* ✰. — life itself ❞ / spar

[SLATESNARL]

The days spent amongst the pines had blurred into weeks, and now Slate had been a SkyClanner for nearly a moon. It had been quite an adjustment, going from lone wolf to part of a pack. Hunting for others rather than hunting for yourself. Abiding by all of these rules and expectations. The former rogue still wasn't fully sold on the idea of living in a clan, but catching up with his littermate and actually bonding with his flesh and blood over years apart outweighed any temptation to leave... so far.

The dark-furred tom had also been training with the other warriors in the art of clan-style combat. SkyClan had a few signature moves involving the use of trees, though Slate was still growing accustomed to climbing and balancing on branches. Otherwise, he was training hard to master some basic moves as well. Combat came easily to the muscular tom, though it was just a matter of channeling his strength into specific movements and timing them out to perfection. Learning these tactics was actually something of great interest to Slate; he felt his confidence growing every time he improved on his form. Now, he was feeling good enough to ask someone to spar with him one-on-one.

"Someone come spar me. By the Tall Pine." Slate announces with a flick of his tail before ducking out of camp to head toward the impromptu training ground. The sandy hollow was flooded out and the forest grounds were generally sloshy from the snow melt, but perhaps the foliage would provide some traction.

---

Once the new warrior arrived at the base of the Tall Pine, he turned to face whoever his sparring partner would be. "Your move." He states, narrowing his eyes before settling into a battle-ready stance and eagerly awaiting the commencement of the fight.​

— * ✰. ooc information recent events * ✰. —

• 
  
• 
  ✰ SLATE
  —— amab, uses he/him pronouns. twenty-nine moons old. warrior of skyclan; former rogue.
  —— unrefined, rough and tumble rogue who is not accustomed to clan life. only trustful of his littermate, duskmane.
  —— link to tags. @ on discord for plots.
  
  quite the hulk of a cat, slate stands above the average clanmate with an arrogant gait. he has a dark gray ( bordering on black ) colored pelt with a pale-brown-tinged underbelly and whisps of tan at the tips of his chest hairs. amber-colored eyes contrast against his dark palette. notable features include a jagged scar across his right eye and two small scratches across the bridge of his nose.
• —— decided to officially remain in skyclan as a warrior
  —— participated in battle with windclan, currently recovering from belly scratches and a bite mark on hind leg
  

​

 

[BLAZESTAR]

He's in no position to spar -- not yet, not with the wound that had taken his life in a brilliant red spray of blood in snow -- but Blazestar has come to realize pacifism has earned them nothing. Whether or not his warriors go looking for trouble or not, it constantly finds them. Rogues murdering apprentices. ThunderClan warriors chasing squirrels over their borders. WindClan raiding their camp. ShadowClan standing beside them at the Gathering and condoning infiltrating their medicine cat den.

The Ragdoll sits a comfortable distance away, interest gleaming in his eyes. Slate had come to them as a former loner, scrappy and solitaristic, but he had fought alongside his Clanmates during the attack they'd suffered by WindClan. Blazestar wraps his tail around his paws. "I'm just observing," he says. "I could stand to practice myself, once this heals all the way... maybe I'll pick something up." He's brought @butterflypaw to watch the spar, too. She'll never be much of a fighter, but she should know how to defend herself -- and with her ceremony on the horizon, Blazestar continues to worry about her ability to do so.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

​

 

[ThistleBack]

The transitioning of a selfish steet stray to a loyal clanmate, it wasn’t easy. Thistleback knew well the turn of the leaf Slate was enduring. The large black-furred tom had been working hard though, focusing- had fought loyally in the battle. Therefor Thistleback’s watchful eyes of stainless steel float weightlessly over him, without scrutiny.

Gnawing a bone like a bloodhound, Thistleback’s nicked ears perk with Slate’s proposition to the warriors scattered around camp. Letting the chew-bone fall from his paws as he gets up and follows. He bows his head to Blazestar in greeting and offers Butterfly a kind smile that shifts back into his usual frown as he looks toward Slate.

" very well " he responds, facing the amber-eyed warrior with a slight sway in his spiky form." Let’s see those old street-moves. Alley cat turf-fight style " he talks around a sharp smile, his words a symbol of his own former rogue life. Lined with humor of course.

He kicks forth, paws hammering the ground before he leaps in the air. Spine curving and limbs twisting as his hindleg finds purchase on the tall-pine bark. He uses the momentum to propel himself down toward Slate, aiming to land square on his shoulders.

