UNDERNEATH THE TREE | mistletoe

[BUCKFIRE]

Buckfire's getting pretty used to the cold by now. Even though his thin pelt is not built for chilly temperatures, even though his pads are numb and his ears feel as though they'll freeze off, the moor runner perseveres and pushes through the discomfort. Now the snow doesn't bother the tabby tom as much; he enjoys watching the flurries and observing how the season alters the land. Soon the moors would change again and start anew with the hills populated with lush greens and vibrant floral colors, but for now, there was beauty to be had within leafbare itself.

One particular evergreen plant dangles in a cluster, nestled within the clutches of a barren willow tree branch. As the patrol checks the border in a typical fashion, Buckfire halts underneath the limb and stares up at the green-leaved flora. "Oho, is that mistletoe I see?" The small, white berries that accompany them spur recognition within the moor runner, reminding him briefly of the stories that his Mama would tell him and his littermates in leafbare. When most plants have died off, the mistletoe survived. It was a sign of hope and strength, but aside from that, there was an old "tradition" that surrounded it as well.

The chocolate tabby turns toward the others, playfully waggling his faux brows. "Well, y'all know what they say about mistletoe..." They knew what Buckfire was talking about... right?

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐑𝐔𝐍𝐒 ☀☀ 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐔𝐃𝐙𝐔 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐖

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  — buckfire / 34 moons / he/him pronouns
  — windclan moor runner / former loner
  — sh chocolate tabby w/ orange eyes, bite marks on left foreleg, nick in left ear & scratch on right side of lip
  — click for tags

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[SOOTSPOT]

Rogue traditions seldom interested the chimera tom. There was something primitive about them, like a baby bird that had not yet learned it could fly. It was an infancy he didn't wish to entertain, yet living in a clan of outlanders, it seemed he had little choice but to pretend to be interested. Gliding along on Buckfire's patrol, the proud tom's head twisted left and right as he assessed his surroundings, nose tingling against the bitter leafbare bite.

He was more interested in getting things sorted and then returning home, but curiosity had tarnished his clanmates' vision. He listened to the patrol leader fawn over his finding and felt the corner of his eye twitch. He breathed deeply, lungs turning to ice until he exhaled through clenched teeth. There were many things he thought he could tolerate, but the thought of playful banter with a barncat caused one too many twists in his belly.

"Yes, it is a parasitic plant, too weak to stand by itself so it leans on the branches of great ones." He blinked fervently in Buckfire's direction, looking the outsider up and down, smiling as if he'd connected the final piece of a puzzle. 'Mistletoebuck... Though, I suppose being named after what almost destroyed us was equally succinct by Sunstar.' He tilted his head. "Do you truly admire it?" It was remarkably sad.



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[SEDGEPOUNCE]

Buckfire's voice rings through the barren gray borderscape like embers from a flame. Sometimes they burn away before they can land on anything—Sedgepounce probably knows better than most cats how adverse to conversation that some WindClanners can be—and other times they catch onto someone's raggedy pelt and spread the fire. Sootspot, for example.

Sedgepounce turns. He's pretty much given up on finding any prey this close to Horseplace. The grass is empty and calm, all scents stale. The only sounds for the moment are Sootspot's dry attempts at being backhanded, but Sedgepounce ignores him in favor of better company.

"Uh...don't eat them or else you'll die?" he tries, smiling quizzically. Do barncats have some mistletoe rumor that moorcats don't?
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