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Post by Jaecarys on Jun 11, 2024 15:04:51 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/H7DxmVv/dawnav~jpg | dawnclaw, men need a man would die as soon out of the light of a mage's moon. but it's not by bone, but yet by blade can break the magic that the devil made. and it's not my fire, but was forged in flame, can drown the sorrows of a huntsman's pain. |
So quickly, everything can change. Just this morning, there had been a nice spring breeze, warm enough for Dawnclaw to let his thin pelt relax. Now, though, the back of his tongue tasted metallic, and dour clouds were smothering the paltry sun. He stopped to peer up through the trees at the blanket of gray wool across the sky. He sighed, and with a wry smirk he looked at his companions. “How much fish you think we can claw out of the river before that foxshit hits?” he said. Briarpelt had assigned Dawnclaw, Mapletail, and Grackletongue on a sunhigh hunting patrol, a pair he’d never patrolled alone with before. He’d taken a mental, militant assessment—he needed to know his team, know strengths and weaknesses, know how to best strategize should something come to the worst. And things can always come to the worst.Maple, he knew, was a charismatic and well-loved tom from the biggest family in MistClan, and a respected warrior—well balanced and agile. And he was one of the few to speak up on his behalf when suspicion arose around Irisfrost's kits. Grackle was one of the best weavers—he’d lead one of Dawnclaw’s own former clanmates into a trap in a tree, and he still didn’t know which one. He was smart and innovative. And, he'd heard, he was apparently a world-class shit-head. The corner of his mouth ticked up a little further. “Better yet, who do you think can catch the most?” |
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frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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Post by trashheap on Jun 14, 2024 18:29:33 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/M9hHLzV~png There was hardly a time that passed by in which it did not rain. That the warm mornings and birdsong would be promptly and unceremoniously clobbered by fat droplets. That puddles would rear their nasty, foot-wrenching heads, and pelts prettied up and laid flat by dawn would return home sopping wet and muddy. And that morning, the sky seemed intent on doing much the same. Already, those pale clouds had darkened, and there was a scent in the air—weighted and thick with the smell of petrichor—that promised rain. How fortunate then that Grackletongue and the two other sorry sods rounded up with him had been sent out on fishing duty. Grackletongue yawned by the shore, ignoring, as was his habit and skill, the rocks and jutting bits that pricked and prodded his flesh where he lay. His eyes were watching the water. His paws were absently bending and tugging old reeds from the shallows, weaving them loosely into the beginning of some pattern only for it to spring aloose when he set it free. He let it go again as a low sound like rumble rippled in the air—and looked over distractedly as Dawnclaw began to speak. “How much fish you think we can claw out of the river before that foxshit hits? Better yet, who do you think can catch the most?” “ Doesn’t matter to me.” Grackletongue purred and shifted onto his backside. “ Way I see it, only an idiot would try with that thing looming, so—” he grinned. “ —why don’t the two of you knock yourselves out. I’m gonna look for somewhere to lie low before it pops.” Turning onto his stomach, Grackletongue pushed his forelimbs into a stretch and padded off—to the underbrush behind them, denser and more protecting their fishing squat and more secluded beside. The perfect place to rest while his clanmates did the grunt work, he thought—so it came as a surprise to him when, as he shouldered his way farther and the sound of his companions lessened, he would come to uncover a cat stooped there in the grass much as he had intended to. An older tom, dark-furred and riddled with scars. Their green eyes were watching them, narrowing into slits, and the battered bridge of their muzzle was just springing up into the starts of growls. “Woah-oah! Easy.” A hesitant step back was all the space he afforded him. He glanced over his shoulder. He’d wandered too far. He couldn’t hear anyone. Shit shit shit shit sh-“ …look, I don’t want any trouble—and trust me, if it were up to me, you could stay there as long you like—but you, uh…” and the scent wafted toward him. Foreign yet familiar. “ …you really shouldn’t be here.” But if they heard him, or if they cared over the nature of his intrusion, it did not seem to matter, for the growl in their throat was only growing. Steadily, so even the distant sound of thunder was lost to it. |
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storms make trees take deeper roots
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Post by cosmic on Jun 23, 2024 13:08:44 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/guVon75~png He. Was. Tired.
It wasn't a physical tired or anything. Oh, no. He was tired of everyone in MistClan. It had been so many moons since he had left, and there was nothing that RidgeClan had done in retaliation for the acts that MistClan had done to them. For StarClan's sake, the clan had stood by and done nothing when Dawnclaw, a deserter of their own blood, had taken the life of their leader. Not even Mushroomstar had done anything in an effort to punish the golden boy (which, Goosefire blamed, on the seeming low morale of the clanmates as the reason the leader did not push the matter further, as Heronfeather had told him about the spirit of his previous clanmates right after the war).
Enough was enough, he had decided when he woke up today before the first patrols had went out. He rose to his feet with an energy unprecedented from the old tom. Still, he felt his muscles ripple against the falling moonlight, as he quickly and silently slipped out of camp, his mind dancing with the possibilities.