​

OOC INFO REF

• —
  
  
• 
  
  
  ✧ T H I S T L E B A C K
  thirty-three moons
  — Lead warrior of Skyclan
  — taken by
  Deersong 9.29.22
  — mentoring quillpaw
  — very muscular piebald black and white tom with spiky fur and cold silver-grey eyes.
  — voice & accent
  — biography･ﾟ✧​
  OPEN for Dice battles | stine#3004
  
• 
  
  

​

 

[Fireflyglow]

His father is here, despite his healing wound- and Fireflypaw makes a point to give the biggest frown possible towards his dad as he comes to join him in watching the two toms spar. He never understood why it was necessary to fight during ones free-time, but he guessed it could possibly help improve ones skills. His paws shift uncomfortably beneath him, instinctively leaning in to press his body to Butterflypaw's side to support her. "Just don't hurt each other. Claws sheathed, please." He speaks loud enough for the two warriors to hear, but he hopes they listen. It isn't an order, but he knows he doesn't want to waste herbs on these two if the spar turns into someone losing their temper. ​

 

[CHRYSALISWING]

The bite wound on his neck still stung even as days had passed from the Windclan raid, as the air razed and nipped at sensitive flesh, and the fur above it had been peeled back and shaken out. If his nape were a tome, then its pages would surely be ruffled and yellowed by now, far from the pristine condition it was created in. All lesions healed, he figured, and he would wait for this one to. It was his first souvenir from a battle, anyhow, and he figured he should wear such a prestigious aureate with a burgeoning pride. Such pain had not diluted the youthful spirit of the apprentice, as though it were a candle with a wick as strong as wire, the glims of juvenility not a glimmer but a wildfire in one's gut. He insisted that he could take more than what was dealt to him in that raid. He was not a kittypet who turned tail and ran at the first sight of unsightly reds and crimsons. Like all dutiful soldiers, he would throw himself back into the fray as soon as he could, to defend his clan as best as was willed. No true warrior allowed themselves to be held back by abrasions of the flesh, he figured. Fighting was only finished when Starclan called.

Chrysalispaw had last spotted Slate wolfing down prey that hadn't belonged to the ex-rogue, and the adolescent had rightfully scolded his 'superior' so, for even the kindest rogue would always have their knavish ways emblazoned beneath sinew and bone. It was a wicked birthright to him - one's origin would always be etched upon one's mannerisms, scrawled in ink upon the tongue and the gait. He noticed it, at least, as much as half of his clan tried (or didn't try at all) to hide it. The willowy-furred feline trotted up to the gathering crowd, stride of an arrogant avian of bouncing plume, radiant feathers of flame and sable draped upon bird-bone stature. Heterochromatic eyes trained upon the weather-worn Slate, until he stopped by the Tall Pine alongside the warrior.

"I'll just watch." He muttered as he sat a distance away from the other cats, noting the clearing marked and dinted by forebears' footsteps, a sign that civilization lie in the sands and strands. No matter how much the wintry winds tried to erase them, Skyclan would always declare themselves upon the training grounds that they had used for moons and moons. Chrys thought it was beautiful, in a way. He always did enjoy the tenacity of life itself. A gracile tail floated just above silt and soil of the training grounds, careful not to get any loose debris on a carefully-groomed coat. One would compare this mannerism to that of a kittypet, but he preferred to call it being mindful and tidy. Thistleback's "alley-cat style" just another point of isolation in Chrys' mind - the clan certainly didn't need any dirty styles of fighting.

Chrysalis liked to think that he fought with the honor of the forest, as his father and fathers before him had done, as though their claws would guide his own blade. His father always liked to brag about how his family had always been the best fighters of the clan, even before the clans were a thing (which Chrysalispaw could see through even at a young age, but he'd rather not face the consequences of bruising Dragonflywing's fragile ego). Despite the rogues and kittypets that wandered his home, Chrysalis would always have that against them, as he sprouted from the land that had weaned him first. Unlike the invasive kudzu and vines that infiltrated, he was a flower from the garden of the wild.
​

 

[CASERDILLA]

