Open Camp 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚒𝚍𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ◈『 𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚗𝚒𝚊 』

[Smogmaw.]

The winds which careen through the cavernous mantle of night above, they are laden with a warmth that Leaf-bare will not smother for much longer. Newleaf will be upon the pocosin soon. Very soon, rather. He longs to smile at the thought, but the tom's muzzle is altogether stiff and too fixated on the marsh beyond.

It is late into the night. Very late, rather. The moon has wandered far from its highest point and settled its gleam directly into his eyes, half-shut as they are, sitting on his haunches at camp's entrance. Having decided the chase for sleep was a pointless exercise some time ago—for a second consecutive night, to his unending chagrin—Smogmaw instead holds vigil over the floodplains, amid a reflective silence, permitting the fauna to rest on his senses. With insoluble intent, his gaze is trained on some indeterminable, almost nonexistent mark; between a stand of leafless trees stretches the path his patrol'd followed to the grave-site, and since then, his own will had returned him there again and again.

Not physically, no. He hadn't set paw back in that hallowed place. Anxiously, though, the mindscape frequently drags him to the vile waters surrounding the mound and curses him with recollection. More vividly, each time: the protruding ribs, tailbones and hollow-eyed stares from ancient skulls left to stew in the morass. So much untouched by explanation. Their origin is a mystery, their lives lost to history, the injustice wrought upon them reduced to abstract conception. Were their deaths as careless as their graves, he ruminates as he sits. As recklessly enacted and purposeless as the ones he'd perpetuated?

His attention doesn't once veer away from the realm ahead. It does, however, waver in the face of remembrance. Blood-matted fur, bones yellowed from decay, how it'd felt to-

The tom sighs, heavily. This restlessness hasn't left him since his paws were driven into the mud. Cicadabuzz, Lowlight, Mothbite; they'd been unable to bring themselves to dig. It was not cowardice which prevented them, Smogmaw reckons. If they'd sensed the same compulsion that'd gripped him and heeded its warning, then they'd acted wisely. As to why his own conscience yielded to such an omen is hopelessly beyond his comprehension. He is a servant to impulse, that he knows—but he cannot rationalise what had happened, and that troubles him deeply.

Life breathes into his stone-stiff tail and swings its striped length to and fro. It is the first change in posture in what felt like an eternity. Howbeit, his amber eyes remain where they are, fixated squarely on what lay past his sight and understanding.

 

[F l e a p a w]

-

Sleep doesn't come easy in the apprentices' den. Even with her siblings there now, even with the warmth of more bodies beside her, she finds it difficult to sleep. Sometimes she dreams of the two-leg place. But lately, her dreams are odd. In one, she's falling, pain wracking her body as she breaks through a layer of ice, swallowed by frigid water, the cold sharp as claws on her pelt. She sinks, drifting down… further and further, bubbles rippling from her mouth as she tries to call out. When she wakes up, the air is bitter, and she swears there's frost on her pelt.

Other times, she's back at the Thunderpath. There are cats there, shouting at her, taunting her—telling her that she's weak. That she'll always be small. She lunges, teeth and claws bared, but they pin her with ease, shoving her face into the dirt.

Fleapaw would rather not sleep if that's what she had to look forward to.

There's lots of fun to be had outside the camp at night. Plenty of good hunting. More often now—whenever the silence of camp settles deep, when no one is awake to stop her. Not that many would nowadays.

But there are cats in her life now who would worry… Timber. Stoatkit. Tick. Webpaw. Lostpaw. Flamerunner. Mothbite. She's almost shocked by how many there are now that give a shit. Not that all of them are allowed to fuss over her.

She draws the line at Stoat, at her siblings… maybe Flamerunner, if she's feeling generous.

The darkness presses in as she treads her usual path back to camp, shadows pooling like ink between the gnarled roots and stagnant puddles. The pocosin is silent. No croaking of frogs, no chirping of crickets to greet her. It's unnerving still, but it's been that way for so long that she's gotten used to it.

Now, she creeps back into camp, a mouse dangling from her jaws—A late-night prize, caught in her restless prowl through their territory. Flea's maps the path to her nest, but she doesn't get far.

She goes rigid, stuck mid-step. There's a cat in her way. The moonlight glints off his eyes. His silhouette is looms just a few steps ahead. Fleapaw's jaw loosens just enough for the mouse to drop to the dirt.

Maybe he hasn't seen her? Maybe if she doesn't move, he'll just— Nope. He's looking right at her.

Even without the moon illuminating him, she could recognize him by scent. It's good old Frogmaw. Fuuuck. Her luck was shit as always, why couldn't it be anyone else?

"Uhh…" She tries to think of anything to use. Throw mud in his eyes and run? Maybe, but it's probably not a great idea. Try to mimic another warrior? Could she even do voice impressions? Pretend to be a ghost... That's stupid, but actually. "I'm a ghost in the shape of the thing that annoys you most. Ooooo!" That's sure to work. Yeah. Totally… Fleapaw sighs loudly. He was a lot of things, but not an idiot. "No, seriously—If you saw me, you didn't. Cause it's late, and it's dark, and I could be anybody."

Frequencies that I can't understand - I can't be bothered with the teachers

FLEAPAW

6 MOONS
SHE/HER
- Undersized cinnamon solid with folded ears. She's thin but stubby with very messy fur.
"SPEECH" - crimson | 'THOUGHTS/EMPHASIS' - crimson

Fleapaw values family the most with survival at a close second. In conversations, she is blunt, fun-loving, and clever. She is guided by her desires which often leads her astray. Despite her abrasive personality, she cares deeply for those she loves and will do anything to protect them. Due to her experiences, Fleapaw is corrupt and has minimalistic, if any, morals. She does not care for the warrior code and its restraints. Neither does she believe in StarClan. Growing up in a kitten mill, being separated from her mother, and ending up on the streets have deeply affected her view of the world.

Always trying to shape the way I act.