duskclan ANDY, YOU'RE A STAR | introduction

[PRIVETFROST]

Only sleepless nights had passed since the martyrs of the moor tore away from their rightful home. They ripped themselves away from the windy fields, though the wound drained sanguine and fate contended in pyrrhic victory. Blood and tears streaked their faces, and gore had brandished itself through their hearts. Cries of the immolated sounded out through the midnight. They fought for their honor, their way of life, and their own sakes. And yet, the blinding sun had seized them, as though what gave light also forsought it, a cruel and terrible god. And so, children of the moon retreated sank into the shadows, as if it were their only solace after the sun's eye had scorched their earth...

At least, that was the story to Privetkit's ears. It was one of his favorite stories that Berrysnap loved to tell him. Attentive ears always pricked to the sound of his mother's voice, like it were a saccharine and candied lullaby, the milk and honey that he so duly sipped. It was a given grace in what little he grew up with.

Wine-dark kitten had merely been a ghostly shadow to what transpired before his time, as if he were reading the legends that his groupmates had lived, discerning words and warbles and scars from the mouths and pelts. Much too young to have survived the troubles but never too old to wish to gaze upon glory. Still, Privetkit tried his best with what he was granted. Many of his clanmates seemed less-than-talkative, and he knew it was because useless drivel did no good for Duskclan. If he wanted to be good for his groupmates, he needed to put on his best performance. If this world was his stageplay, then he was surely it's leading actor.

Meticulous craftwork, even from his age, was in play this afternoon. Deft paws, even for a boy who fraught in juvenile wants and wills, wove a sort of makeshift stadium of moss and twine, almost in the manner of a bird's nest, though with an open end in the middle and far, far too remiss for the worksmanship of the sparrow or hawk. Within the coliseum's walls were two insects: two beetles, though one evidently smaller than the other. Privetkit swiped the two bugs just outside of his den, and of course the thought of who would win a battle to the death crossed his mind first. And so, inquisitive boy watched the beetles (who did not fly away, much to his joy) wander the contraption he had built. "I wonder... Will the biggest one win by virtue of his unadulterated strength? Or will the smallest win through his sheer wit?" He murmured. (Who had even taught him those big words, anyhow?)​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Slender forest-shadow eyes narrow at the sight of the little kit. Slate-colored paws bring a battle-scarred tom to stand over the tiny figure like an overhanging cliff. “Wit is always more important when it comes to winning,” he murmurs, his ears flicking forward. A memory comes to him, unbidden: a tiny gray-and-white kit with a tufted tail, his claws piercing the fibrous wings of a butterfly. “Kill it, Flintkit. Kill it like a warrior would.” Something clenches in his heart, though the emotion is fleeting as the flurrying snow drifting around their feet.

“What will you do with them now?” He sits, patience exuding from him, patience he had never shown his own children. His gaze flicks from Privetkit to the small beetle, the one he’s not-so-secretly placed his bets on. “What happens to the winner?” He imagines small paws crunching through the exterior of the insect, splintering its insides. A smile twitches across his muzzle, whiskers trembling.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Granitekit . Granitepaw . Granitepelt, he/him w/ masculine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 21 moons old, ages realistically on the 10th.
  — mentored by Pitchstar and Dogfur ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored Applepaw
  — windclan warrior. flint x sandra, gen 2.
  — formerly mated to Starlingheart, currently mated to n/a.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh blue and white tom with dark green eyes. arrogant, stealthy, sneaky, observant, perceptive, cunning, spiteful, envious.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Thriftfeather's ears twist before his face turns to follow. The unfairness of Privetkit's place here could choke Thriftfeather—there is an undeniable wrongness to seeing his smallness in a place like this, like catching sight of an owl during the daylight. Thriftfeather drifts closer, despite his uncertainty. He has never learned how to talk to kits—not properly—and so often feels as though he is stuck as one himself.

"It's a beetle," Thriftfeather says. He can handle a beetle, "You'll—you aren't likely to find them witty."

He had his own interests in beetles as a kit; he cannot stop himself from leaning closure, now—the interest having lingered, under the weight of everything else, "They aren't like us. They'll just..." He makes a vague gesture, a loose miming of the movement a beetle flipping another would take, and then continues, "They flip each other around but—but they don't hurt each other when they fight. And then one of them will leave, eventually."​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 12 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[PRIVETFROST]

Wit was the true test of strength. Any feline with brawn could do whatever they wanted. Any feline with brains could rule whoever they wanted. At least, that was what Granitepelt said, and Privetkit took it as absolutely gospel. After all, he was not only an adult but the leader of Duskclan, so that put him at the most upper rung of the echelon. Wire-thin whiskers twitched as the young boy turned a fern-green gaze back to his facsimile of a colosseum. The beetles had not done much but wander along the waysides of the ring of moss and bracken, as though they straddled along without purpose. White-tipped tail lashed behind him, snakelike in movement and oddly calm for a kitten who wasn't getting his way. Perhaps I should pluck their wings so they cannot escape... They had their wings and yet did not use them. Glowing stare did not err in the light it cast.

Thriftfeather's grounded words somewhat dulled the fantasy of the young boy, though the child's imagination proved surely greater than the reason of reality. Privetkit turned his head in an almost owlish manner, and fictitious eyebrows furrowed, as still-downy features creased as if his face had been created in wet clay. "I believe that they have their own world outside of ours. Like Duskclan, but for beetles. I'm sure they must know that this is not a trivial matter." (Again did his verbose manners come loose through sprightly tongue, much to the doing of Vervainfang and the rest of the adults around him. Many of the words he espouted were ones whose meanings had not elucidated themselves to him yet, as they had only cropped up in conversation once or twice.) One snow-capped paw reached into his make-shift contraption and pushed the larger beetle closer to the smaller one, though that did little. Still, he would continue attempting to shove the two bugs together like they would suddenly start ripping at each others' legs if they were alrted to their presences.
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