcher's talent- though he undoubtedly thins out when winter hits, and the cold is definitely annoying, he has never found himself such a black puddle of severity as his leader is now. Not that Cicadastar has ever been the cheery type, really. He almost regrets the way he aligns himself more with Clayfur. He hasn't forgotten the tom's stranger habits, and he thinks to say he identifies with him out loud would be to damn himself to some sort of ridicule. Maybe he ought to chalk it up to the way he's hardly out of his adolescence. Cranecatcher prefers to think of it as just his sunny disposition, though, capable of warming even a corpse back to life.

He's not long behind his fellow warriors (and Leechpaw) when the scent of Thunderclan drifts across the river. The cream-furred tom pauses with his jaws apart, blue-gold gaze searching the opposite bank for the patrol. His ears perk curiously. He tries not to be too obvious about the ways in which he puzzles so fondly about the other clans; he'd chosen RiverClan for a reason, and disloyalty is unbecoming of a cat- he doesn't want anyone getting the wrong idea. But he still finds himself enamored with the prospect of learning from them whenever they show up (though he doesn't think he'd ever let a WindClanner be his teacher, those rabbit-eating bastards). Cranecatcher steps gingerly over the searing-cold pebbles towards the bank of the river, feathered tail waving in greeting. "Hello!" he calls, whiskers twitching.​

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