CLEARING CAMP 1 ╱ TO GO HOME ´ˎ˗

[SUNNVAR]

The moorland grasses beneath his paws is a gift he will not squander. Even if it is to lead the warriors of other clans to their most sacred of spaces, this is the camp where his kittens were born. It is where he earned the name and scars he now carries. This illness has taken much from them– he would not allow it to take more.

His body low to the ground, the deputy's tail flicks in a demand for those that follow to stay their paws. Before them lies WindClan's camp, surrounded by its tangled heather wall. They have been lucky to avoid the worst of the rogues so far. Perhaps they did not patrol the way that the clans did, or did not organize their hunts. Were they not cautious of the night? Did they not think that any other cat would be capable of taking them by surprise? How they expected to survive amongst this territory is beyond Sunstride. (In some small, foolish way, it wounds his pride greatly to think that they would.) He knows that they are just ahead now. Do they sleep beneath the stars as WindClan did? Do they curl themselves into the dens, leaving their largest alone in the growing cold? It is good if they do. He would not wish them any comfort.

Sunstride turns to scan the crowd over his own shoulder, and his gaze falls to @HARBINGERMOON first. A capable tom, who has proven his loyalty to WindClan in recent days. "Take the others," he orders vaguely, hoping that the tunnelers could make sense of it without a betrayal of details. To make it clear, he seeks out more: @RABBITCLAW, @SOOTSPOT, @BLUEPAW. Each of them given a nod of their own off into the distance. "We will lure them from camp, and you will do as you must to take them by surprise."

Once they have gone, he looks to the others. A bizarre mix of cats. Now was not the time for grand speeches. Instead, he simply says, "Do this quickly. And then, to RiverClan. We will purge our forest of these rogues before the sun has warmed the grass. Make all the noise that you can. Pull them through the entrance– let them come to us, and our warriors will strike them down."

𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚𝘖𝘔𝘌 𝘈𝘚 𝘓𝘐𝘍𝘌 𝘈𝘕𝘋 𝘗𝘖𝘐𝘚𝘖𝘕; 𝘚𝘜𝘕-𝘉𝘓𝘖𝘖𝘋 𝘏𝘈𝘕𝘋𝘚𝘖𝘔𝘌  ╱╱ 9.16.2023 ˊˎ＜

• OOC. Feel free to powerplay the rogues following the guidelines! During these final battles, each character is limited to killing one rogue. If they are a warrior or above, they will not need assistance. If they are an apprentice, they must have help from at least one other cat to get a kill in.
• ✦　　. 　 ˚　.   FORMERLY SUNNVAR. HE - HIM - HIS OR THEY - THEM. DEPUTY OF WINDCLAN. 4 YEARS OLD. PENNED BY REVELATIONS.  —————————
  
  
  ——  a tall auburn tabby with thick fur and bright glacial eyes. sunstride is broad and bold– a creature standing above most of windclan, though not a beast beyond it, with fur that flames red and deepens to a burnt amber with every stripe. his eyes, in comparison, are a pale summer's blue, still as bold as the rest of them. he radiates confidence and self-assured authority.
  
  

  ✦ NPC x NPC. DECEASED MOTHER, ESTRANGED FATHER. NO LITTERMATES. MATE TO WOLFSONG. FATHER TO BEARKIT, SINGEDKIT, RIVEKIT, SUNLITKIT, AND FEATHERKIT ——

• "speech"

​

 

[HARRIERSTRIPE]

This will be Harrierstripe’s first battle as a warrior, his first battle ever. He wasn’t sure what to expect but he was more eager than nervous, victory was already a garuntee in his mind. How could the clans not succeed in chasing the rogues out? With all of them together it would be easy.

His flaw? He underestimates these rogues for the third time, a mistake.

Sunstride gives orders to tunnelers, including his sister Bluepaw, to do what they can to surprise the rogues. He makes it clear to the remaining cats that they need to do what they can to lure the rogues out, be loud, bring the rogues to them. Harrierstripe smiles, he could do that.

His claws unsheathe as he steps forward, ”Hey! You weasel-faced pieces of dung, I’m back for more!” He yowls, getting the attention of the two guards that sit outside of the camp. ”Come give me another taste!” Their brows furrow furiously and one of them shouts into the camp to alert the others. Harrierstripe can only imagine his taunting yowl will be joined by many others in sheer moments.

