frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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Post by trashheap on Apr 24, 2024 13:40:05 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/M9hHLzV~png “ …man, this blows.” Gathering rocks, digging up clay. It had always felt different when he wasn’t the one to do it, and someone else had been tasked to do it for him. When he could sit and drive stones into earth and stone and know some other poor cat had to bring him his materials. It felt different now that he was doing another cat’s dirty work. Especially this ones. “ …why’d I gotta get stuck on rock duty for that guy, anyway? How’s he get off, making me do jobs like this? I’m a weaver, ain’t I? Not some stupid clay collector. Next time I see him, I’ll…” And he’d went on like that, plucking stones from the earth, digging and rolling up mounds of clay and muttering about all the terrible things he’d do when he met that old face again. How long’s it been, anyway… it felt like an eternity since last they spoke—after Nightheart had made his choice and left everyone else behind without so much as a word. He’d been too angry to sign his congratulations. He felt too angry, even now, to face them, yet with each step, he drew closer, and as he climbed the ridge and came into a shaded clearing, there was nothing to do for it but come closer still. Grackletongue found him sitting alone. His back was to him, bent over something so intently that the lean jut of his shoulders seemed to press all the more precariously beneath his thin furs. He was etching something in the earth. A first draft. Something scrawled and loose—about the Kingdom formed moons ago. “ Right. You would want to record that, huh?” he murmured aloud. There was no need for caution around a cat that couldn’t hear, and that realization gave him pause before he prodded the back turned toward him. A sly grin possessed him then. He set down his rocks and hefted up a mound of clay and, with a lunge, plastered the whole of it against the tom’s back, making them jolt, making them turn so he could peer, grinning into those bright blue eyes. He couldn’t read the expression well enough to know what the look meant, so he only signed, “ Got you.” |
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Post by tor on Apr 27, 2024 9:05:51 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/5jdDtKc/hawthorn~jpg Two moons since Laurelfern's sudden splitting of the clans, and Hawthorntail still had yet to carve her name into the Stonemark. Nightheart would scold them for it, were he still alive. Hawthorntail had been the historian for a whole season now; there was no hiding behind being new to the role, or the novelty of being in charge of what marks were carved in stone. And yet, despite that, the Kingdom's formation was missing from their history. No - not missing. Not entirely. In the most recent history, the part of the Stonemark they were standing before now, there was a small cluster of strokes to represent the Kingdom. It came with no other notes, no thoughts. Simply the name, Kingdom. Soon, they would add more. They just couldn't decide what. So, following the lead of Nightheart before them, Hawthorntail found a stick they could easily hold and began to mark the earth. Dirt was much softer than rock. Like this, they could scratch out their thoughts, then wipe the ground clean with a paw, ready to be marked into again. All morning they spent like this, stooped over the earth, ready for the ache that would persist in their back later in the evening when they tried to settle into their den. It would be uncomfortable- ...much like the strange, tacky substance now coating their back. The mud sent a chill deep into their bones, both from how cold it was, and the cruel way it was flung upon them. Few cats would do such a thing, so when Grackletongue moved into their vision, Hawthorntail found they weren't surprised. Disappointed, though. And hurt. "Thank you," they said, speaking out loud in hopes Grackletongue would better understand their displeasure that way. They didn't think the other tom was clever enough to understand the nuance of their signing. "For reminding me why I prefer to work alone. Can I help you? Or are you just here to be awful." |
