{$title} Everyone come annoy pawpaw!!
Splayed out in the camp opening, face knit with his usual bitter, soured expression. There wasn't much in particular for him to be upset about in that exact moment, but given there usually was, Peatgrass' expression still remained sour as ever.
The days had cooled significantly; the cruel leafbare would crash upon this lot of fools if they didn't pull themselves up by their whiskers. That was how he and his kin survived all this time, how even in his growing age and creaking bones, he had come out the other side alive. He wasn't the most fond of half these hippies, these "clan" cats or whatever the bumbling fools called themselves, but no one deserved to suffer in the cold. So if he needed to, he would try to help this lot as much as he could.
Now, the miser couldn't hunt like he used to. His clowder of yunguns would tend to that for him, dutiful offspring of his. So as he and his family were merged into the clan, that shifted to the clan cats feeding one another, and much to his surprise, Peat was included in this. While he was apprehensive of these strange lot, they made sure everyone was fed, and his clowder fit in perfectly, for that matter, dutiful to their family and - now - the clan.
So, the creaky bones of the old tom rose to approach the freshkill pile, plucking a plump frog from the pile, rich and chewy. It wasn't everyone's taste, but for one who had spent many, many a moon within the pocosin, Peat had grown more than accustomed to the stringy taste. As he flopped to the ground, frog caught between his paws, out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a younger cat (now, at his age, most anyone of the clan was a youngster to him).
He knew he wasn't meant to be rude; his youngsters had argued constantly with him about his temper, but if he wasn't shown the respect he damn well earned, he wouldn't show any either! Even so, as his tail flicked behind him, the tom shuffled slightly, so the freshkill pile was easily available. "Ya' better not be causing any trouble." He muttered, bitterly, curtosy was still hard earned; only a pawful had earned a smile or polite conversation from him. And while he was begrudingly kinder to the kittens of the clan, as moons passed, they seemed more and more like trouble.
The days had cooled significantly; the cruel leafbare would crash upon this lot of fools if they didn't pull themselves up by their whiskers. That was how he and his kin survived all this time, how even in his growing age and creaking bones, he had come out the other side alive. He wasn't the most fond of half these hippies, these "clan" cats or whatever the bumbling fools called themselves, but no one deserved to suffer in the cold. So if he needed to, he would try to help this lot as much as he could.
Now, the miser couldn't hunt like he used to. His clowder of yunguns would tend to that for him, dutiful offspring of his. So as he and his family were merged into the clan, that shifted to the clan cats feeding one another, and much to his surprise, Peat was included in this. While he was apprehensive of these strange lot, they made sure everyone was fed, and his clowder fit in perfectly, for that matter, dutiful to their family and - now - the clan.
So, the creaky bones of the old tom rose to approach the freshkill pile, plucking a plump frog from the pile, rich and chewy. It wasn't everyone's taste, but for one who had spent many, many a moon within the pocosin, Peat had grown more than accustomed to the stringy taste. As he flopped to the ground, frog caught between his paws, out of the corner of his eyes, he spotted a younger cat (now, at his age, most anyone of the clan was a youngster to him).
He knew he wasn't meant to be rude; his youngsters had argued constantly with him about his temper, but if he wasn't shown the respect he damn well earned, he wouldn't show any either! Even so, as his tail flicked behind him, the tom shuffled slightly, so the freshkill pile was easily available. "Ya' better not be causing any trouble." He muttered, bitterly, curtosy was still hard earned; only a pawful had earned a smile or polite conversation from him. And while he was begrudingly kinder to the kittens of the clan, as moons passed, they seemed more and more like trouble.
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PEATGRASS He/Him, Shadowclan Elder, 114 moons.
A short-haired orange-grey chimaera with sunken green eyes.
mentored by none // mentoring no one
littermate to Paisley and Oscar
NPC x NPC / parent to a [to be adopted out] / mated to [to be adopted out]
"SPEECH" // "THOUGHTS" // ATTACK
penned by Pheo ↛ phoenixwashere on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
