camp TURNING OVER STONES [RTA]

[SANDPELT]

ꕀꕀ It’s been a long day. A long few days, in fact. His mother’s kits are beginning to toddle around the camp, and Sandpelt avoids them as best he can. If his kin wonder why he doesn’t speak to them, they receive no answer from the tan-patched warrior. Since the day he’d shouted at both his parents, there has not been a word shared between them at all; no congratulations, no concern, nothing. There’s a river of distance between them now, and he’d like it to stay that way. But avoiding them comes at the cost of loneliness, the level of which Sandpelt hadn’t been prepared for. His days are spent throwing himself into his duties, and his nights are spent tossing and turning and narrowly avoiding being kicked in the head by an annoyed denmate.

The warrior finds himself at the river’s edge as evening begins to settle over RiverClan’s camp. The sunset’s dying light casts the water in dappled gold and crimson, but it isn’t too dark yet to see his pale paws stretched out in front of him. His stomach aches with hunger, something that he’s ignored all day and gotten good at pretending doesn’t bother him—but he searches for food now, because it’s the first moment of the day that he has to himself. There are no minnows lingering in the shallows, but that’s alright, because Sandpelt isn’t searching for fish. The prey he’s after tend to lurk beneath rocks, and there are plenty of large, flat rocks in the shallows just waiting to be overturned. Perfect.

He dips his paw into the water, shoving a stone aside, and spots nothing beneath it. Disturbed silt shifts and rises, clouding the water somewhat, but it’s clear enough to see the nest rock that fits the standards of his prey. This one is a bit harder to flip, stuck in the riverbed as it is, but when he finally settles it upside-down with a plop, there’s a crawdad on the other side, clinging, tensed as if ready to dart away. His paw moves faster than it, though, and he flings the creature onto the land, leaping to pounce upon it. He moves to bite it, but the little crustacean is faster than he is. In a flash, its claws pinch down on his whiskers, snatching a small bundle of them in its grip. The tom rears back suddenly, trying to fling the thing off, but only manages to make it pull at his whiskers more. "Ack-! Stupid crawdad…" He bats at the creature, but still it clings to his whiskers, its little claw clamping down as hard as it can. A harsh hiss leaves his mouth, unsure of what to do. How can he get it to let go without losing a whisker—or multiple—to this miserable, horrible little creature?

drown in the water 𓇢𓆸 burn in the fire

• ooc: Does your character refer to them as crayfish, crawfish, or crawdads? Are they willing to argue about what they’re called?
• 
• SANDPELT ❯❯ he/him, warrior of riverclan
  ❀ pretty, silky-furred tan tortoiseshell with one yellow eye. calm and hardworking, but can become snappy if angered.
  ❀ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ❀ penned by foxlore

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[MIDNIGHTASH]

જ➶ A small fish hangs from her muzzle as she leaves the spot where her hunting has been less than fruitful. Though she supposes that her energy has not really been invested in anything lately. It can be seem in the dull color of her amber orbs as she steps around a rock, glancing at the moving water beside her. Though the sight in front of her makes her head snap up and ears pull forward as she witnesses the odd situation that a clanmate finds themselves in. Blinking slowly she drops the puny fish upon the ground and she steps forward, muzzle crinkling a little. "That is an interesting way to catch something, Sandpelt." Her eyes narrow as she focuses on the thing clamped to his whiskers. The claws seem rather attached to would be hunter. "Do you need some help with that?" The woman volunteers which is unlike her but she merely leans forward and takes a paw to poke at the thing.

"You called it a cawdad right? I always thought they were crayfish..." At least that is what she had been told. Were they different or the same thing? Either way she is trying to figure out just how to get the crustacean to let go of his whiskers. She is sure he doesn't want to lose them and the idea of it isn't pleasing to her either.​

 

[TURTLEDOVE]

"A crawfish!" Turtledove chirped loudly from a decent amount of foxlengths away. The spotted she-cat bounded over, heavy paws creating audible thumps on the ground below. Her whiskers twitched emphatically at the sight of the arthropod clamped down on Sandpelt's face. She didn't even stop to think of how dreadful that felt. Instead, the fresh warrior disregarded Midnightash's offer for help and jumped straight in.

