camp TIRED OF LYING IN THE SUNSHINE — open

[SLATE]

❪ TAGS ❫ — Time flies by, they say. One moon feels like it's gone by so quickly, that the days disappear in the blink of an eye. Sometimes, truly, it felt that way.

For Slate, though, the days had felt like moons. He hadn't been gone for a little more than a moon, as it turns out, but he had ceased keeping track at some point near the beginning of his "stay" in the shelter. What was the point, he had told himself, hopeless and forlorn. Blazestar would never muster the courage to send his warriors out on a dangerous rescue mission, not when Grizzyridge had been captured the first time around.

He sits here now, safe and far removed from that twoleg hell, having assumed wrong about Blazestar. Slate was wrong about the worth of daylight warriors as well... or at least, he thinks he may be. Old habits of thinking died hard and this revelation about the house pets was world-shattering; it would take a while for him to process this. It would take him a while to process everything, in all honesty.

The burly Maine Coon was tucked under the shadows surrounding the outskirts of camp, awkwardly situated on his haunches and watching with a blank stare as activity bustled around him. Cats had reunited with one another, and shared tongues and meals upon their return. Slate could not bring himself to celebrate, however; all he could think about was that tiny cage the twolegs had stuffed him in, days upon days of staring ahead at other trapped cats, forcing kittypet slop down his gullet, agonizing wails and groaning echoing off the walls. The Maine Coon swears that the stuffy smell of the place still lingers in his nostrils.

Slate managed a deep huff, giving a swish of his fluffy tail. Amber hues were dim and downcast. He hopes that he doesn't bring much attention to himself; SkyClan was so damn cheery and one person looking anything other than gleeful was always a cause for concern. It feels so strange to just... move on like nothing had happened, though. Would he even be able to hunt, or had he been gone for so long that he'd forgotten?​

 

[SILVERSMOKE]

The loneliness of being unable to celebrate was like the spiky shield of a walnut, it stopped the inside from getting hurt but it stopped others from even trying to. Good friends had returned, he had told himself he was ok with not being their favourites, yet on the outskirts of the celebration, it felt acrid to offer words of endearment when others had grieved more strongly than he ever had. He addressed Slate's isolation with the same predator's gait, seemingly seeking a hunt for an argument as he broke away from the crowd. Instead, his gaze was almost wide as he tried to make sense of the charcoal tom before him. SkyClan was dangerous and traumatic now, but the selfish rogue was still back. Cloverjaw's presence shouldn't have been enough after an event like that, Silversmoke had meant what he believed earlier before - taking Slate's eye would've been a far greater mercy than seeing his freedom taken away forever. Limbs tense as if the promise of combat was still lurking on the horizon, he willed his lashing tail to still as he caught a glimpse of Slate's dejected face. After all the bark about wanting him gone or wanting him to prove he was a loyal warrior, it almost hurt to see him look like a wounded kit.

Almost. He realised it was the closest to a victory he would ever get over the maine coon whilst he pledged himself to SkyClan, as cheap as such a thing was. "You kept your promise." He observed, tilting his nose upwards. It was lucky Orangeblossom was in the nursery, else she'd likely cringe so hard she gave herself a hernia. Even now, his fur wanted to bristle whilst his brain wanted him to remain calm, not for Slate's sake, but for Auburnflame's, whose forgiveness of the tabby's own broken promise meant the world. He wouldn't let Slate be a more honourable cat than him. "Welcome back. I doubt it's worth anything, but I am sorry about what happened to you." His head had always tried to shut out the worst of the Twolegplace, the smell of death coming from every dumpster, the cackle of twoleg kits as they grabbed ones tail, the monsters that cared little for the cats on their path. There was so much more worse than that, but Silversmoke couldn't think of anything worse than a place where one's freedom was sent to die.

He forced his gaze to rip away from the warrior, his mouth set in a thin line as the awkwardness began to brew. Silver'd almost prefer it if Slate snapped back, at least that would be familiar territory.
​

 

[TWITCHBOLT]

It was... odd, being home. Though he was wracked with the weight of grief, still in a mild state of disbelief that some cats hadn't managed to make it back with them, Twitchbolt was making an effort to settle back in. Feeling the breeze, letting the pine-scent weave its way back into his pelt- parts of life in the forest that he had entirely taken for granted, and had forgotten how integral they were to the way he functioned. Still, there was that- that crawling, sprawling guilt. How should he dare to breathe easy for even a moment knowing that Daisyflight was gone, that Grizzlyridge and Sheepcurl were missing still- that Bananasplash and Cloudberrythorn had been abandoned?

It was catastrophising, though- for once, he caught it before he spiralled. No matter how much his parents had made him feel as if he had to deserve the good things in his life, Twitchbolt had done all he could to break away from that mindset. Sometimes, just being alive was enough.

