private brand new start / gravel, slate

[Silverfoot]

➸ Silverfoot had never been one to stay in one place too long. It was one of the things that had soured her against RiverClan and its tempestuous founder, the solidity of it all. She could not wander without invoking some sort of discipline, without threatening the protection her remaining daughter had under Cicadastar's ever-present eye. It was cloying, claustrophobic. Once Ashpaw went missing, Silverfoot had taken the opportunity to search for her as a way out.

Seasons had gone by, seasons without so much as a glimpse of ginger. SIlverfoot had all but given up on her quest, but she was resolute in not going back to RiverClan. Instead, she had taken up a pseudo-lodging at the barn. She came and went as she pleased but in the colder months, it was nice to have a guaranteed dinner in the fat barn mice or garden snakes that liked to hide among the hay and seed.

Silverfoot had not been present for WindClan excursion into the Horseplace. In fact, she had explicitly avoided the stowaways, completely uninterested in the plights of the clan cats. It was only after another barn-mate mentioned two young warriors specifically that the silvery she-cat began to pay attention to the story of the rebels and Sootstar's demise. Slatetooth and Gravelsnap, she had gleaned. Slate and Gravel... surely, it wasn't anything to get her tail in a twist over. Cats were named all manner of things, the names she had picked out with her mate weren't unique to them, there was no reason to care about these seemingly random WindClanners.

... unless... just maybe.... there was?

She shifted uncomfortably on the fence that lay on the WindClan border, her green eyes narrowed on a distant patrol. She felt ridiculous, waiting for clan cats, respecting their borders when her own territory had been trampled upon and snapped up simply because there were enough cats who wanted the land for themselves, but if she wanted answers, she had to play nice. If she wanted to know, she had to make herself amiable.

"Good day, clanners." the she-cat called out to the patrol, the fur on her spine prickling with unease. "How goes hunting on your side of the fence?" @slateheart @GRAVELSNAP speech is in #FFD700​

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[slateheart]

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ Slateheart and his brother were appointed to this morning's border patrol to Horseplace. He hadn't been here since WindClan's rebels sheltered here amidst the war - he wondered how the barn cats faired, those who had not joined them back home anyway.

The patrol was so far uneventful until the barn's fence came into view. Perched on the fence was a silver molly, someone he paid no mind to initially. He didn't recall seeing any grey tabbies from their time in the barn, so it would be fruitless to ask how things were going since WindClan left. In fact, he had half a mind to ignore her when she inquired about WindClan's hunting. They had no time for small talk; Slateheart had planned to hunt for the kits after this patrol.

But something about her voice called to him in a way none other has before. It was so eerily familiar and unknown at the same time. Becoming gradually uncomfortable, he felt more inclined to ignore her now, but the inquiry was kind and inviting - he would risk souring relations if he had moved on without so much as a glance in her direction. "Hunting is well," Slateheart responded, speaking up to bridge the distance. "The rabbits are fattening and our moors are runnable once again. How fares the barn?"

As he spoke, he narrowed his eyes to get a good look at the molly. Who are you? was his first thought, reflecting on the way she seemed to echo a cat in his past. Someone he had not seen in over ten moons, and only heard of in a passing comment by his sister, Ashpaw, residing in RiverClan. He dipped his head to the patrol to pardon himself. "Excuse me, please. I'll catch up," Slateheart mumbled, then gave Gravelsnap a grave look and a subtle beckoning tip of his tail. Was he seeing the same thing he was?

Once he was excused from the patrol, Slateheart approached the fence. It was up close now that he could see the cat's green eyes and patterns. "Pardon me for my bluntness, but.. what is your name?" he inquired, searching her gaze for answers. You look just like her, he'd think, drawing back on his memories of his mother. His heart ached.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎┌── I SEND HIM A SMILE ⋅❁⋅ HE TELLS ME LOOK DOWN ──┐‎

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• SLATEHEART ✩ he/him, moor-runner of windclan, 19 moons.
  ⭃ a short-furred black tom with low white markings and green eyes.
  ⭃ son of LYNXTOOTH xx ADELAIDE // brother to GRAVELSNAP, ASHPAW
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by ixora ↛ @.ixora on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

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[GRAVELSNAP]

➴➴ Gravelsnap has not yet returned to the horseplace since they had finally left the place behind. They have few good memories of the straw-filled building, and those they do are full to the brim with clear blue eyes and a gentle smile, flowers tucked into dark fur. It’s embarrassing, honestly, how much of their time is spent thinking of the black-pointed lead warrior—but Peri doesn’t take up every memory of the horseplace. Some of the horseplace loners stand out, like friendly Pumpkinpatch and hare-brained Galeforce (who Gravelsnap can only hope is not allowed into the stars). So when they spot a cat they do not recognize perched upon one of the fence posts, their eyes narrow to slits. Suspicion is clear in the tension of each limb, the curling of their tail, as the silvery tabby speaks to them.

Slateheart seems disinterested in conversation, likely hoping to finish this patrol quickly so that he can go work himself to the bone hunting or patrolling elsewhere. He responds anyway, conversational, while Gravelsnap stands back and allows him to speak for the clan. Their gaze cuts away from the molly for a moment, uninterested in mundane talk of hunting. But then their brother excuses himself from the patrol, beckoning them to follow as the rest of the patrol gives them some semblance of privacy. They don’t understand why Slateheart suddenly seems so interested in the she-cat. Is it because he’s noticed the same thing that they have? This cat was not among those who shared WindClan’s temporary home with them—at least, not that they can recall. "You weren’t here… before." Their voice is not accusatory, but it is at the same time not particularly friendly. This seems a waste, though they are willing to learn this molly’s name if their brother is so curious about her.​

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[Silverfoot]

➸ They offer little more than a few words, but each statement makes the tabby she-cat narrow her eyes a little more, as if the sun were keeping her from truly seeing the cats in front of her.

"I come and go as I please. Prey runs and I follow." She resolved to answer the amber-eyed one first, as their statement held less of an obligation. She had to weigh her words with green-eyed one, the one who looked the most like the mate she had lost. If she allowed herself to be the least bit sentimental, she could almost imagine that he had her sweet eyes and her small, rounded nose - pink. Berry-like.

"You might know me by my clan name. The RiverClanners called me Silverfoot." she responded after several beats of thought. In truth, she had no other name to give. The name she had been given at birth was a name far lost to her and the barn-cats had not given her a nickname to distinguish herself by. All she had was what had been so... matter-of-factly .... placed upon her by a cat she barely knew and barely trusted. "And yours?" speech is in #FFD700​

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[GRAVELSNAP]

➴➴ The stranger responds to the duo’s questioning with a narrowing of her eyes—she seems quizzical, or perhaps suspicious. Perhaps she has claimed this territory as her own since WindClan left it behind, they think, but then she speaks and her reasoning is clear. She is only here for as long as there is prey for her to catch. She shouldn’t be a problem, then, nor should she be a threat to the clan; Gravelsnap nods their approval. After a moment, she asks their names, however, and they are unsure whether or not they should reply. They suppose it is only fair, though.

"Gravelsnap." They do not elaborate; surely she can discern from their scent that they are of the moorland. And if she cannot, then the word WindClan likely means little to her anyway. "Your name sounds… familiar," they continue, their tone low and uncertain. This situation feels strange, too familiar for their liking. They do not know this she-cat, but they feel as though they should. Hazel eyes shift to Slateheart at their side, seeking confirmation—or denial. Their brother is the one who asked for the tabby’s name, and so Gravelsnap feels as though they should allow him to confirm whether he knows her before they speak more.​

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