Laying at the base of the tree stump within in middle of camp, a slender figure perched to sun himself within the bleak sunlight. His eyes half-closed, angular jaw tucked into the whisps of fur that lay on his chest, the young tom nearly dozed off. He had completed one patrol today, wrestling through the undergrowth with mud slush between his pads. It took him a bit to clean the muck from between his toes, but luckily being born with short lustrous fur had it's advantages.
A soft purr edged at his throat now, finally comfortable despite the frigid breeze that billowed around him, but with the weak warmth if the radiant rays, he began to drift into a light snooze. These SkyClanners sure did have some advantages. No Two-Leg that wanted to constantly bother him, no weird object that was shoved in his face anytime he was resting that she like to play with and talk into. It was weird, like it was her lifeline. She was on it way more often now, hardly paying much attention to him. He didn't really seem to mind, to be honest. He loved her, but there are times where he just wanted to be left the hell alone. That's when he'd escape to the open forest and fresh air. If he had to deal with some sour-mouthed air heads, then so be it. He still got what he wanted. Blazestar accepted him and that's all that mattered, despite what others might say.
A cacophony of an all too familiar voice penetrated the ear drums of the snoozing seal point, earning an agitated grumble from the lounging tom. Something about parting? No—that wasn't it. Ferretwhisker's squinted gaze opened then, staring at Slate through a hooded gaze. Oh—sparring. Of course. He would want to show off his brutish strength for all to see, wouldn't he? Another figure rose, disheveled black and white fur swaying as he followed Slate out. Oh, Thistleback is it? He took on Slate's challenge? How droll. Ferretwhisker practically jumped to his dark cloaked paws, sauntering out after the small group that followed with an enthusiasm adding to his gait.
He trails up behind then just as Thistleback makes his first move, planting himself upon a heightened tree root to gain an better view of the two warriors fighting. "Kick his ass, Thistleback!" The daylight warrior would jeer, his ivory incisors revealing under a masked face.
​

[ PENNED BY CASER ]​

 

[SILVERSMOKE]

The male's mismatched gaze burned with an intensity only the promise of combat could bring out. As soon as a spar was announced, the thick-furred tom stalked through the forest after the former rogue, intent on being the one to answer his call. Slate wouldn't back down from a battle of unsheathed claws and freely biting teeth, and a dishonorable part of him longed to use the opportunity to give the other a debilitating wound of his own. The stage would've been perfect for it, it would've been easy to declare it an 'accident'. It was probably best for everyone that Silversmoke was not the first to arrive, beat in mere seconds by SkyClan's lead warrior. His scowl softened as disappointment set in, his lashing tail increasing in pace until he was almost wagging it like a dog. Silversmoke lurched back and scuffed his paw against the ground, cursing quietly. He hadn't been given a stage to act on his intrusive thoughts, but the bigger positive to being late was that, at the very least, Thistleback versus Slate would be a decent watch. He'd give up his dinner if it meant seeing Slate get to lose at something.

Silversmoke prowled to the outskirts of the sparring session, huffing about the only free space near the front being next to the Daylight Warrior. The tabby didn't have to debate long about why he was by himself, the guy smelled awful. His pointed glare shot to Ferretwhisker, nostrils flaring in indignation. He could either agree with the kittypet, a concept that felt as foreign as dry kibble to the tom, or he could support Slate, which was equally impossible. Eventually, he turned his head away and swallowed his pride, addressing the large-eared feline firmly. "If Thistleback loses, you're cleaning the dens for the moon. I'll... do the same if Slate loses." He spoke the latter half as if bile was choking him. Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad, both toms were able fighters but only one had bested the Maine Coon in combat - the other one hadn't fought with him yet. He tilted his head towards the latter, staring longingly as he pounced towards Slate. StarClan, he wished he could be in the thick of it too, if not to feel the adrenaline, then to prove to the both of them that he was a damn good fighter - WindClan had never given him the chance.



​

 

[SLATESNARL]

Well well, they had gathered quite an audience, hadn't they? Nikolai was feeling the pressure to perform well, now. Thistleback was one of the most seasoned cats in the clan by far, so he inwardly hopes that he doesn't have too many tricks hidden up his sleeve. It would be humiliating if he got his ass kicked not even several seconds into their match.

"Claws sheathed?" Slate cannot help but snort at Fireflypaw's reminder, sneering as if he had been told to do something akin to rolling in a field of daisies or giving out free compliments. The bottom line was, claws-sheathed fighting was soft. It wasn't realistic. Slate can't say that he's ever fought with no claws, actually. He glances down briefly at his paws and flexes the daggers tentatively before sliding them back into their casings. "Fine, but I don't promise anything." The long-haired male states. Keeping his claws sheathed would be pretty unnatural for the former street cat.