Turtledove's jaws clamped down on the tail of the flailig creature and she pulled hard. It didn't occur to her until she had already dug her claws into the riverbank that it might hurt Sandpelt a little bit.

She was mostly concerned about looking at the crawfish up close and maybe saving its carapace for her nest. Her nest in the apprentice's den had been stocked full of bug wings, bug bodies, and other cool things she had found in the territory. Snakeblink had begrudgingly let her cache her finds with whatever prey they had rustled up on patrols. Now that she was a warrior, she didn't even have to ask to keep anything! She could just do it! Unfortunately for Sandpelt, he had become the victim to her first specimen.

ooc: sorry you get a mobile post that i’ll probably forget to make pretty later

 

[paleroot]

⊹ ︶⏝⭒˚‧ ︵‿⭒ཐིཋྀ ཐིཋྀ⭒‿︵ ‧˚⭒⏝︶ ⊹

The semantics of the naming of prey isn't something she's too bothered by... she's traveled to some strange, many places... heard the speech of cats from far greater horizons than ones she has witnessed herself. The perks of living a nomadic life, once upon a time... now blessed with stagnancy to enjoy the last moons of her long life in peace and quiet.

The young discuss the specifics of their own learnings, the difference in who taught them evident in their speech. Paleroot pauses in her leisurely stroll to interject, only because that is what elders are wont to do. "Doesn't look much like a fish t'me," the molly adds in a gravelly tone, "I'd reckon young Sandpelt had it right... a crawdad."​

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[CICADAFLIGHT]

Any day Sandpelt is being inconvenienced is a good day for him. By this logic, he technically has good days quite often, as is currently being evidenced by the crustacean hanging resolutely on to his nemesis's whiskers. He lopes up on the cream-hued warrior's blind side for the sole purpose of hopefully scaring the hell out of him (or at least annoying him), heavy paws whispering against the sand. The minature creature is clamped down on Sandpelt's whisker, guaranteeing a painful future when it's dislodged. He almost wants to egg it on like it's his favored fighter in a spar: Go! Go! Go!

" I've heard it called a languste. " He emphasizes the strange word in his faint accent. Cicadaflight does not make mention of who it was that he first heard that from, but splintery-painful memory washes over him all the same. His father flipping a rock with an elegant turn of the wrist and a small, angry creature scuttling out from beneath. Languste, he'd called it, the word taking on a new character in his mouth; his father's fine, aristocratic cadence that could turn anything into a speech or a story. But his son is considerably less gracious, and so he looses an ungainly snort and remarks, " It reminds me of you. "

" Small and angry, " he clarifies, condescension feathering over his hoarse voice. Midnightash offers an alternative term and an olive branch of help, but he admittedly pays her little mind. Two-toned eyes are focused on Sandpelt with a wry smirk just beginning to round his muzzle, wondering exactly how the cream-furred tom will get himself out of this one. It's not that he wants to see a Clanmate hurt, but it would be really funny to watch Sandpelt walk around whiskerless for a couple moons. Okay, maybe he wants to see one specific Clanmate hurt.

Perhaps Turtledove has the same thing in mind, because she zooms over and grabs the thing by the tail, yanking it without a care in the world for how it might hurt its unwilling victim. Cicadaflight grimaces—not sympathetically, of course, but the vision of the same sensation on his own whiskers makes his spine curdle. Paleroot offers an interjection from another generation, seeming as serene and wise as an elder ought to be; he wonders if he might ever attain such a temperament. Probably not, he thinks. He'll probably still be arguing with Sandpelt right up until they both fall down dead, however long that takes.

OOC : —

☆

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