He spent the first half of the day trying to see if his son would come visit him and avoiding any patrols along the riverside. With Heronfeather not showing, it only gave him more time to speculate about his future plans. As much as he was a cat that liked violence, and wanted to do something dramatic for his first strike against MistClan, Goosefire wasn't stupid and knew he needed something to cause a little bit of chaos first. A simple trick of putting deathberries in a chipmunk came to his mind, and he decided to go with it. A chipmunk was small enough to sneak deathberries in and allow the victim to eat as much of the flora as possible with one bite. Before they realize the bitter taste of the deathberries, a cat hungry enough would have already swallowed the poisonous berries. All he had to do was make sure Hailstar didn't get his paws on it; it would be worthless to spend this time on a cat who may have more lives to spare.
The chipmunk seemed to have pounced right into his claws, as if it was StarClan's will. The deathberries, ripened with the recent New-Leaf weather, were also easy for the tom to pick. Carefully, his paws worked to get the prey ready for an unsuspecting clanmate, making it look plump and delectable to any cat.
But, as he was trying to wipe the dried blood from the prey off his cheek, a cat came bounding toward him. With the deathberries still on display from within the prey's belly, he matched his eyes with the young sprout that interrupted such a marvelous plan.
The black-and-white cat looked worried, shocked... seeming like they had no idea what to say. Goosefire's eyes squinted even further, with his maw agape as if he was about to let out a low growl. "Woah-oh! Easy," the scarred-warrior's voice echoed, as the other cat began to stammer over their own words. Oh, to be so young and naïve. Goosefire had no doubt that the weaver had seen the chipmunk and knew there was only one solution.
"Oh, Grackletongue..." the brown tabby started, with his head having a slightly head shake to show his fake disappointment. "Your ambition and prowess has caused you trouble once again." The benefit of being an older tom is that the elders welcomed him to spread rumors with them. He knew all about Grackletongue's ambition and failure to become the historian instead of Hawthorntail. "Too bad your story on the Stonemark will not be what you imagined."
Quickly, the tom sprint to gain the advantage of striking the tom from the side. His goal was to close his mouth down on the top of the cat's neck. Not enough to kill him, not yet. But, ohhhh, would it cause so much pain. The lightning crackled as he tried to make impact with the cat's throat. "I'm so tired of your antics and your new weaving strategies. Is it to compensate how much of a failure you have proven yourself to be for the clan?" The growls from the warrior were undeniable... his plan was to kill. "Don't worry, I'll make sure I'm quick enough for you to be able to watch this storm from above."
agility roll: 19 [15 needed for success] |
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frolicking in the dirt, consuming filth.
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Post by trashheap on Jul 24, 2024 11:06:51 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/M9hHLzV~png Grackletongue believed himself to be many things—brave was not one of them. And with each passing second, he felt sure of this fact, for even in the wake of the business at the tom’s feet, even in the knowing that he ought to, in some way, feel repulsed or angered, he felt only a mounting unease and urge to flee. He was no fighter. He never had been and did not stake much in his chances. And yet, his legs felt as if they were made of stone; they would not heed him but remained rooted to the earth, his eyes fixated on the red of the berries, the torn belly of the chipmunk. Poison. A trap meant not to snare prey as they knew it but other things that delighted in the flesh. Things such as himself. “ Oh, Grackletongue…” the tom spoke with feigned disappointment. “ …trouble once again… not be what you imagined.” “ What are you getting at? Is that supposed to be some kind of joke?” And for a moment, the two hung there, looking upon the other, and then the older lunged forward—quicker than Grackletongue had time to move, faster than he had time to dodge. Claws struck at his side, and a hiss slipped past Grackletongue’s lips as he turned, too late, to avoid them. “ What the hell… h-hey, look, man, I don’t want any trouble. I’m not gonna tell anyone—” but Goosefire had him in his grasp, and his teeth were rooting in the fur of his neck, searching, seeking a place of hurt. In the scuffle, he spoke, breathless, dauntless. “ …failure you have proven yourself to be for the Clan?” And Grackletongue’s eyes rounded. Anger pulsed in the wake of fear, yet not enough that he might dissuade his limbs from their futile flailing. “ …watch this storm from above.” “ L-look, your secret's safe with me, alright? Honest, I-“ but his voice faltered as the teeth found their purchase on his neck. The wind in his throat hissed as the pressure grew. Even in death, he felt a failure, too foolish to scream, his words too garbled to even speak except for a single word, strangled and breathless: “ …don’t. Don’t.” His back arched into the weight that pressed over him, attempting to shift it, yet to no avail. His eyes cast out through the thicket toward the shore where the others still sat by the shore. Fishing. While this cat gripped his throat, they were fishing. Had the circumstances not grown so dire, Grackletongue might have even laughed. But he felt only then the unrelenting urge to weep for the mediocrity of his soon-to-be death. |
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storms make trees take deeper roots
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Post by cosmic on Aug 5, 2024 14:46:26 GMT -6
#s://i~imgur~com/guVon75~png
[tw: mentions of blood]
The relief of feeling his teeth deep within the throat of his enemy caused a chilling feeling along his spine, almost like being wrapped up in the winter winds once again. It had been so long since the fire in his belly for battle had been able to shine bright from within him. Ever since he lost his spar to the pathetic "golden boy" of MistClan.
