Open Territory who but i is suitable ] herb gathering

[cicadabuzz]

The sun is sinking when Cicadabuzz slips into the pocosin, the last light bleeding through the tangled branches in streaks of red and gold. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and growth, heavy with the promise of night. The land here is wild and stubborn, a place where roots clutch at the soil like claws and water pools in dark hollows. Their paws press into the spongy ground, mud cool against their pads as they move with quiet purpose. They do not mind the lateness of the hour. If anything, they prefer it. The pocosin is alive in a different way at dusk—frogs croaking from the reeds, unseen creatures rustling in the undergrowth. The oppressive heat of the day is beginning to loosen its grip, giving way to something softer, something almost reverent.

Cicadabuzz navigates the uneven terrain with ease, their body low and fluid as they weave through the dense undergrowth. They will always be in need of herbs. Some, like watermint and rush, grow close to camp, easy to retrieve. Others require more effort, more patience. The pocosin guards its secrets well, and only those who understand the land will find what they seek. Their sharp gaze catches a flash of pale green among the darker foliage, and they pause. Bindweed. Its thin, winding vines twist up the base of a nearby shrub, white flowers curled up tight in the evening air. The plant is a nuisance to most, creeping and relentless, but Cicadabuzz knows its use. A few sprigs of bindweed, properly handled, can serve as makeshift ties—securing poultices, holding together broken limbs. It is not the most elegant of remedies, but it is effective.

They step closer, careful where they place their paws. The ground here is deceptive, solid-looking earth giving way to shallow pools, mud that swallows the careless. Cicadabuzz has learned how to read it, how to tell where the land is firm and where it will betray them. Their claws hook around the base of a bindweed vine, tugging it free from its grip on the shrub. The plant resists, stubborn as ever, its tendrils clinging even as they strip away what they need. They take only a few lengths—enough to be useful, but not enough to strip the plant bare. Even weeds have their place in the balance of things. Tucking the sprigs carefully into the fur along their shoulders, Cicadabuzz lifts their head, scenting the air. The night is deepening, shadows stretching long between the trees. They are not finished yet. Further into the pocosin, near the water's edge, they hope to find sprigs of parsley for soothing an aching belly. If it is growing, it will be a fine addition to their stores. Silent as the wind through the reeds, they slip deeper into the wetlands, their path swallowed by the gathering dark.

 

[WOLFPACK]

AND I AM SORRY MY CONSCIENCE CALLED IN SICK AGAIN​

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"Is that how you carry your herbs around?" Wolf mused, stepping from the stretching shadows of the land to join Cicada on the path, eyes of ocean and dusk drifting across the sprigs tucked into the fur along their shoulders. Creative, Wolf would give them that much. "Why not just ask another cat to come along? You'd pack more onto them than you can yourself." he suggested, noting that Cicadas short, sleek fur could only really ensnare so much within it. And it wasn't as if they could use their mouth to carry it all– was something like that even safe? He wouldn't pretend to know. "You can use mine, if you want." he offered, tail flicking lazily behind him. Wolf fur wasn't long by any standards, but it had a bit more length on it than their medicine cats from the look of it.
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shadowclan deputy - male - a large, monochrome chimera with mismatched eyes and several scars​

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[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ orange eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz does not pause in their steps, though their ears flick at Wolf's voice, acknowledging him without turning their head. The pocosin is deep in shadow now, the last glimmers of light barely catching in the waterlogged earth. They move carefully, though unhurried, placing each pawstep with the practiced ease of one who knows this land well. The question does not surprise them. Most cats, even those who have seen them do it before, do not understand. They glance at Wolf briefly, their dark eyes catching his, before looking ahead again. Cicadabuzz exhales slowly, more amused than anything. It is a reasonable suggestion, they suppose. But practicality often looks different from one set of paws to another.

"To have another cat carry them would be useless unless they are at my side at all times," they say, voice as steady and even as the land beneath them. "If I need them, I need them now. Not later, not when another cat catches up, not when I can search through a pile they left behind. Now." Their tail flicks against their hocks. The few herbs they take are always within reach, woven into their fur so they are never without them. Even if they lose their balance, even if they must run, they are not burdened by something they must pick up again. They know exactly what they carry, how much, and where it rests against their body. To rely on another to hold them is a weakness Cicadabuzz will not allow.