Slate was a tom whom Twitchbolt had historically held a certain degree of respect for; being his senior and all, an experienced warrior, despite how often he tended to butt heads. He knew... he knew he had not been much of a relaxing presence in the Shelter for the other. Bashing the bars as if one hoy claw-strike would free him- Slate must have wanted to snap his jaws shut, slap him across the face, throw him under a monster. The least he could do was attempt to... to make it up to him, for being such a bother. A nasty, angry bother.

Silversmoke had already approached- had welcomed him back, and Twitchbolt acknowledged the taller tom with a glance before setting his amber-struck gaze upon Slate. "You, uh.... holding up okay...?" The words were accompanied with the smallest sign of a smile, some attempt to be encouraging. He didn't want to push it- just wanted to... to try and empathise. It was a peculiar feeling, all of this, after all.​

penned by pin ✧​

 

[HAWKPAW.]

NO LONGER FATIMA, GODDESS, LIGHT​

---

There was so much to think about lately, Hawk's brain was going to melt and pour right out of her ears. The rescue and return to camp had started to blur together, then it was learning about clan life, and cats, and more cats, and honestly she'd already hit her socializing quota for this lifetime just being there. Really, she just wanted like five minutes to herself without being confined to a metal box. Just five minutes to breathe or she was gonna take a swipe at the next poor bastard to even look at her. Didn't help that she was struggling to get proper sleep. You'd think with how exhausted she was after these past few days, it'd be a breeze, but it seemed her brain was still stumbling on the jump between shelter and freedom. Even with the breeze in her fur and the sun on her back, those memories still hung over her like a dark cloud. There was no way to wash it off, scrub it clean. Which, you know, really sucks.

So, to get some much needed solitude, the she-cat had stalked off to the most secluded spot in camp she could find. Which just so happened to be in another shadowy recess in the underbrush, directly across from one particular black cat. He didn't seem to respond to her presence, seemingly lost in his own world. This suited her just fine. The first time she'd seen him through that cold metal web, amber slits against a pool of shadow, she thought she was having a nightmare. Of amber eyes once filled with warmth, but last she saw, were cold and hard as rock. Hateful. Even now, she couldn't look at him, instead dipping her head to lick at the messy white fur on her chest. He wasn't that cat, and it wasn't his fault - evident with his excess of fur and large build - and she knew that. Unfortunately, that didn't stop his existence from making her tense and bitter. Ignoring him only went so far. If she ignored him a little harder, maybe she could pretend she didn't see his own ghosts etched across his face.

As she carried on with her grooming (she swore even her skin still tasted of that place), her mind began to wander. Come to think of it, she couldn't even recall his name. Did he have one of those weird forest cat names like Blazestar? ....Was she going to have to have one of those weird names too? Ugh. Her tongue rasped over a particularly stubborn tuft of fur. No matter how many times she went over it, it refused to lay flat. Seems she was doomed to forever look like she'd been dragged backwards through some bushes. Honestly, if they named her something stupid like Bushpelt because of this, she was gonna be pissed. Frustrated, she continued along her coat, smoothing out whatever she could. It seemed when she'd picked her little chill-out spot, some foliage decided to join her; she hooked it with a single onyx claw, and pulled it from her fur. Pale olive eyes blinked slowly as she inspected it. It was unfamiliar, just like everything else in this place. She continued to fidget with it as not one, but two almost-strangers approached the fluffy tom-cat. She gave no sign that she was listening in, other than a flick of one of her ears.

"If you guys keep on like that, you're gonna suffocate him," she sighed. She hadn't even moved to look at them, seemingly engrossed in what she was fiddling with. In fact, she probably seemed disinterested, her tone unbothered. Did anyone really want to keep rehashing what had happened to them? She was drowning in others' concern for her, every 'are you okay' made her skin crawl. Being out hadn't made everything suddenly all better. Her thoughts had been tangled and complicated since she'd first laid eyes on the torbie that'd opened her cage. A thundering hurricane. She didn't want to keep talking about feelings, she didn't want people trying to sympathise with her, she wanted everyone to just shut up so she could find her way to solid ground. This cat had sat by himself for a reason - perhaps he didn't want their comfort either.

---

I'VE BECOME RUSALKA, DEMON OF NIGHT​

​

 

[SLATE]

❪ TAGS ❫ — Tension remains welled inside of Slate like a dog's jaw refusing to loosen its grip; it's tight, nearly to the point where he feels the need to tremble due to its weight, but the Maine Coon is determined to remain steadfast. He would never admit to wallowing in self-pity or sitting around on his ass being a sorry fuck; he would call this... resting. His brain felt so drowned from repetitive days upon days of staring out his enclosure and grazing on processed slop. Slate would get back into the swing of things eventually, but hadn't he earned some time to relax?

