private EYE OR A TOOTH ☼ CONFRONTATION

[dimmingsun]

Dimmingsun passes over the invisible lines that separate WindClan from the outside world — from the wretched exiled, the barbarians, as far as he's concerned. Much like any other impulsive decision he's made in his lifetime, this one is fueled by none other than anger too. It reminds him of the blood pumping in his veins... simmering under the surface until the temperatures climb high enough to warrant some danger signs. His claws flex with each sauntering step he takes; with all caution thrown out, he is ready for anything.

There are so many ways this could go. He does not want to be foolishly optimistic, but maybe he will be successful in his quest to bring home the limp body of a murderer. Perhaps this will end in disaster. Their enemies' whereabouts are unknown, so nothing stops them from jumping him, their overwhelming numbers putting out the ever-climbing flame within Dimmingsun. If he lives to tell the tale to Sunstar or Scorchstreak at least, then the former will probably fix him with a deeply disappointed gaze, while the latter scoffs and tells him that he's had it coming.

Maybe he does.

But Blizz- Lilypaw certainly did not.

The injustice of it all is the oil to his fire of wrath. Such a young, bright cat should be still kicking and breathing, eagerly waiting for her warrior ceremony to free her from the shackles of boring duties. She should have the loudest of ceremonies of all, Slateheart's voice rising above the crowd's in glee.

Her fate has been stripped from her in the cruelest of ways, and Dimmingsun wants nothing more than to lay eyes on the culprit.

"Heeey, DuskClan," he drawls to probably no one (but hopefully someone, anyone), and he imagines poison dripping down his fangs as he does so. He certainly feels venomous today. "I'm just lookin' to settle a score. Humor me, will you?"

@Thriftfeather

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Someone knows.

Thriftfeather lowers himself automatically against the golden-brown grit beneath him. Whether it is to pounce or to cower Thriftfeather doesn't know yet. His mind finds him with his claws already digging into the ground—a WindClanner is here, alone. Thriftfeather doesn't scent a patrol nearby, but that doesn't exclude the possibility that they had simply disguised their scent. The WindClanner said settle a score—which could be anything. Thriftfeather forces a swallow over his dry mouth. He doubts he can get away unnoticed.

Slowly, Thriftfeather emerges from the underbrush, his ears folded.

"Dimmingsun," See? Thriftfeather edges closer, if only to make conversation easier, we were clanmates once. I know your name. It doesn't need to be a fight, "I'm—I'll humor you. If this is about—" He catches himself. Whatever worries exist in Thriftfeather, however consumed by those worries he is, Thriftfeather doesn't know what this is about. Not truly. He couldn't implicate Bluefrost, "Just tell me what this is about and—just tell me and we can talk."

The tremor he feels in his throat somehow doesn't climb into his voice. He plays a near approximation of confidence, shoulders squared into sharp points and his chin held away from his chest. It is impossible to not remember Periwinklebreeze. The fear that came from teeth around his throat without the recollection of exactly what he had said—what he had done—to earn such a reaction after he had thought the situation had already diffused. No matter what Thriftfeather does, no matter what Dimmingsun doesn't do, Thriftfeather cannot forget the danger in this.​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 17 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[dimmingsun]

It is Thriftfeather who comes to meet his demands, much to Dimmingsun's surprise. Unwarranted for sure; it's not like he had wishes for anyone in particular, and in the haphazard way to forget that the majority of DuskClan used to be Clanmates he protected or shared tongues with, Dimmingsun likes to mesh their faces together in his mind. Reduced to a mere collective... an obstacle to overcome. That way of thinking is not so easy to achieve now — there is no life or death situation here, not yet, and he's witnessed Thriftfeather grow from a tiny kitten to-

A traitor. He cannot forget that, no matter how easy it is to slip into the safety of nostalgia.