Feeling the tuxedo tom choking on his words made Goosefire reminisce about the days when he would be in battle with RidgeClan. The same feeling that he felt in his youth was rushing back to him. All the blood and sweat that came with the heat of battle began to coarse his vein and pelt, along with feeling it with the teeth digging into Grackletongue's neck. The glory would be all his, as his victory would be RidgeClan's
Being able to move with the weaver as he tensed and moved under his grasp was welcomed, his claws were tangled along Grackletongue's fur. It wasn't normal that he would have allowed an enemy monologue and plead for their life, as if it had a chance to sway his decision. If he had been another cat, perhaps he would be more merciful. But there was no way he could trust a cat to not be fickle and report this to a leader.
"Your pleas are useless, boy," he muttered through his teeth, still clamping onto the throat of his new enemy. He really hadn't planned that this would be the way that his first victim would go. It was too bloody of an attack and would be easy to trace back to him. But there was no forgiving that Grackletongue could do to allow his life to be spared.
He would see StarClan tonight.
"The more you squirm and cry, the more it will hurt," he sneered, resulting in his fangs to dive deeper into the cat's skin. It was a miracle he was still functioning and talking. Adrenaline usually makes a cat stunned and unable to move. "No one out here will find you, so there's no point in delaying. MistClan will fall at the hands of RidgeClan, and I will be the catalyst for the end." At this time of day, patrols were probably recalled back to camp to wait out this storm, especially seeming as it was going to be a big one. Spring brought out the worst storms, but it allowed for new beginnings.
New beginnings, as his plan would finally come to fruition...
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Post by Jaecarys on Aug 6, 2024 14:11:21 GMT -6
#s://i~ibb~co/H7DxmVv/dawnav~jpg | dawnclaw, men need a man would die as soon out of the light of a mage's moon. but it's not by bone, but yet by blade can break the magic that the devil made. and it's not my fire, but was forged in flame, can drown the sorrows of a huntsman's pain. |
“Doesn’t matter to me,” Grackletongue answered. Dawnclaw lifted a brow to where he toyed with reeds in ways that tangled up his mind if he tried to do it. The black-and-white tom rolled to his back. “Way I see it, only an idiot would try with that thing looming, so—” he grinned, and Dawn rolled his eyes and shook his head, smiling too, “—why don’t the two of you knock yourselves out. I’m gonna look for somewhere to lie low before it pops.” Rolling to his paws and rising in a deep stretch, Grackletonge promptly padded off into the treeline. Dawnclaw sighed, and he glanced at Mapletail. ”Let’s find a steady spot. Then I’ll go drag him by the tail if I have to,” he said, unable to hide his amusement. If he’d ever had the freedom to say no thanks to a patrol now and then, he would have too. Crouching at the riverbank, Dawnclaw, couldn’t stop himself from tilting his head up, looking at the distant crags that towered over the trees. There was a time those ridges and stone were comforting to him. More than comforting — it had been inspiring. He had been amazed by their strength, their reach toward Starpelt, the ceaseless stability they represented. How fitting, he would think, that they were visible from far away. They were a beacon calling across the valley and the stars themselves, signaling constant truth. Just like his oracle. His leader. His father. He had never believed in anything with such unwavering conviction. Now he frowned when they came into view. They were still hours of travel across an enemy border. Where he’d once seen strength and certainty, he now saw a monument to broken promises. He reminded himself of his conversation with Shadowgaze. Reminded himself of what he was supposed to be teaching Milkpaw — and himself. RidgeClan was not the enemy. No Clan was supposed to be the enemy. But fuck, it was hard. There was a rustle in the trees, probably Grackle making himself comfortable while the other two scouted a clear and deep enough spot in the frigid snowmelt. His ear turned back anyways, muscles slowly starting to coil. There was a flash and hard boom of thunder, but he swore, somewhere under it he heard a yowl. And then he did hear one. And he smelled the sharp tang of blood. He lunged to his paws, toward the trees, pebbles flying with his urgent, ”Come on!” to Mapletail. No way he hadn’t heard it too. Grackletongue hadn’t gone far. He had to be caught on a root, paw stuck in a hole, bitten by a fucking squirrel, or—He saw Goosefire first, and then Grackletongue struggling beneath him. Blood soaked the white around his neck. Teeth were in his throat. He caught words— MistClan will fall to RidgeClan, and you— Rage bubbled fast and hot, and his teeth bared. Calm, calm, stay calm, in control, in contr—Dawnclaw slammed into Goosefire. His claws anchoring his arms around the tom, knocking him off of Grackletongue to haul him to the ground. ”Goosefire!” he spat, hauling back up to his feet. Crouched, ready. Stars, his own snarl felt like a fucking smile. ”Come on, old man. Haven’t had a real fight in seasons.” He’d tear that pelt apart and drag him by the scruff to Hailstar. |
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