Still, they study Wolf from the corner of their eye. He is offering, and there is little harm in humoring him, if only to prove a point. Cicadabuzz steps toward a nearby cluster of low-growing parsley, its scent crisp and sharp in the humid air. They lean down, cutting a few sprigs from the base with precise bites, before straightening and—without ceremony—tucking the stems into the fur along Wolf's shoulder. They press them in firmly enough that they will not fall out at the first shift of movement, though they assume it will not last long. Satisfied, they step back, their expression unreadable. "There," they say simply. "If they are still with you by the time we return, perhaps your offer is worth considering." The implication is clear—herbs carried in another's fur are of little use if they do not remain where they are needed. Cicadabuzz turns without waiting for a reply, already moving forward once more, the darkness swallowing their form as they slip deeper into the territory.

 

[Halfshade]

YOU'RE WELCOME BITCH, THE SHOW IS FREE

I DON'T DO THE WALK OF SHAME - I STRUT

She raises a paw as she pads along, tailing after Wolfpack despite her dislike of having to do so but it was better to be in groups when you were out to avoid predators and well, frankly, he was sort of a predator in his own right - was probably safer being behind him than in front of him anyways. Halfshade listens to them speak, idly flicking her paws and lifting them periodically to dislodge mud with short little kicks when she sees the medicine cat brazenly tuck plants right onto the other's shoulder like slipping their paw into an open mouth with teeth. Terrifying, she'd never touch Wolfpack so casually.
"That color looks awful on you, absolutely gaudy." She says with a low purr, tone amused and eyes sparkling with a mischief that was almost kit-like in its petty intensity. She didn't like Wolfpack, so any chance to see him looking foolish was a plus in her book even if it was caused by another cat she wasn't entirely fond of but whereas Wolfpack made her wary, Cicadabuzz creeped her out. The bicolor molly stalked forward to sniff at the plants that had been gathered, trying to glean some kind of information from them that made the medicine cat know their importance and detecting nothing. It was just plant smell, that rich and sharp aroma that most things, even grass, had and she could not differentiate it from the leaves of the bushes or the ones now neatly tucked into the deputy's shoulder.

"How do you even know what any of this is? Should I be worried we might be poisoned from your help one day?" It is said lightly, tone joking, but there was an undercurrent of concern there as well - surely they didn't know every single plant, there was bound to be experimenting involved and she didn't like the idea of being on Cicadabuzz's bad side enough to be on the receiving end of it. Mental note, never get injured or sick and if you do make sure to bring them a gift. That'd do it. Surely. "Not that I don't trust you, of course."

♥ I like turning heads - breaking necks ♥ Highheels in the morning.

Halfshade
♥ — ShadowClan
♥ — She/Her
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
♥ — Blue Torbie w/Blue & Orange Eyes.
#FEA8A8—#8087BD

 

[cicadabuzz]

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 does not stop walking as Halfshade speaks. Their ears flick, catching her words as easily as they catch the hum of insects in the underbrush, but their focus does not waver from the path ahead. The pocosin is thick with shadow now, and they move with the steady confidence of one who knows the land even in the dark. Words spill from here, but they do not turn to look at Wolfpack, nor at the parsley still clinging to his fur. They had not chosen it for beauty. It had only been an experiment, a quiet demonstration of practicality. If Halfshade sees foolishness in it, that is her concern, not Cicadabuzz's. They do not care how things look. Only how they work.

When she steps forward to sniff at the plants, they finally glance her way. Their black gaze is steady, unreadable, as she wrinkles her nose at the scent. She questions them, jokes with them. Cicadabuzz stops now, just for a moment, standing still in the thick evening air. They tilt their head slightly, considering. The undercurrent of wariness in Halfshade's voice does not escape them. Few things do. They blink once, slow and deliberate, before answering. "If I mean to poison you, you will not see it coming until you are already dead." It is spoken plainly, almost idly, but the weight of truth lingers beneath their words. Halfshade jokes, but she is not wrong—there is risk in what they do. Knowledge is gained through trial and observation. Some things are learned from those who came before. Others must be discovered, tested, proven. Every herb they use has been carried in their fur, held in their mouth, pressed into wounds, swallowed when necessary.

"But you are not the first to ask," they add, turning their gaze back to the path, stepping forward once more. "And you will not be the last." A pause. Then, as if to answer her concern more fully, they say, "I know what is safe because I know what is not. I have seen sickness and pain from herbs wrongly used. I have seen what predator and prey chew to relieve themselves of pain, and I have seen what has left them rotting in the mud. I have tested these remedies—upon myself, upon prey, upon desperate cats. I do not forget what I learn." Another glance at her, unreadable but sharp. "So no. You do not need to worry. Unless you give me reason to doubt your continued usefulness." It is a dry remark, but there is no real threat in it. Just the same cool, steady pragmatism that defines them.