"Thriftfeather," Dimmingsun greets. There is an attempt to be polite here, and it catches him off-guard. He forces himself not to sway with the oddness of it — this might be an elaborate trick, after all. Let's see how this pans out first. "Not so busy, I see, now that the invasion is off your schedule. Unless part two's in the works?"

Thriftfeather remembers his name, so Dimmingsun finds it easy to believe that he's left his usual impression; always smiling, always grinning, always friendly. He lets fangs flash as he smiles — the kind that does not reach his eye — and addresses Thriftfeather with mirth. "So kind of you to meet me all the way out here. There's this apprentice, about this tall-" Dimmingsun raises a paw to indicate height, "-and with real pretty white fur. You'll know her as Blizzardpaw, if you remember her name, but that's been changed to Lilypaw now after her death."

Finally, the mock friendliness disappears. There is no need to go into detail — Thriftfeather has to know what every single one of those rats get up to on the daily. "Tell me who killed her. Now."
​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Mention of the invasion is a mixed relief to Thriftfeather. It isn’t about Bluefrost and it isn’t about him—Dimmingsun truly had been looking for DuskClan, however loosely defined that may be. There are things that Thriftfeather finds himself wanting to ask that he is prevented from, uncertain with such short notice of how to phrase his questions without giving away his interest in the answer or sounding hostile. His rabbit heart thumps into speed.

“There isn’t going to be another invasion.” His word does little good in a situation like this, but it is all he has. Thriftfeather speaks with as much sincerity as he can muster and ignores the uncertain prickle down his spine, “There isn’t—I never wanted the first one.”

His objections at the time were that it was too short notice—Granitepelt gave DuskClan the span of less than a day to prepare. Thriftfeather doesn’t mention that perhaps had he the space to truly be ready, had he not spoken to Bluefrost prior, his opposition to the idea wouldn’t have been as fierce.

And then Dimmingsun speaks of an apprentice that Thriftfeather doesn’t recall. Blizzardpaw or Lilypaw—neither name is familiar to Thriftfeather. He feels a nervous smile stretch his face in time with Dimmingsun’s own feigned and is struck with a new kind of guilt. An apprentice is dead by DuskClan’s claws and Thriftfeather cannot place a face to the name. He couldn’t control his clan and someone who called themself DuskClan was willing to kill an apprentice.

The dry ground beneath Thriftfeather’s pads is a comfort. He considers a step closer or away and is instead too caught in his worry to take either.

“I’m sorry,” Dimmingsun’s smile is gone; Thriftfeather’s remains strained, “I don’t—I didn’t know an apprentice by like that and I don’t know who could have—I don’t know how she died.” Names and suspicions flit through Thriftfeather’s mind. He needs information, “You—what makes you think DuskClan was involved?”

Thriftfeather knows it to be a naive thought, but a part of him prays that DuskClan wasn’t truly involved at all.

“Whatever you need to know,” Whatever you need to hear, “If I—if you tell me what happened then I can tell you whatever you need to know. We want the same thing here.” This can be resolved without Thriftfeather’s blood spilt—but what of DuskClan’s blood? He can’t give Dimmingsun a name, even if he does learn who is responsible, and he can’t enact any kind of justice, not yet.
​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 17 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[dimmingsun]

Thriftfeather assures that there won't be another one — Dimmingsun has to scoff. He would like to believe it, of course; a lot of weight would be pulled from WindClan's backs with the certainty that they are safe from rogues. But none of them are naive kits... even the kits themselves have seen enough to expect some sort of danger on the horizon, and isn't that just so terribly sad?

There is no comeback to Thriftfeather's attempts at sincerity. Dimmingsun simply stares him down instead of verbally disagreeing with him; the lack of trust is obvious as it crackles in the air.

"Of course you don't," he sighs, and it is tinted with equal amounts of irony and... a tinge of sadness, maybe? Of course Thriftfeather doesn't know Lilypaw. DuskClan has existed for a considerable amount of time now — enough time for those cats not to know the youngest, newest members. But- even with that somber reality clear on display, Dimmingsun cannot take Thriftfeather's word for it; not on this topic, either.

