Open Camp 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚒𝚐𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 ◈『 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 』

[Smogmaw.]

{$title} [ TW - blood mention, wound-picking ]

Dawn crests on the horizon. It's cold and bitter and unkind, a sun reluctant to rise, and a sky that would prefer to keep its stars.

This morning's break of light feels wrong. A contortion of the world, a defying of routine and precedence. Like something else should be there instead, only he can't figure out what. The concept itself has no substance in his brain, mind, it's just an amorphous sense of discontent—like everything else that passes as a feeling since the battle. Present, yet incomprehensible. Fog that clears away into something muddier than itself.

The very same claws that'd snuffed two lives pick at the crusty scabbing upon his muzzle. Two gouges, running parallel and at a cruel angle, stinging like frost upon sensitive nerves. He's never been one to ignore a good impulse, and so he tugs until a fresh bead of red slips down the slant of his nose. And then he does it again. And again. What pain there is, is distant; he doesn't feel anything. Smoky must wonder if the same could be said for Milky and Leopard. Did they suffer? Did they feel anything beyond fear in their final throes?

He doesn't know. He's not sure what to make of it, either. Idling near the cavity in the thorns that fit both him and his mate, Smoky's body is still and his face expressionless, eyes blank, tail unmoved from the spot where he's laid it across his paws. The bleeding on his nose stops. He's already thinking about picking it again, even while his gaze remains fixed upon the sunrise.

 

[vampirebite]

Chill takes thin bites from her flesh as she wakes in her scruffy nest, a thing hastily cobbled together in the aftermath of the battle. Pitch-dark eyes slide open in the light left in the retreating stars' wake, cold puddling in the velvet scoop of her skull. He rankles under the grip of the morning's frost, shoulder blades jutting against their white pelt as Vampire pulls themself from their nest.

" Morning. "

In one of their reluctant allowances to courtesy, they hail Smoky with a sleep-scratchy greeting. Whiskey eyes rove over where he sits, statue-still and silent, just before the thorny maw to his own sleeping-place. Then they journey a little more, up to his face, electing to avoid distant amber eyes in favor of tracking the flow of the tiny river of gore trickling down his face. In the afterglow of the battle, leagues from a landscape whose grass clots with the stuff, it seems almost impossibly small.

" Something eating you? "

Their tone is affectless, their face studiously passive. It's less a question of concern than one of curiosity—suitably cowed by Cicada and good old common sense, he's been leaving his own chest wound well enough alone. What could compel a cat to pluck it as if they were defeathering a catch, she wonders? Certainly it was no rational compulsion, for it offered no barter for the sure risk of infection or worse. No particular advantage.

Passively, they follow his gaze to the sun clawing the sky back from the clutches of the moon. How terribly apt, that the cycle of the days followed the cycle of the newfound Clans. Grasping, clinging with open claws to whatever one could reach.

" I'm not so foolish as to tell you not to do that, as if you don't know. It is your face, after all. "

they announce with a lackluster shrug, uncaring as to whether he bothers to listen. Sometimes they really do just like to hear themself talk…

​

 

[Smogmaw.]

Unmoving he remains as another joins the waking world. His amber eyes are distant, glossed over by a preoccupied sheen, staring off to some horizon only his imagination may perceive. His thoughts, in a state of such utter stillness, might've come to resemble a mirror-like pond; and any stone tossed into it is doomed to sink into the abyss.

Hard to say if there'd be any ripple effect from Vampire's greeting or inquiries. Only a wordless mumble rises to his throat and sputters past his maw. A gruff vocalisation akin to a 'hmmm', but absent of the deeper clarity or sound that typically accompanies his voice. Smoky is compelled neither to elaborate nor explain the miserable act of wound-picking. The dusk-toned tabby is awash in an emptiness that can't be felt—can't be written off as grief or guilt or numbness, but the mere sensation of nothing at all. Could just call it waking up if he really must give a name to what ails him.

"I know there's no sense in it," comes his reply to Vampire, sturdy noggin dipped in an idle nod. "But it's sunt'n to do with my claws. Beats thinking, for sure." Thinking, after all, leads him in circles. Where he tends to wind up is uncertain. Ambivalent.

He reads the molly's stare on him, visualizing that quietly critical eye that wishes to point out his bleeding again. Can sense the thoughts they might be having, how ludicrous the whole display is. Surely it's common sense to leave wounds alone, and they've probably found loads of better ways to occupy themselves in their new clan than picking at skin or struggling to traverse the territory. He wonders briefly if this place appeals to them just as little, or if there's another narrative in their head.

