TW: Sensitive Content Open PAFP Camp THERE'S MAGIC IN THE WATER THAT ATTRACTS ALL MEN —— conversations about death... and fish

[WHALEWATCHER]

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[ TRIGGER WARNING: Discussions of death and descriptions of decay. ]

Wormwood reminded Whalewatcher of himself, in a lot of ways. He wasn't sure if that was a wholly good thing, though. As much as the thought flattered him, the Riverclan warrior doubted that anyone could match him in... being like him.

At least it humored him in ways that most dared not to, and for that, Whalewatcher sought unexpected company in it. Many, including his own blood, detested the way his verses spiraled into rambles, how maddened gaze bore deeply into their souls. He had little use for friends, not while the white-scaled monster still roamed the rivers. Companionship, however temporary, did soften the heart enough for him to grow closer to a state eking in the direction of relaxation. Powdery snow fell gently along the plumes and tufts of the camp's outline, never-ending as though a drivelling stream of silent words, going on and on without reprieve. Whalewatcher did not sit alone, instead perched a few mouse-lengths away from a certain dark oak-hued feline. Wormwood hardly spoke, either, which provided some inkling of solace for him. At least it did not bother with the frivolity of small talk, which tended to fly desperately short of any topic that actually meant something. After innumerable moments soaking in silence, the blackened tabby finally spoke. "What does the cold do to a dead body, or to crow-food? I have always wondered. If it is a terrible enough fate, then the pale beast may come closer to deserving such a mercy." Wiry whiskers twitched incessantly, though molten-sunset eyes simply trained upon the frozen ground, as if the heat from his stare would be enough to spoil the delicate perfection of a cruel season. He pondered, then, if the white fish could ever rot. If the vultures and crows plucked at its translucent and thin bones, could it separate it from itself? It seemed alien to him to actually envision the death of the object of his deranged obsession.

OOC. Please wait for @WORMWOOD !

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WHALEWATCHER​

—— He/Him / Only tolerates masculine terms / Unknown sexuality
—— Warrior of Riverclan / Brother to Guppysplash
—— A lithe black tabby with a scarred, lame leg and piercing yellow eyes. He walks slowly, and talks with a drawling and deep voice. Most who know him regard him with reservation and caution.
—— A strange and obsessive tomcat who cares for naught aside from his own odd passions. Whalewatcher is a dissonant yet not wholly evil or maligned presence, though he does mostly keep to himself, to the relief of those around him.
—— Contact on Discord (naruk4mi) for plots and threads.​

Penned by TEMPEST

 

[WORMWOOD]

Wormwood does not look at Whalewatcher when the question settles between them. He feels it instead, the way certain thoughts land like frostbite. His ears angle back, not in fear, but in concentration. The cold seeps through his paws from the packed snow, and he catalogues it automatically—numbing first, then burning, then dull. Useful. Cold always does its work in stages. He takes a moment too long before answering. Words, like wounds, fester if not handled carefully.

"The cold slows everything," Wormwood says at last, voice low and even, as if lecturing the ground rather than the cat beside him. "Breath, blood, decay. When a body dies in leafbare, it doesn't soften the way it does in greenleaf. The flesh stiffens instead. Freezes." His whiskers twitch as he recalls it—rabbit remains found half-buried in snow, skin pulled tight as bark, scent faint and clean. "The rot stays dormant in the cold. It's there, but it waits." He finally glances sideways, pale eyes flicking to Whalewatcher and back again, uneasy with the intensity coiled there. "If it stays cold enough, long enough, the body can keep its shape. Eyes cloud over, but don't sink. The smell doesn't spread far. That's why prey caches last longer under snow."

Wormwood shifts, tail drawing a thin line through powder. "Once thaw comes, though—once the sun returns or the ice breaks—everything resumes at once. Faster than before. Flesh that's been frozen splits. Skin cracks. Fluids leak." He swallows, throat tightening, though his tone remains steady. "Rot blooms all at once. The smell is worse. Sweet and thick. Flies come immediately, if they can. If not, beetles. Maggots follow the flies, of course, once they lay their eggs. Then there's the vultures." He knows vultures well. Too well. They are efficient. Beaks pry where frost has weakened sinew. They start at the soft places—the eyes, the belly, the mouth. They do not care if something was once feared or revered. Hunger strips meaning from bone.