Dimmingsun draws a lazy line, back and forth, body unable to stand still. His agitation is visible in every braced muscle and every lash of his tail. "Your scent was everywhere — DuskClan scent, that is." Perhaps if Lilypaw's death hadn't shaken him up so much, he would see some good in the fact that none of them recognized the specific cat's scent... it means the culprit is likely not a former WindClanner.

All of that does little to soothe him now though.

"I want a name-" The repeat comes, a furious echo, "-I want something. This- this can't go unpunished. If you're so sure you don't already know, then I'll wait for you to figure out who did it. I'll wait for you to drag them here so I can return the favor."

Dimmingsun stops then, levels Thriftfeather with a scorching gaze — one that completely disproves what he says next. "I'm real patient."
​

 

[Thriftfeather]

There is a careful line Thriftfeather walks. Dimmingsun only grows more agitated and demands things Thriftfeather does not—could not—know. His own fear tinges with helplessness; Dimmingsun must know that he has an impossible ask. He must have some awareness of Thriftfeather's limitations. How in StarClan's name is he supposed to figure it out? How is Thriftfeather meant to investigate something he was not himself a witness to? His teeth creak under the strain of his clenched jaw.

"I'm supposed to just—just go back to camp and pray that everyone is there, and ask them about about an apprentice I don't know the look of and hope one of them is—hope one of them has been waiting to make a confession?" Even had Thriftfeather been capable of the kind of betrayal Dimmingsun seeks, Dimmingsun must see the ridiculousness of how he wants it to go. He must see that he is the hindering factor. He must see how unreasonable he is being.

"You don't actually want to find out who killed—you said her name was Lilypaw?" It's a risk. Thriftfeather knows it as soon as the words leave him. His body tenses in preparation and his heart kicks an uncertain rhythm against his ribs, "If you did want to you would—you'd be doing everything you could to tell me exactly how she died and how she was found. This—" Thriftfeather gestures stiffly towards Dimmingsun and prays the scant distance between the two of them is great enough that Dimmingsun cannot see the slight tremor to his extended paw, "—is you satisfying your anger rather than seeking answers."

It's a risk. It's a risk. Thriftfeather knows it's a risk. He squares himself into authority.

"Leave and don't come back until you've run out of empty threats. When you actually care enough about Lilypaw to not put on this—this show, I'll be here to talk." Shame, Thriftfeather knows, is a powerful emotion. It's snuffed out his own voice and cowed him into compliance more times than he can ever know. Thriftfeather isn't used to being the one to dole it elsewhere—he feels its sharp fangs against his own tender underbelly. An apprentice is dead in this and he is using her name to try and dispel the clanmate seeking her justice.

And, selfishly, Thriftfeather's mind is moreso occupied with his own danger, his own risk.​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 17 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[dimmingsun]

Dimmingsun's claim withers just as soon as he declared it; caught in an obvious lie. But then again... it appears Thriftfeather mirrors that notion. For all the politeness and all the calm he showed prior to this moment, he is quick to shift the blame onto Dimmingsun — and oh, how ironic that is. How stupidly brave. "Precisely," is what he ends up spitting. You're all guilty, is what he thinks instead, each and every last one of you. We don't have enough sunlight in the day for your confessions.

There is another lash of his tail that cuts through the air with a dangerous whistle. It is the last attempt at something physical holding him back; his body craves something else, something more, and who else would let him indulge in his own desires?

Thriftfeather has stopped playing nice. It is only fair Dimmingsun returns the favor, just like he first said.

"You rotten little thing." The venom returns; it has never truly left, but it had been more dormant before. "This is how I seek answers."

In an alternative universe, in a scene where Dimmingsun is stripped of all things that make him into his current self, he might be more willing to hold back. To put his claws and fangs away for a moment longer and gain further intel- intel that is said, not bled. Lilypaw deserves justice, and justice is what he will give... even if it is more grandiose than it strictly needs to be.

