Recent content by GRANITEPELT

She appears before him like a tarnished angel, one-eyed and scarred. There's little sweetness left to her, he thinks, and he almost mourns what he's stolen from her. That single newleaf-bud eye fixes itself on his sick green ones and she tells him "No." No, she will no take his pain away; no...

Every movement is labored. His breath comes too-fast, sour and hot, as he stumbles through the scrubland through to the Carrionplace. He does not notice the way the territory changes, the way the pines begin to shoot toward the sky, the way they drape their shadows over cool, marshy ground. He...

Granitepelt had noticed Thornrunner had not returned with them; he had, shortly after, realized Rumblerain had not, either. The DuskClan leader believes them both to be dead. He does not mourn either of them; he lays in his nest, twitching with creeping heat and discomfort, until the full moon...

The blurred figure in front of him morphs into Thriftfeather, who bares his teeth at him like he's a limping rabbit. Granitepelt's body shakes, but he pushes himself into half-a-sitting position with what little strength he can muster. His wounds scream with protest, but he lifts his aching face...

The fever comes for him with a vengeance, with bared fangs and outstretched claws. He awakens from too-vivid dreams gasping. His skin crawls beneath his pelt, awash with searing heat and then flushed away with cold worthy of the bitterest leafbare. The wounds seep endlessly; they will not dry...

Granitepelt had been the first to flee, but he is a straggler behind the loose procession of DuskClan warriors. His wounds—across his back, swelling red against his sides and stomach—they are weeping, tender. Every step is new agony. Every breath feels stolen. His flanks deflate as he tries to...

Sunstar's attack takes him whirling away from Scorchstreak; his jaws clamp shut, teeth clicking painfully together against his tongue. The WindClan leader is still the stronger of the two, and his pelt is thick enough to deter the feeble blows Granitepelt aims at his flank. Blue eyes sear him...

"You should work on your stealth," the she-cat below him hisses; he can feel her legs seizing up against his stomach, and he allows the momentum to send him flying away from her. The pain is sharp, but he remains standing, "I don't need stealth; I need your blood on my claws!" He attempts to...

As Granitepelt leads his procession of warriors, thin with hunger and sharp-eyed with hatred, the ground shifts from sandy scrubland to moorland earth. Under the still-present, choking scent of smoke and blackened grass is a sweetness, heather nectar and new growth and rabbit-scent as the prey...

At his daughter's call, he slithers through the grass, adder-like gaze trained on Snakehiss's wiry black coat. Granitepelt's smile is cold as leafbare frost. "Well, well. Look who finally decided to join us." He lets out a bark of laughter, sidling up beside Ghostmask and pinning the ebony...

Granitepelt can feel the despair radiating from Sootspot's thick pelt like sparks from flame. It does little to warm him, though he watches with a placid smile all the same. My brother does not seem happy with the news of our shared blood. It means little to him; he hadn't expected immediate...

Ghostmask stands before him, named, anointed, and Granitepelt dips his head to his strange daughter before moving onto his next task. "We also have a kit who is ready for warrior training. Gravelkit, step forward," he mews, green eyes pointedly flicking from the long-furred child's paws to their...

To his satisfaction, his half-brother offers him a tight smile and sits, wary, eyeing him with familiar green eyes. Granitepelt sees the incredulity on his face, and then the doubt gives way to something else, something cold and clear. "Tell me the story of your parents," Sootspot rasps, and...

He has not been this near the border since the night he'd fled, the night he'd left Sootstar dying under Sunstar's claws. The smell of WindClan is pungent here, but his eyes gleam with pleasure as he detects smoke-dusted shrubbery, scorched prey beneath the heather nectar. He moves through...

"DuskClan!" A scarred gray tom crests a golden knoll that overlooks the rest of the flatlands. "Gather for a Clan meeting!" His yowl splits the air like his claws have rent flesh, have spilled blood. There's a solemnity to his expression as he paces, then curls his tail around slate-colored...