Camp 𝒍𝒂𝒗𝒂 𝒍𝒂𝒎𝒑 𝒑𝒊𝒔𝒄𝒐 ☞ [ 𝒔𝒏𝒐𝒘-𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 ]

[GROTTOWATCHER.]

{$title} the snow is snowing snowily

Karst is in a state of rapture. It is snowing, and the flakes are small and plentiful, and the wind is whipping them around in immense, lacy boughs. The sky, in all directions, is white, and the snow that falls around him is a blanket in and of itself. He does not suspect it to be enough to thoroughly cover the swampscape, but for now it has turned his home into something out of an elder's tale, something fantastical and lush in its tranquility.

That is a good word for it. Tranquil. The land is deafeningly quiet. Even the typical birdsong is silent in favor of this deep, abiding ambience.

From where he lies, belly-up and curled into himself like a roly-poly, Karst grins. He can see little flakes clinging to the black furs on his paws, folded as they are over his soft underside, and it amuses him. "Heehee, I've got speckles," he notes, quietly. "Soon, I'll be the prettiest cat in the clan."

A breeze courses by, billowing powder in another cloud overhead. So grand, he marvels. Karst blinks in rapid succession as that white-dusted air runs through his vision and, naturally, sticks to him like a burr.

 

[Tusslekit]

✃⋯ Tusslekit thought he preferred the quiet. He took every chance he could to escape the bustle of the crowd, loudmouthed clanmates were always the first to face the brunt of his sharpened tongue and claws. The quiet that snow brought, however, brought a chill down his spine, and not just because it was cold. The silence made him too aware of his breathing, the puffs of air fogging in front of his face, the crunch of frost between his paw pads. Cold was all he knew. They'd said it was nearing it's end soon, but he wouldn't believe it 'till he saw it with his own two eyes. Plenty'a cats thought it was funny to lie to kittens.

He watched this older cat wiggle and grin in a pile of the stuff, stark black fluff shadowed against the sterilely white snow. Something about it tickled the hair-trigger in Tusslekit's head, and he scoffed from his place huddled off to the side, "No you won't." He realizes after he says it how awkward it sounded, and continues with a stumble, "You uh-, look stupid. It's gonna make you sick, n' then you can't hunt. Stupid."

He sounded more like a naggy caregiver than anything else. Tusslekit huffed to himself and said nothing more. He hated the cold.

✃ WASTELAND! WITH HEAVEN ABOVE YOU, THERES HELL OVER ME.

• ooc:
• ✃ tusslekit- shadowclan kitten - five moons - he/they - son of swaying willow and towering oak- a small, twiggy black-smoke and white kitten with pale blue eyes
  
  - one among the pawful of orphaned youths of the colony's civil war, tusslekit is particularly shut-in and reactive, prone to lashing out over small slights.
  
  - speech in "#b0c4de" , attack in underline, penned by eezy
• NOTE: WITHOUT SCARS.
  

 

[MIREPURR]

Mirepurr doesn't have much to complain about when it comes to the seasons, as long as they properly follow one another like they should — even the warmest days of the year are more of a nuisance than anything they would properly dislike, for the amount they shed makes up for the heat that burrows into their fur. Plus, it's so much better to be too warm than too cold. The former means everything is in order, but the latter would mean that they've gone positively bald.

The snow lacing the land strikes Mirepurr as a way to settle down after such... intensity. Whatever comradery the Colony cats might have shared is gone; it is somber to some and painful to others, but the chilly winds and stark white that coats the marsh now almost seems to whisper: settle down now, take a breath. Mirepurr will take it. It is far too early to call this after-war state calm, but the quiet is a little bit peaceful. They would like to hold onto it for some time, really revel in it, savor it.

Karst appears to be like-minded. His dark fur is a sharp contrast, but he does not mind.

"Don't need speckles to be pretty,"

Mirepurr says, then soon turns to Tusslekit and his slight against Karst's enjoyment.

"You don't always get sick from the cold. If that were true, none of us would have been able to hunt enough to make it this far."

Perhaps that is much too grim of a topic for someone like Tusslekit; losing not one but both parents in quick succession must be a nightmare, especially for someone so young.

"Want me to warm you up a little? My tail's really fluffy!"

 

[GROTTOWATCHER.]

The pomp and bluster of a wee voice turns the shadowy tom's ear. Karst makes no attempts to sit himself upright just yet, although he does share a bemused stare with his tiny two-toned peer. Tusslekit fits in appropriately among the young ones in the clan—manners and propriety seem to be a near-foreign concept to the up-and-comers, a lesson their parents skipped and instead replaced with an edge of insolence. All in good spirit, though. They know no different, and in all likelihood, they've already grown comfortable in their roles as miniature troublemakers. The fully-grown ShadowClan cats hardly set a standard worth chasing, anyway. It is a wild and uncouth lot that Karst has thrown himself in with.

An exception to that statement emerges before long. Mirepurr pads toward them in delicate, drawn-out steps, making dainty prints in the otherwise untouched snow. The tom's expression would revert to its prior serenity as his attention settles back on his speckled pelt, and a soft chuckle escapes his muzzle. "I'm not sure any of us are very pretty," he confesses to the other warrior, but not without an appreciative gleam in his eye. "Not even you. Though you come close." A pause. "But we are all very lovely in our own way."

Tusslekit included. Crude as it may be to simply slap another with the label of stupid, there is an endearing aspect to such blunt honesty. Kits will lie, and kits will deceive, but when they speak, they mean it. They are not yet wise to the concept of a social filter, and so every word from them is a breath of fresh air. Whiskers pricking in interest, the older cat beckons Mirepurr's offer, the faintest of smirks upon his lips. "You'll become a kit-cicle if you don't warm up," he adds, observing the flecks of frost lining Tusslekit's growing tufts of fur. "There's no telling how long it'd take for you to thaw. Maybe a full moon, at this rate. It's rather cold."