His body language is but a projection of his behavior; his words have grown curt, clipped at the ends... the calm before the storm. That is precisely why all of Dimmingsun's previous bodily antics grind to an abrupt halt. Breeze-woven fur lifts from his chest and lay still again — and without any other notice, he rounds on Thriftfeather with mighty enough force to rival a lion. Muscles shift under all of that golden paint, losing its grace but gaining strength... he stands before Thriftfeather within half a heartbeat, opting to play dirty. He hopes the DuskClanner is convincingly caught off-guard, so that Dimmingsun can send him sprawling into the dirt with such a raging collision.

"No more empty threats."
​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Thriftfeather feels the shift as soon as it happens. Hadn't he been anticipating it? Hadn't he known it may come to this? His pulse hummingbirds. Thriftfeather could run, he thinks. He could tuck his tail and get away from Dimmingsun. And yet Thriftfeather stays, limbs frozen into rigidity and uncertain expression settling on a sneer. It isn't the first time Thriftfeather has this thought: he should be doing something more than what he does now—he should be able to shake himself awake.

Instead, Thriftfeather meets the ground in a way only a clanmate could introduce him. Granules of dusty soil make a pathetic cloud at the impact and catch in his pelt. Trepidation towards pain is worse than the reality of it; Thriftfeather jolts into some kind of life while still down.

The strange and familiar desire to check his torn ear for blood finds Thriftfeather as he pushes himself into standing. He's slow to rise and his paws twitch in want for the motion he doesn't take—he would have felt flesh tear, would have known by warmth dripping against the thinner fur atop his head. Thriftfeather isn't bleeding from his ear and he knows this to be true; he just won't believe it fully until later, when he can check for himself.

Thriftfeather's back arches and his face splits into a wide-mouthed hiss. No more empty threats—him and Dimmingsun have agreement in this.

"I said leave!" He's already starting the motion as he spits the words, muscles bunched into action, until at once Thriftfeather is in air and aiming to land on Dimmingsun's back in order to pull them both to the ground.​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 17 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[dimmingsun]

Satisfaction hums through every taut muscle as Thriftfeather goes down; his golden pelt vanishes from view while the dust clouds settle. Dimmingsun stands before him, like a predator thriving in the successful claiming of prey, and above all, he wonders. Blood will be shed — but should he attempt something more? Despite how he files all of DuskClan as filthy traitors who, in their escape from their home, have decided to give up their rights to mercy...

He sees Thriftkit again.

The moment is as swift in its departure as it had been in arrival. Thriftfeather has been sapped of his placidness the moment his body hit the ground. He stands, he yells, he fights.

How ironic it is, for the sun's rays to be blocked by his incoming attack. An eclipse of Thriftfeather's making; the view of him coming down upon Dimmingsun is reason enough to discard that stubborn sentiment from earlier, even if it's only a momentary respite.

"Lilypaw didn't get to leave!"

Dimmingsun shifts all his weight onto his hindlegs and rears up, akin to the inhabitants of Horseplace. He greets Thriftfeather with snarling jaws, and as his front legs find purchase in Dimmingsun's back, the two lock into a vicious embrace. Claws rake sun-kissed spine, but Dimmingsun only cares for the vile greens of Thriftfeather's eyes mere inches apart from his own single one.

He sees only one way out of this. Instead of wrenching himself free with all his might, Dimmingsun accepts his predicament. His head dips, past Thriftfeather's head, neck, belly- and he slams into that soft part, hoping the impact would sway Thriftfeather from his balance.
​

 

[Thriftfeather]

The anticipation of pain will always be worse than the reality of it. Thriftfeather's mind flickers over the battles he has known—the feeling in his teeth, a not-quite-want to bury them in skin and the all to familiar fear that has a way of smudging memories into nondescript flashes. He doesn't want to fight Dimmingsun. Even now, hit in his softest parts and trying not to sputter, he doesn't want to fight Dimmingsun. Yet Thriftfeather's mind supplies that he has killed before, in defense of WindClan and in defense of himself.

