
CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment
Cicadabuzz moves through the undergrowth with the ease of one who belongs to it, their steps light and deliberate, their ears attuned to the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of birds. The forest is alive with the quiet hum of insects, the soft whisper of wind through the trees, and beneath it all, the steady pulse of their own breath. Sunlight filters through the canopy in shifting dapples, warming patches of earth and casting deep shadows elsewhere. They pause near a patch of ragwort, the bright yellow flowers standing in stark contrast to the greens and browns of the woodland floor. The plant is healthy, its leaves full and unwilted, a promising find. Without hesitation, Cicadabuzz lowers their muzzle and inspects it with a careful eye. They graze their nose along the leaves, checking for any signs of disease or insect damage. Satisfied, they reach forward with a practiced motion, grasping a stem gently between their teeth and stripping away several leaves.
The taste is bitter, familiar, and clings to their tongue as they pull away. They set the leaves down at their paws for a moment, flicking their tail once as they glance over their shoulder. The young ones are nearby, their voices a distant murmur against the forest's backdrop. Cicadabuzz does not call out to them; they expect attentiveness, not constant instruction. Instead, they return their focus to the ragwort, gathering a few more leaves with the same quiet efficiency. With the small pile collected, they curl their tail around. Carefully, they tuck the ragwort leaves between short strands of fur, weaving them in with precise, practiced movements. Their tail serves as both a storage place and a reminder—every shift of weight, every swish through the air lets them feel the presence of the herbs, ensuring they do not lose track of their gathering.
Once satisfied that the leaves are secure, Cicadabuzz straightens, giving their tail a slight shake to test the hold. The ragwort remains in place. Good. They take a slow breath, their gaze drifting over the forest once more, assessing the land with the quiet intensity that always lingers in their expression. The air smells of damp earth and greenery, of moss and wood, layered with the faint, sharp scent of the herbs they now carry. A rustling in the undergrowth signals movement, but Cicadabuzz does not immediately turn. Instead, they listen—measuring the sound, its weight, the way it presses against the hush of the wild. It is light, quick. Not a predator. Likely one of the kits, or perhaps Tickpaw. Their whiskers twitch, though they do not react further.
Instead, they turn their focus inward, running through a mental list of what else is needed. The ragwort will help keep warriors strong, easing aching joints. But there are other plants yet to find, and the forest holds no shortage of secrets for those who know how to look. Cicadabuzz steps forward, their tail sweeping behind them as they move deeper into the trees. The task is not yet done. "Come along," they remind the young ones as they move forth.
@Stoatkit @hemlock-kit @Tickpaw
The taste is bitter, familiar, and clings to their tongue as they pull away. They set the leaves down at their paws for a moment, flicking their tail once as they glance over their shoulder. The young ones are nearby, their voices a distant murmur against the forest's backdrop. Cicadabuzz does not call out to them; they expect attentiveness, not constant instruction. Instead, they return their focus to the ragwort, gathering a few more leaves with the same quiet efficiency. With the small pile collected, they curl their tail around. Carefully, they tuck the ragwort leaves between short strands of fur, weaving them in with precise, practiced movements. Their tail serves as both a storage place and a reminder—every shift of weight, every swish through the air lets them feel the presence of the herbs, ensuring they do not lose track of their gathering.
Once satisfied that the leaves are secure, Cicadabuzz straightens, giving their tail a slight shake to test the hold. The ragwort remains in place. Good. They take a slow breath, their gaze drifting over the forest once more, assessing the land with the quiet intensity that always lingers in their expression. The air smells of damp earth and greenery, of moss and wood, layered with the faint, sharp scent of the herbs they now carry. A rustling in the undergrowth signals movement, but Cicadabuzz does not immediately turn. Instead, they listen—measuring the sound, its weight, the way it presses against the hush of the wild. It is light, quick. Not a predator. Likely one of the kits, or perhaps Tickpaw. Their whiskers twitch, though they do not react further.
Instead, they turn their focus inward, running through a mental list of what else is needed. The ragwort will help keep warriors strong, easing aching joints. But there are other plants yet to find, and the forest holds no shortage of secrets for those who know how to look. Cicadabuzz steps forward, their tail sweeping behind them as they move deeper into the trees. The task is not yet done. "Come along," they remind the young ones as they move forth.
@Stoatkit @hemlock-kit @Tickpaw