- Aug 1, 2023
- 140
- 33
- 28
Hadn't Asphodelpaw just been released from his imprisonment to camp by Lichentail? Cicadapaw can't exactly say he's pleased to be heading out with the troublesome lynx point today, as opposed to Beepaw or perhaps one of Ravensong and Moonpaw's herb-gathering errands. He knows his sister has some issue with the other apprentice—she'd been complaining during one of their apprentice-den chats—but Cicadapaw likes to think himself something like his mentor. Cool, collected, not bothered by petty apprentice fights.
This does not, however, change the fact that Asphodelpaw is still really damn annoying.
The tom's over-dramatic 'cool' attitude, his penchant for whining about this, that, and the other, his proclamations of loyalty to the clan, are all very irritating. Cicadapaw had, in a rare show of self-control, watched the apprentice fight from afar instead of getting himself mixed up in yet another argument and earning another cuff on the ear. He'd thought he was the apprentice den's biggest troublemaker until Asphodelpaw came along, starting fight after fight with the ex-Colony cats. Cicadapaw wrinkles his muzzle—he has no taste for the non-Clanners, for the rot infesting their clan through those paws, but he knows better than to start fights with them.
"Iciclefang and Crashingtide said they'd be in earshot, if not closer," he mews flatly into the icy air, glancing over at Asphodelpaw. "We're supposed to 'stick together' while we hunt." He blinks over at the other apprentice. Cicadapaw's fishing style tended to be counterintuitive to teamwork, but then again, Asphodelpaw also seemed rather opposite to teamwork. Dual-toned eyes jitter towards the thin screen of ice over the lapping shore, halfway cracked by the motion of the waves, and he mutters, "Hold on."
In a smooth motion that contrasts his bulging eyes and bony joints, he darts low across the sand and into the water with a spun-glass crack of breaking ice. When he opens his eyes again, the world is dark and cold, marked by silvery shadows of fish. His dark pelt, dappled with white, blends into the low light of the river, and he takes his time in choosing his target. A sudden launch forward with a weaving of stretched limbs and a long lamprey is his, dragged up to the surface and slammed onto a shoreline rock to kill it. Its tooth-filled, sucking mouth is off-putting, but its size is reasonably impressive for leaf-bare, if not the meatiest of prey.
"There's one," he says plainly, as though he hadn't torn off from their little duo to dive into the freezing river. The tom gives himself a shake to rid his damp black curls of any excess water, appreciative of the inherited waterproof quality of his pelt. He swore he'd be calm and collected, but he can't resist a quick remark. "You gonna catch the fish or start a fight with 'em?"
// @Asphodelpaw !!
This does not, however, change the fact that Asphodelpaw is still really damn annoying.
The tom's over-dramatic 'cool' attitude, his penchant for whining about this, that, and the other, his proclamations of loyalty to the clan, are all very irritating. Cicadapaw had, in a rare show of self-control, watched the apprentice fight from afar instead of getting himself mixed up in yet another argument and earning another cuff on the ear. He'd thought he was the apprentice den's biggest troublemaker until Asphodelpaw came along, starting fight after fight with the ex-Colony cats. Cicadapaw wrinkles his muzzle—he has no taste for the non-Clanners, for the rot infesting their clan through those paws, but he knows better than to start fights with them.
"Iciclefang and Crashingtide said they'd be in earshot, if not closer," he mews flatly into the icy air, glancing over at Asphodelpaw. "We're supposed to 'stick together' while we hunt." He blinks over at the other apprentice. Cicadapaw's fishing style tended to be counterintuitive to teamwork, but then again, Asphodelpaw also seemed rather opposite to teamwork. Dual-toned eyes jitter towards the thin screen of ice over the lapping shore, halfway cracked by the motion of the waves, and he mutters, "Hold on."
In a smooth motion that contrasts his bulging eyes and bony joints, he darts low across the sand and into the water with a spun-glass crack of breaking ice. When he opens his eyes again, the world is dark and cold, marked by silvery shadows of fish. His dark pelt, dappled with white, blends into the low light of the river, and he takes his time in choosing his target. A sudden launch forward with a weaving of stretched limbs and a long lamprey is his, dragged up to the surface and slammed onto a shoreline rock to kill it. Its tooth-filled, sucking mouth is off-putting, but its size is reasonably impressive for leaf-bare, if not the meatiest of prey.
"There's one," he says plainly, as though he hadn't torn off from their little duo to dive into the freezing river. The tom gives himself a shake to rid his damp black curls of any excess water, appreciative of the inherited waterproof quality of his pelt. He swore he'd be calm and collected, but he can't resist a quick remark. "You gonna catch the fish or start a fight with 'em?"
// @Asphodelpaw !!
"speech"