Open Camp 𝐈❜𝐌 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 ── .✦ sharing tongues

[DUSKPOOL]

DUSKPOOL​

The sun hung low, castin' long amber shadows across the camp where Duskpool said just lengths from the warrior's den. His hulkin' frame settled beside Victoryscorn, the two likely lookin' like weatherworn boulders in silence, rough around the edges and carved by time, though with Duskpool's rapt sheet usin' his frame like a battlin' ram sure didn't give him any favors.

It'd been a long while since he settled down with the rest of the clan, swappin' stories and sharin' tongues. He stared at the berry-stained warrior with a raised brow, knowin' his was worse with who knows what nestled within its wooly depths. And if he took the time, Duskpool was seen pluckin' 'em out like they offended him, uncarin' of the sharp pain that came with rippin' fur from his calloused skin.

He bumped his head against Victoryscorn's shoulder, mutterin' somethin' incomprehensible with a lazy tongue raspin' against rumpled fur. His wooly plumage sweepin' the ground in a half-arc before it curled against his scarred flank, rumblin' gruffly. "Ya could groom yerself once in a while." Duskpool gruffed, spittin' out a tuft of tangled fur. He can't say much considerin' the state of his rugged fur. The white of his muzzle likely the only thing noticeable against the sea of smoky darkness, and a lot easier to turn a grungy hue. Though great for face paintin' when the little buggers got their paws on berry juice.

Gruntin' quietly at the faint blueberry scent waftin' from the other, though he ain't all that great smellin' either with faint whispers of copper mixed with his natural musk of cedarwood and patchouli. Duskpool felt himself relax into the sunbaked earth, mangled ear swivelin' toward the prey he dropped between their paws, "Reckon one of us ought to finish it." He mused after a heartbeat, chest vibratin' with a rumbled grunt.

we're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept

ooc

information

main ref

• attempting to groom @Victoryscorn ^^ more than welcome to attempt to groom dusk's tangled mess he calls fur and never takes care off lol man's got twigs and leaves stuck in there he can't be bothered to rip out of his fur lmao
• 

  DUSKPOOL he/him a storm carved in flesh and smoke, duskpool towers with the bulk of a maine coon and norwegin forest cat. his wooly black pelt bristles with ghost-stripes and scars—old wounds etched like lightning through dusk. one copper eye burns like molten steel and the other a mangled ruin of war. every step is heavy, thunderous—war-born, death-burdened, and unflinchingly alive.
  
  ᯓ★ sun guard of skyclan during coffeestar and hawkstar's reign (mentor to sweetpaw)
  ᯓ★ father to almondpaw and cinderpaw
  ᯓ★ brother to outlawbite & thistlestrike, half-brother to flowercloud
  ᯓ★ eighty-three moons; ages on the 1st of every month
  ᯓ★ speech thought action
  ᯓ★ peaceful/healing powerplay permitted
• ​

 

[Victoryscorn Victoryscorn]

The old tom gave no thought to the dried-up fruits or woodland debris that clung to his unkempt pelt like burrs to bramble. Such nuisances mattered little in the moment. This odd ritual—part grooming, part unspoken companionship—had become something Victoryscorn held close to his weathered heart. With so few cats left from his own season of life, only @DUSKPOOL remained to share in such quiet, familiar acts. And really, who was he to complain? The other tom's gruff demeanor had become a strange source of comfort, as grounding as a tree's roots, though he'd never dare speak such sentiments aloud. Duskpool didn't need the help inflating that already overstuffed ego.

Victoryscorn's eyes flicked downward, just in time to catch the touch of a broad, grey-muzzled head pressing into his shoulder—a nudge soon followed by the rasping drag of a barbed tongue across his ruffled fur, smoothing the worst of it with the lazy efficiency of old habit. It almost gave the illusion that disheveled appearances were a mark of their generation. That was far from true, of course. Victoryscorn blinked beneath his heavy brow, owl-like in his silence, before letting out a soft huff and dipping his head in return. His ears tilted slightly back as he leaned in to tend to the thick shoulder fur of Duskpool with a slow, practiced rasp of his tongue.

No, Duskpool would never allow himself to fall into such a state of disrepair. Not like Victoryscorn. The tom had clearly let things slide in recent moons. Maybe it was the absence of that cream-colored molly—long gone now, her presence whisked away with the tides of time and the burdensome journey that had led the clan to these lands to overshadow her passing. Without her gentle interference, the once-regular rhythm of shared grooming had withered into something sporadic and half-hearted. And so, when the berry-stained tom grunted in brief acknowledgment of the jab at his appearance, it was no surprise. It wasn't defiance—just a quiet admission, as if he no longer had the strength or will to fuss over such matters alone. Perhaps, once, someone else had taken up that burden for him. Perhaps Victoryscorn was only continuing what had been started moons ago: a mirrored act of care, unspoken and stubborn in its devotion.

Still, he said nothing more, save for a few exaggerated tugs on the tangled mess that clung to Duskpool like a second hide. Great StarClan, was the tom marching through hurricanes? Victoryscorn had seen less chaos matted into the pelt of a wolverine. His teeth worked patiently through a snarl of fur before he gave a quiet grunt of his own. "Mmn. I wouldn't be talkin', Duskpool. Looks like a flood done swept you clean off your paws... where in the stars'd all these twigs come from?" The question was more jest than judgment, spoken dryly as he worried loose a stubborn splinter of bark with the point of a tooth. One brow lifted in mild exasperation before he cast the twig aside and shifted his attention to the prey that lay between them.

He blinked slowly—long and deliberate—before nudging the offering toward Duskpool with the tip of his muzzle. His voice, as ever, was rough and unsophisticated, the tone of a tom who had never been one for honeyed words. "Go on, now. You take it. Ain't been all that hungry these past few sunrises... Reckon a squirrel'll do me just fine come later." One might call it an act of kindness. Others might name it neglect toward his own needs. But with Victoryscorn, it was hard to tell. He didn't explain himself, nor did he pause to watch Duskpool's reaction. He simply raised his head and returned to his work, his tongue sweeping along the sooty fur with surprising gentleness. There was none of Duskpool's brute scrubbing—no yanks or impatient tugs. Victoryscorn worked with deliberate care, ensuring each knot was eased out with the least discomfort possible.

When tongue alone proved insufficient, he employed a careful claw or the edge of a tooth to dislodge burrs and twigs, spitting the unwanted fragments to the side with little ceremony. His movements were precise, the gestures of one who knew what it meant to be tended to—and perhaps, more importantly, what it meant to be left untended.

___________________ YOU KNOW THIS MOMENT, ☆ DON'T YOU? ___________________

• "speech."
  "thoughts."
  actions.
  

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• VICTORYSCORN he/him, skyclanner, one hundred one moons.
  ☆ an old chocolate lynx mink with blue tabby patches and a permanent scowl, fur usually stained by blueberry plants.
  ☆ mentoring no one.
  ☆ no current relationships or family ties.
  ☆ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ☆ penned by egg ↛ eggmcbaconboy on discord, feel free to dm for plots!