i . information : shrikekit was . . odd. had been since his birth ; too small, born too late, a trembling sliver of blue - white fur, wet and gasping for life. he had grown a bit since then — kind of upwards, mostly, the area around his shoulders broadening just enough to seem less kittish. his elders often paused to coo at him, beaming and boasting that he seemed to be taking after his mother — he assumed that meant he wouldn’t be getting much further off the ground. shrikekit decided that this, while unfortunate, didn’t matter too much. it made it easier to find tunnels. old, unused burrows hidden deep within the brush, dotting the natural valley hollow of camp with signs of life long gone. the boy is playing out near the slope of land cradling the borders in which his mother enforces he remain in, nosing his way through the thicket in search of neat rocks when he finds it : a burrow. small, crumbling with age and semi - covered with flora. his interest is piqued immediately — the darkness that resides just behind twining heather calling to him, siren - song of mischief pulling white paws forward.

the boy shoves plant life aside with little care, clamping little teeth and pulling old vine and twig from the wall until the burrows mouth opens wide before him. he stares, amazement brimming in olive eyes, “ wooooooah. “ the boy tucks to his belly, crawling forward to peer curiously into the hollow. it seemed empty, from what he could see and smell ; his smaller than average size aiding him in wriggling deep into the old rodent hole, “ hellooooo? does anyone live here? mister rabbits? “ his nose twitches, skeletal ribs heaving against the narrow tunnel walls when he finally sees it — a sliver of white, lying haphazardly near the back end of the tunnel, “ oh, what are you! “ shrike exclaims, the shout likely muffled to any passing warriors, reverberating deep beneath the undergrowth. the boy outstretches a paw, using little claws to pap desperately at the object until it hooks finally, pressing his other paw firm to the ground and pulling the surprisingly light rock - looking object from the dark tunnel.

it was a skull. he’d seen them, often being gnawed by elder warriors, still stringy with meat and cartilage. this one was clean. spotless, aside from the smudges of long - resting dirt and age that mars it’s otherwise spotless surface. it had been there a long time, it seemed. shrikekit blinks, flicking dirt primly from alabaster paws before swiping playfully at the aged skull. it falls to the side, exposing the hollow underneath and . . suddenly, he has an idea.

shrike nuzzles into the hollow space of the skull, tucking it into the arch of his snout. a mask, wobbly and uncomfortable over his ears, but good enough to give someone a good scare. eagerly he turns, backing into the tunnel to await a passerby.

with the bleached skull firmly over his muzzle, the boy would leap from the hole at the first one to cross his path, kicking up a misting of dirt behind him, “ boo! “ he exclaims — or, seems to attempt. his tone remains oddly monotonous despite the force behind it. a wicked grin curves his maw, partially hidden by browning ivory as he leaps towards the closest, unsuspecting feline, claws fully unsheathed, “ i’m the freshkill ghost! i’m gonna eat you because you eated me!

  • SHRIKEKIT ; he / him, two months old. windclan kit. sootstar x flint.
    − a small, fluffy longhaired blue smoke with low white & pale green eyes.
    − homosexual ; not romanceable until apprenticeship, penned by antlers.

  • none.

  • Love
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Sootstar's children are a little strange. This is common knowledge in WindClan, has been ever since the little furballs began walking on four paws and using their words instead of mewls to communicate. Owlkit is mature, haughty, self-important as her mother, while Shrikekit is decidedly feral. Though he'd been born sickly, he's the fiercer of the two in Weaselclaw's opinion -- the second the little tyke had learned how to play, he'd seen the humor in biting paws and tails as hard as humanly possible. He himself has lost fur to Shrikekit's fangs.

It's endearing to him, and perhaps to those in the Clan who are outspoken supporters of the kits' mother. Sootstar has instilled a sense of importance in both of them, and they carry themselves like they know their mother is StarClan-blessed, like they are the first WindClan-born kits.

It doesn't stop Shrikekit from being absolutely bizarre, though.

Weaselclaw hears something from where he walks above ground, but he isn't sure what it is, and he pays it no mind. It's not until a horrific creature, face nothing but the skull of the undead, leaps from beneath the earth and aims needle claws at him.

He shrieks. "StarClan, no!" He barely has time to think before he realizes the nightmarish creature is Shrikekit... Shrikekit wearing a cleaned-out rabbit skull.

The tabby catches his breath and narrows his eyes. "What the-? Where did you get that?" He tries to use a disciplinary tone, attempting to cover up the embarrassment he's dying from.

Pebblenose is distracted momentarily from her job, her paws pausing in reinforcing the nursery walls as her nephew springs from a nearby tunnel donning a rabbit's skull and scares the absolute shit out of Weaselclaw. In an instant, the blue smoke is bursting into raucous laughter, a paw rapping against the ground. "Wow! What a pathetic display for a lead warrior!" She snorts between her cackles.

Once she's calmed enough to continue weaving, she does so, although her ears are angled back towards Weaselclaw and Shrikekit. The brown tabby questions Shrikekit about the origins of the skull, and Pebblenose rolls her eyes, even though the two could not see it with her back turned. "From a dead rabbit, obviously," she replies, matter-of-fact as if speaking to a particularly stupid kit, with a flick of her tail tip.