His whiskers twitch as Silversmoke arrives, his ears instinctively beginning to flick backward as he prepares himself for a verbal scolding of sorts. Slate was fully expecting the lead warrior to order him around, business as usual, no formalities or acknowledgment or anything. However, Silversmoke instead leads with, "You kept your promise." He had a window of opportunity to flee into the Twolegplace as soon as Momowhisker had freed him, but something within had driven him back to SkyClan. As much as Slate would rather claim that he only returned to see Cloverjaw again, it wouldn't be truthful. The former rogue never made promises, never pledged his loyalty to anyone other than himself... and yet, he was here. "Yeah, well... Let's just say my little visit put some things into perspective." Slate supposes, his ears reluctantly resuming their normal state. "You're jealous. Jealous that I was able to make something for myself..." Silversmoke's words still infect his mind like a parasite, but the fact that they truly bothered him was something in itself. Now that he was back... would he act differently? Prove to the lead warrior that he was worthy of an ounce of his respect?

For now, Slate was fine with them remaining awkward, distant clanmates. He hadn't the energy to give Silversmoke shit; their rivalry seemed so minuscule now that he had gone through hell and back. "It ain't somethin' that any cat should experience." The Maine Coon gives a shake of his head, a scowl deepening on his maw as terrible memories force themselves to surface.

A familiar patchwork of brown and white hues appear out of the corner of his eye next, whom Slate acknowledges by meeting the other's gaze. As much of a nuisance as Twitchbolt had been in the gloomy shelter environment, Slate couldn't even fully blame the younger warrior for losing his cool. Slate had vented his frustrations and stress against Twitchbolt, which he felt was justifiable in the moment but maybe not so much now. It seemed that Twitchbolt was willing to forgive and forget, though. "Just... readjustin', I guess." The Maine Coon sighs. "You?" Now that he thought about it... hadn't Daisyflight been Twitchbolt's mentor? Slate feels the need to retract his response now; he was a believer in grieving alone and not having to broadcast one's feelings to the world around them. Maybe he'd just play the question off despite the anguish he must have been feeling.

It isn't until that moment that the younger she-cat, who had been situated nearby, had finally decided to announce her presence. She was unfamiliar, likely a shelter cat or someone who had joined during his absence. It was hard to know who was who. " 'S fine. You get used to gettin' hounded in a place like this." He speaks with the gruff attitude of a street cat, though any true irritation is absent from his tone. As much as it surprises him to admit it, Slate would rather be in camp being fussed over by his clanmates than to still be rotting away behind bars. ​

 

[TWITCHBOLT]

Slate did not immediately order him out of his sight- something Twitchbolt found mildly surprising, given their less than savoury interactions through the bars. He had been a nuisance, undoubtedly- one who bore fangs against a pointless goal. But- he could not hold anything anyone said in that... that cold hell... against them forever, and Slate- he appeared to feel the same. Though the surprise at his response flickered on the patchwork tom's face for a moment, he soon let a bob of his head, hurried, acknowledge the Maine Coon's response.

"Readjusting's a - a good word," he remarked, smile trembling. It seemed an effort to keep it there, tangible sadness aswim in his expressive eyes. The question of how he was had been a difficult one since Daisyflight's death, but... good memories shared had given him strength, and the determination to carry forward what she had taught him was mostly what had kept him standing in the days past. He was to live, and honour her in doing so- but that didn't mean he couldn't still be sad. "I, uh- all things considered, I'm... okay. Readjusting."

Twitchbolt was not sure he had lived through worse grief; to weigh the options seemed wrong, considering who it was he had lost.​

penned by pin ✧​

 

[MOURKA]

In all honesty, Mourka has spent these last few grueling weeks just biding his time. SkyClan had so kindly offered him refuge from his unfortunate run-in with the local yard dogs in exchange for some flippant mention of loyalty and agreement to drag himself around the forest in search of mice every now and again—not an unfair trade at all, at least concerning some of the demands in the city. And, sure, he and Slate had saved each other plenty of times, even if only because they both had enough common sense to understand that trying to pull yourself up from a stormdrain alone was never a good idea. But those were always instances where Mourka could help.

He knows just as well as any other city cat—and these forest cats too, it seems—that getting taken by two-legs was as good as getting trapped in a fox's den. That was it. Slate disappeared a few days after Mourka settled into SkyClan like a thorn in a cushion, and he figured, well...that'd be the end of him.

Now Slate's back with a shitload of other outsiders, and Mourka is still pushed to the fringes of society. It's good—eventually he'll be able to slip away without anyone noticing at all. But for now, his belly's still full, and no one expects very much of him.

He follows the sounds of voices. They're all low and mournful; hesitant. It's hard to even pick out Slate's voice from the lot of them, absent of the anger that usually courses through his tone. Mourka can't see his dejected stare, his slumped posture, or his treated ears; for once, based on sound alone, it doesn't feel like he needs to.

For as much as he doesn't fit in with the clan cats, Mourka certainly doesn't fit in with these shelter survivors, either. He's only been trapped in a cage once, and that...that was a long time ago.

He feels bad for them, though. It's hard not to. "Y'know," Mourka hums from the sidelines, addressing the small crowd with a casual nonchalance. "The, ah...group's been overstocking the kill-pile, since they've been expecting you all back. I say go while the gettin's good, right?" He isn't sure from where, but he's sure that he's heard how food is good for the soul, from somewhere. He's not really fit to comfort, if it wasn't obvious.​