"If I need my claws, I'm gonna use 'em." Thistleback was a lead warrior, someone who was supposed to set an example for the rest of the clan — a goody-two-shoes, in other words. There was a very slim chance that the older tom would lay a claw on him, especially when the leader was present, but who knew? Once a rogue, always a rogue; that's what Slate figured. He didn't trust anyone here, not even Thistleback, not Blazestar, not the designated healers.

Did he even trust Duskmane?

There are a few other jeers thrown his way, the loudest particularly being from Ferretwhisker and Silversmoke, both of which he wanted to absolutely clobber at the moment. His amber hues flash with mild hostility as the gray tabby uses the bossy, "I'm-better-than-you" tone that he uses with everyone else. Just because Silversmoke had been a dumb "warrior" longer than he had didn't mean that he could just tell him what to do. Slate wouldn't be doing any chores if he lost this match, that was for certain, but perhaps he'd try and win just to see his rival picking clumps of fur and leaves from the nests.

"Have fun cleaning the dens, Silverbitch." A silent quip is sent toward the other tom, and although he wouldn't be able to hear it exactly, Slate's icy expression said it all.

As expected, Thistleback moves first and he moves fast. He is someone who is well-versed with the environment around him, instantaneously choosing a tree's trunk to bank off of in order to make a clear jump in Slate's direction. As the former rogue isn't used to an opponent flying toward him from an upward angle, he finds himself being taken by surprise as he's landed on from above. "Damn SkyClan and their trees..." Slate silently cursed the unique fighting tactics of the tree-climbing cats. He wasn't yet fully trained in the art of branch traversing, though he's been sharpening his basic warrior moves.

Thistleback was literally on top of him now. He had to act fast. It was as if the inner street cat within was unearthed, channeled as the adrenaline of a spar coursed through him. Slate, mustering all of his strength into his legs, propelled himself forward into a tumble and would attempt to flip Thistleback off of him.​

— * ✰. ooc information recent events * ✰. —

• rolled a 9 = hit!
  
• 
  ✰ SLATE
  —— amab, uses he/him pronouns. twenty-nine moons old. warrior of skyclan; former rogue.
  —— unrefined, rough and tumble rogue who is not accustomed to clan life. only trustful of his littermate, duskmane.
  —— link to tags. @ on discord for plots.
  
  quite the hulk of a cat, slate stands above the average clanmate with an arrogant gait. he has a dark gray ( bordering on black ) colored pelt with a pale-brown-tinged underbelly and whisps of tan at the tips of his chest hairs. amber-colored eyes contrast against his dark palette. notable features include a jagged scar across his right eye and two small scratches across the bridge of his nose.
• —— decided to officially remain in skyclan as a warrior
  —— participated in battle with windclan, currently recovering from belly scratches and a bite mark on hind leg
  

​

 

[ThistleBack]

Ferretwhisker's cheer earns a sideways smirk, the audience grows and bets are already placed. Ex-stray on stray crime seemed popular.

" Do as you will Slate. We will leave these grounds on good terms, I assure you. No cuts or scrapes offend me- I’m a big boy " he chuckles, words dim and crackling like a wet lumber fire. " my claws won’t come out for you, however. I only unsheathe them on things I plan to kill "

Have fun cleaning the dens, Silverbitch. Thistleback’s lips draw as his brows do, humored and confused by such a uniquely knitted insult. The englishman had insults of his own, but hardly as simple- regardless, Thistleback was tickled by it.

His movements, a cross between a squirrel and a boar barreling through the wind. Urchin tipped fur rattled by the wind of his momentum where he makes his landing. Slate is just as quick even if a bit taken aback by the height position of Thistleback’s attack- the brutish piebald twists in his stumble as he is flipped like a bronco. His shoulder thuds the ground hard, he rolls on his ribs against the icy slush and mud. Using his place against the ground to thrust a limb and drive a paw up toward the warrior’s chin in uppercut form, claws sheathed as promised.

OOC INFO REF

• — Rolled a 3 ! - MISS
  
  
• 
  
  
  ✧ T H I S T L E B A C K
  thirty-three moons
  — Lead warrior of Skyclan
  — taken by
  Deersong 9.29.22
  — mentoring quillpaw
  — very muscular piebald black and white tom with spiky fur and cold silver-grey eyes.
  — voice & accent
  — biography･ﾟ✧​
  OPEN for Dice battles | stine#3004
  
• 
  
  

​

[/u]​