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frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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Post by trashheap on Apr 27, 2024 12:26:30 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/M9hHLzV~png He’d felt giddy as a kit when he’d done it—he felt less so now that Hawthorntail had turned around, and that look washed over him. The one that was equal parts wounded and disillusioned with him. Like he’s got the right to go lookin’ at me like that! Only he had no rebuttal to the stare he got, and the wolfish smile he wore was waning at its corners. Even his eyes were lowering, and a part of him was glad when Hawthorntail opted to speak instead of sign, for he would not have seen it. He heard it, though, and the corner of his mouth tugged into a half-hearted leer. He mouthed the words while he signed them. He always did. It felt strange to speak to a cat who couldn’t hear you. “ Oh, come on, you gotta admit, it was pretty funny.” But when no faltering came from that expression, his ears wilted, and he frowned. “Tch. Whatever. I was only joking. You used to know how.” A lingering look, and he turned abruptly to shoulder past Hawthorntail to look more closely at his work—too quickly. “ Anyway, what do we have—” In his haste his forepaw smeared one of the etchings before he drew it suddenly back with a grimace, glancing over his shoulder at the eyes that were watching him like a hawks. “ —here. Whoops,” he mouthed sardonically, donning a pained smile. “ Didn’t see it.” He turned back and wrinkled his nose, reading it over and tilting his head before glancing up again at the sound of movement. Already, he was signing in his defense frantically—almost unintelligibly. “ Before you get angry! Just- hear me out, alright? Because I really didn’t see it. And anyway—I’m doing you favor. Your lines were crooked. I’m not wasting the clay I brought on crooked lines. It would be a disservice to... whatever this is.” |
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Post by tor on Apr 28, 2024 9:27:17 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/5jdDtKc/hawthorn~jpg The mud on their back was increasingly uncomfortable as it began to dry, pulling at each strand of fur in a way they were sure would leave their skin tender later. They would need help washing away the traces of Grackletongue's animosity. Maybe they could ask one of their siblings. Keeping their expression neutral, almost dull, uninterested, Hawthorntail let Grackletongue flounder as he tried to explain. "It was pretty funny." No. "I was only joking." Hawthorntail didn't need to be deaf to not hear laughter. "You used to know how." They didn't want to think about the fond times shared with Grackletongue. Not when he was nothing more than an immature, aimless bully these days. What came next happened in a blur. Grackletongue pushed past them, brushed against their work, was unapologetic, and then seemed deeply anxious as he signed some piss-poor excuse for an explanation. Hawthorntail kept their unamused expression in place. The only evidence they were listening was how their eyes followed Grackletongue's lips, more coherent than the fumbled signs he was speaking in. Idiot, Hawthorntail thought, feeling better for it. "I'm not angry." They weren't, really. Annoyed. Tired. Betrayed. Not angry. "My lines weren't crooked. You just don't understand the layout I was using." They looked down at what remained of their draft, barely visible in the smudged earth. Eh. They hadn't been satisfied with it, really. "And you wasted clay, anyway." They shook their pelt out, dislodging some of the mud. Satisfied, they watched a few pieces hit Grackletongue, though after a few minutes of drying it was far less adhesive than it'd been when he stuck it to them. "So go and collect more. Or is that task too hard for you?" They shook their pelt again. "It's a lot of responsibility, holding mud." |
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frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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Post by trashheap on May 4, 2024 14:55:37 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/M9hHLzV~png Stars, this isn’t going at all how I planned. So uncool… Still, Hawthorntail wasn’t angry—or so he said—and his lines hadn’t been crooked—or so he insisted—at all. It was a small mercy, though the words that followed shortly after stung. “…task too hard for you? It’s a lot of responsibility, holding mud.” He hardly minded the clay that now clung to his pelt in the wake of them. He only stared, ear tips flushed and averted his gaze. “ Compared to what?” he muttered sullenly. “ Scratchin’ lines in the dirt? Anyone can do that—doesn’t make you special.” But who said anything about that, really. Grackletongue’s eyes shifted toward Hawthorntail, but there was no expression of superiority there. Only fatigue. And something else he didn’t care to acknowledge. “ …and even if it did, I don’t get why you’d waste all your talent on the Kingdom. Everyone knows they’ll disband any season now. Cats like that…” He sniffed. “ …are real cowards, runnin’ away just ’cause things got a little tough. Who’d want to read about that?” Yet he hardly knew a thing about the Kingdom himself, and he had hardly paid any attention to them at all. It’s none of my business. I’m a MistClanner—who cares about RidgeClan run-off? Hawthorntail, apparently. Even from where they stood over the smeared lines, you could just make out the first imprints of a retelling. Not a bad start, either… considering an imprint of his paw was smeared at the edge of it. Not that he’d ever admit it. Not now, anyway. |
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