camp WEAVER'S GOD | o, stress weaving

[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

there's too much on her mind. she ignores the aches and pains from that goddamn fight. the sense of panic, protecting her cats from the rear and taking on anyone who tried to interfere. moor cats are similar to rats. small, freakish, and something to watch out for. no cat wants a bite from a rat, and it's the same with those scrawny mutts. she hadn't fared bad, minor cuts and scrapes. and now the river is angry. surely with cicada, she is positive of it. the river has never been fond of moor runners, nor had it held such many to care for. he is too careless with it, too unfamiliar with the ebb and flow and it is starting to show. the wild winds and snow is not helping either, and she can only hope for the emergence of green leaf as soon as possible. she misses the sprouts, the way the emerging buds and leaves feel among her paw pads.

if one were to look upon their deputy, it would be clear her mind is elsewhere. yet the speed and deftness in which her paws move and braid dying limbs and sticks, reeds providing the roughness to keep her grounded. she's been moving throughout the dens since the break of dawn, currently focusing on the nursery once again. a silent attempt to keep willow and their kits safe. a silent attempt to be there. it's the least she could do. after all, hadn't buck abandoned her dear caraway? in the new mother's time of need? the fear stopping her from witnessing the birth, from truly meeting the kits. an extension of the small family they had built.

a harsh breath leaves the deputy, arising upon her back legs to further weave in support. to shelter the ones inside from the ever-biting cold. she's gathered an impressive pile since the fall of the sun. moving throughout the night, still too occupied in her mind. she can feel the exhaustion wearing upon her, quietly whispering and begging for her to rest. to lay for just a bit, and let the mind and body rest. but there is so much to do, and buck can only accomplish so much. can only hunt with what the river and land provide. can only fight with how much strength can be left in her body. and if it is not enough, she must expend herself. her paws move quicker, following the pace of her ever-racing mind. she is forced to ignore every biting pain, because what else is to be done?

she's been tasked by some cruel fate to keep the river and its inhabitants safe. and it's all that keeps her going.
​

 

[Condorcackle]

Condorcackle was a warrior, as of roughly two moons ago, but he wasn't anything special. He could hunt, he could spar, he could do his duties around camp. But he had never been in the heart of true battle before. He had not been one of those sent to reinforce Skyclan in their time of need against Windclan, and while publicly he said otherwise, he was sort of relieved that he hadn't gone. It didn't sound exactly fun, fighting for your life. That didn't mean he wanted to spend his time uselessly, of course. He had been watching Buckgait for a little while now, and the molly had not stopped moving even once. Unlike him, she had participated in the defence against the raid, and she had the marks to prove it. And still, she worked tirelessly for her clan. Condorcackle admired her greatly for that.

"Hey," he meowed, trotting over and dropping the supplies he had managed to gather beside her own. "Need a paw? I can hold stuff in place if you need, or work on another part of the den if you'd rather now have me under your feet," he said, smiling easily.

 

[FOGTHIEF]

Fogpaw had heard around the medicine cat den about the battle. Namely from cats that were there themselves and he isn't sure how he feels about missing it. Being so inexperienced, it all feels somewhat unreal to Fogpaw but having grown up in Boneripple's former medicine den, he's seen how very real it all can get. Probably with some confirmation bias, he never got the feeling that Windclan was fully trusted, not even during the meal they and Shadowclan shared. He could just be assigning his own distrust to his former clanmates but something just always felt off about it all. Still, he didn't exactly hate them though he never had much of an opportunity to. Like a ghost of the marsh, he often found himself only watching life move around him and he avoids dinner parties like the plague. Not one for conversation.

He reminds himself that it's not really a matter of opinion anymore. If he's going to try to be a real Riverclanner, the enemy is going to be whoever Cicadastar says it is rather than his cousin these days.

Ultimately, all of his swirling thoughts just culminate into being tired of listening to the jabbering npc fishbreath's tales. Took on twelve Windclanners by himself, did he? Sure he did. Fog'll come back for his paw check up later and he ambles out into the darkness without a real idea of where he wants to go. It's cold and he's blinking snow out of his lashes already. He could go to the nursery where his family is but that'd risk waking up the kits and then they'd be his problem. He'd catch his death by trying to fish again either by freezing or falling in and so far it's fruitless no matter what time of day. He puffs out a little cloud in irritation when suddenly ears perk toward a voice so he follows Condorcackle's words through the night.

The mottled cat ends up near the nursery despite his best efforts, stopping under the blooming moonlight to watch with curiosity at the strange motions the lean shecat's performing. That must be the deputy and that tom, he recalls Wolverinefang mentioning someone familiar though he wasn't really listening at that time. Condor offers his assistance and Fog guesses that he should too but he doesn't know their technique. He swallows and tries to hide a fine shake as he steps up beside the tomcat present. The apprentice dips his head in greeting then presses a paw to the structure to indicate his willingness to help. Hopefully, hopefully, this might be something he can actually do decently here. Kitten steps.​

 

[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

the steady movements follow after her steady heart. thump, the weave starts. thump, growing in the same rhytmn. thump tightening to finish and secure it to the dens. she is lost in it, lost in herself. it is with the crackle of condor's voice does she halt her once unrelenting paws. eyes snapping to the tom, spring warrior. new to this, still letting his paws grow into the role he is now in. her attention soon falls to the growing pile. sticks, reeds, whatever these cats could find in the barren snow. something in her falters, losing any quickness to her tongue as she falls to the same level as he. a 'thank you resides on the tip of her tongue, never quite leaving the safety of her fangs. instead, she gives a hum to let him know he has been acknowledged.

she just isn't sure if she wants to let others in. if she should turn them away for something more productive. and she's about to, she swears, until the deputy spots fogpaw. ever silent and with a tongue as still as the dead. he came with the outsides, he is an outsider. but he had still not seen a full year. still, he should not be here. or be learning their ways. or learning to weave. yet she does not find herself with the great cruelty of turning such hope away. she does not miss the way his eyes follow, or his silent plead.

she relents, a heavy sigh taking form in the air. "'m fine." firm, but not finished. "why don't you teach fog? let him work and prove himself." a silent suggestion of working with her on this den. it's the most important one. her head cocks to the area beside her, making room for two more bodies.
​

 

[Condorcackle]

A young, quiet tom, still an apprentice, approaches on silent paws. Condor offers him a bright smile, hoping to soften the youth's nerves. I won't bite! As Buckgait finally deigns to speak, the silver bengal nods compliantly.
"That works perfectly well for me. Here, Fogpaw, we'll work right there. Just take care to keep out of Buckgait's way, you know," he purrs. He trots around to the spot his deputy has left for them, taking a few of his materials with him. "It's nothing, once you get the hang of it. Just take a piece of this, wind it over like so. . ." Condorcackle worked slowly, pausing after each step to allow Fogpaw some time to process his motions.