Smoky brings a paw forward, silver against his nose to stem the slow trickle of blood. "Morning, by the way," is his mutter, spoken with the tiniest flicker of life behind it. "Found your footing here yet?"

 

[Mothbite]

Still so young, Desperate for attention!

indentttIt's too damn early to be awake. Moth tosses and turns, but no matter how hard he tries, he can't fall back asleep. Whatever dream had woken him must still be lingering, somewhere, in the back of his mind. Defiant, Moth keeps laying in his nest, eyes closed tightly. C'mon, sleep. Think about warm sunny meadows or fluffy bunnies or babbling brooks, or something. Sleep evades him none the less.

indentttHe must have been laying awake for a few hours, when he hears hushed voices from outside of the thin walls of the den. Dammit. Now that other cats are awake, his chances of getting back to sleep are second to none. With much effort, Moth hauls himself out of his nest, and towards the mouth of the den. He hisses when the cold, winter air meets him, turning his breath into foggy clouds. A little while away, he can see Smog and Vampire sitting near eachother, talking. The air is marked with the subtle sense of blood, now a common occurrence in Moth's life. Someone must be picking at their wounds. Gross.

indenttt"You're all too loud." he grumbles, in the place of a 'good morning'. The usual heat in his voice is gone, replaced with grogginess instead. He tosses himself lazily to the ground - not close enough to touch the pair, but nearby, so that the other cats block him from the chilling wind.

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Mothbite | 19 moons | Warrior of Shadowclan ababababbnihfibnfdifdhfhabbabab

 

[Smogmaw.]

Possibly lost in a lapse of memory, reliving and contemplating some epiphanous moment from the battle of the moon prior, or maybe he'd gone and stared too long into the morning sun; Smoky was spellbound by a long and sullen quiet, rendered unresponsive to anything going on about him. Vampire yet lingers in his periphery, perhaps losing themself to thought as well, and far back enough to where the fleeting breeze could still brush her short fur. The bitter air brought with it a signature bite that could hardly be forgotten. It is only when the seething sound of another cat rouses him that Smoky startles and blinks from his reverie.

Sheer instinct has him flexing his claws at the sight of a younger, dark-furred tom creeping up to their location. Brows push inward, eyes momentarily narrowing. Scanning the white strip at Moth's throat, the jagged border where white and black mingles, and that white tip on the tom's tail, his memory serves up an image. He recalls how the fellow balked at his leader—whom he'd chosen with the full weight of conviction—snarling out demands for the truth and heralding nothing but animosity at every turn. It's difficult whether to say Smoky respects or loathes that bit of integrity. What matters the most to him is how that animosity seems to have soothed since then.

There is no malice in his greeting, and Smoky watches him flop. "Apologies," the broad tom murmurs, his drawling tone thick with apathy. "From hereon, we'll only talk when it's good and convenient for you, Moth. Anything else I oughta take care of? Shoo off the birds? Smother out the sun?" There's a trace of joviality to his otherwise monotonous voice. He does not smile, but something to the strain of his nose implies he'd want to; and then it fades just as fast as it arose.

 

[MIREPURR]

The sky may lament the departure of its stars this morning, but whatever mood it paints over the land is no matter to Mire — they rise as easily as the sun normally does, a good stretch aiding them in getting rid of any leftover bleariness. Remaining negative has never been their strong suit; the very beat of their heart commands a different rhythm, something hopeful and cheery. The past few days, weeks, moons have been difficult, and the aftermath of it all may be the most troublesome to get through... but there is much to be done, and Mire isn't about to falter when new beginnings are just peeking shyly over the horizon.

Their eyes dart from Vampire's dull appearance and Smoky's stoic disposition. Neither one of them are the typical company Mire prefers, but they are not about to get picky.

"We could find something else for your claws to scratch at,"

comes their suggestion in lieu of a hello.

"It's just going to get bigger and dirty and infected, and then it's going to hurt so much more..."

A wince pulls at Mire's nerves. The wound is, by all accounts, nothing huge... there have been more serious ones, more fatal ones, and at worst Smoky will just have to wear a scar for the rest of his life. Still; the sight of his incessant picking and thus drawing of blood is not such a pleasant sight. In the back of their mind, they wonder if Vampire now thinks of them as foolish... considering she had merely commented on the act instead of attempting to stop it.

Whatever else may have been stuck in their throat remains there for no ears to hear. Moth all but darts out of the den and into the open, grumbling and grumbling.

Mire murmurs a sorry in the same breath as Smoky's apologies, though the latter is much less genuine, if one considers what comes after. Truly, Mire hadn't wanted to talk too loud, but the way Smoky responds is all too amusing, and a snort forces its way out of their nose.