"I understand needing to kill," Thriftfeather spits the words as he stumbles backwards—a paltry effort to put distance between himself and Dimmingsun that doesn't give Thriftfeather nearly the amount of space he needs, "But I'm not who you want and you know this."

He doesn't go for Dimmingsun again, not immediately. His pelt twitches and his body jolts in preparation for a strike—his or Dimmingsun's—regardless. "I get the—I know you want justice for that apprentice. But hurting me isn't that justice," He had drug Ghostwail by her wound after he had killed her; Thriftfeather understands the necessity of revenge, if only to prevent further harm, "Before was a warning. I'm telling you now—I'm telling you that this is your last opportunity to go home."​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 17 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[dimmingsun]

His plan works, and Thriftfeather is forced backwards — evidently he does not want to meet the ground again by Dimmingsun's feet. It is a choice that proves to be smart enough; not even Dimmingsun himself knows what the depths of his feelings could propel him to do. He is stuck walking a delicate line; when he had set out on this solo mission of sorts, he hadn't anticipated hesitation would come to play... but then again, he hadn't known who would come to meet him halfway. It'd be so much easier to push his anger down on a stranger.

Thriftfeather says he understands, and Dimmingsun snorts at the notion. Is that how their enemies feel, too? The need to kill because of some self-conjured injustice? Hypocrisy does not evade him. "If I can't get the true culprit now, I'll just have to keep trying," he declares like a death sentence. The implication speaks for itself — he would be willing to take down DuskClan one by one until he succeeds in finding the murderer —, but most of it remains unsaid, lest the threat get traced down back to him, forced to take the brunt of the blame under Sunstar's scorching gaze.

No. It stays just vague enough to be safe.

"I'm not going to flee from you. Maybe goin' home with your tail tucked between your legs will help your memory." Because even after everything, he cannot believe the story that's been weaved before him; that DuskClan, in their scheming, are not aware of an individual's actions. Could they really be so scattered that a wayward murder here and there goes unnoticed? "Show me what you've got, then."
​

 

[Thriftfeather]

There isn't any getting through to Dimmingsun. He seems to think he can kill the whole of DuskClan with nothing more than righteous anger. Dimmingsun should consider himself lucky that it was Thriftfeather who he had happened upon and not someone else—not someone with far fewer qualms about hurting him. Thriftfeather pulls his face into a toothy snarl and prays that Dimmingsun changes his mind before either of them are hurt beyond what they can recover from.

He waits a moment longer—just one more moment—but Thriftfeather has gotten good at pretending that he isn't a coward at heart. Hesitation cannot stall him forever. Something shifts in Thriftfeather—the knowledge that this standoff can only end in one of two ways, and the thought that, despite everything, Thriftfeather knows which ending he prefers.

Thriftfeather rushes Dimmingsun and aims to rake his claws over Dimmingsun's flank.​

DUSKCLAN DEPUTY ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 18 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[dimmingsun]

Much of Thriftfeather's prayers remain unanswered. Dimmingsun has been notorious for throwing himself head-first into the throes of battle, for better or for worse; it's been a habit that stuck around ever since the Great Battle. Blood and death clings to him ever since... but if that cost comes hand-in-hand with a resemblance of glory, he will take it.

Sunstar and anyone who will ask might not deem this too glorious. But then again, Dimmingsun prefers to live for himself.

The time of words comes to an end. It is only a yowl that comes out of Dimmingsun in the wake of Thriftfeather's attack — it is something of an ego problem to intentionally not move out of harm's way, but that is neither here nor there —, and the crescendo of it is punctuated by quick retaliation. With his opponent coming down, Dimmingsun finds an opportunity for his teeth; with snapping jaws, he hopes to find purchase in the soft skin of a hindleg. It's almost like hunting.
​