The rogues would come to them alright.

☾ INFO BATTLE

• 
  » Harrierkit . Harrierpaw . Harrierstripe
  » WindClan Warrior
  » He/him
  » A black and chocolate chimera with golden eyes.
  » "Speech" ․ thoughts ․ attack
  
• 
  » A foe who uses jeers and jaunts to distract his opponents.
  » Excels in using terrain to his advantage.
  » Fights to outwit and see another day.
  » May powerplay minor harm. Can powerplay healing

​

 

[HARBINGERMOON]

☾ Adorning a malevolent grin, as wicked as the darkest night, Harbingermoon's face lit up as Sunstride led them further into WindClan's homeland. The fluffy warrior had been itching for vengeance, a deep longing to sink his claws into the flesh of the fox-hearted rogues who had injured his leader and stolen their home.

He couldn't wait to finish the job on that little stain of a cat he'd branded. The thought alone was enough to elicit a jsilent promise. That rat better pray I don't find him.

Their journey came to a halt, and Harbingermoon was called to rendezvous with the enemy through the tunnels. Pleased with the selected crew, he responded with an encouraging swish of his head, directed at the other cats Sunstride had chosen. He was itching to get this operation done far quicker than his previous mission. Nodding once more but in an acknowledging response to the deputy.

Having had the opportunity to scout the tunnel system prior, he was reassured by the clear absence of rogue activity. As long as no curious rogues ventured in, it would serve as their advantage. Harbingermoon raised his tail, signaling the others to proceed, and they followed him into a small entrance. He squeezed into the tunnel, guiding them through the underground passage.

The rounded cavernous space opened up beyond and several exits gleamed high above. He waited for the others to join him, luminous gaze the only feature truly visible in the gloom. Before proceeding, he sniffed the air once more, finding nothing out of order. Eager to progress, he issued his hushed directions, emphasizing the need to stay close together.

"Use any tactic to trip them and give our clans the advantage-" An interrupting yowl echoed from further above the tunnels, belonging to Harrierstripe. Harbingermoon's grin returned, and he concluded his instructions with heightened fervor. "-just don't get caught so we can keep it up." With a swish of his tail the inky feline prepared himself to fight.

Turning abruptly, he raced off toward the other end of the tunnel, positioned close to a lopsided exit partially concealed by the bend of a hill.

It was a perfect spot for any unsuspecting rogue to trip into or stand nearby, offering the illusion of higher ground. With hauntingly orange eyes brimming with excitement, Harbingermoon waited in the depths of the entrance, eager to unleash his retribution. ☽​

 

[Azaleafrost]

Azaleafrost stalked through the grass with murderous determination. Her pace was quick, as if she was closing in on unsuspecting prey. And they were. Foolishly, these rogues thought they had driven them out for good. But they were wrong. Azaleafrost was going to make them suffer, make them regret their choices. She does what she does best, seethe.

Rotten wretches, sitting in their camp, wandering their territory like they own it.... It angers her. It angers her to know that the other clans were taken as well. They are all here now, though. They were going to take their homes back one at a time and leave a path of carnage in their wake. That was her plan, at least. If she could get at least one kill, she'd be happy.

She slinks through the grass as Harrierstripe calls out with a taunt. She decides to join in.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are~" She calls. Venom laces her words as well as a sick sense of joy.

She's never been more ready to rip someone apart than she has this very moment. She can almost taste the blood in her mouth.

She doesn't call out anymore taunts. For now, she lies in wait for them to emerge from camp like swarming rats for them to pick off like the prey they are.​

 

[GRAVELSNAP]

They have spent too long away from the moorland, and the tickle of tall grass against their flanks is a comfort that Gravelsnap realizes all at once how much he missed. Of course, it isn’t a perfect return home—there are no pale blue eyes to stare softly into, and instead of his clanmates at his side he finds himself surrounded by the cats of other clans. Strangers, and yet not enemies. Not anymore. Now they work together, they risk their lives, to free WindClan first of this rogue problem. The deputy tells the tunnelers to split off from the group, and Gravelsnap looks around for Bluepaw. If he manages to catch her eye he’ll mouth to her a short good luck before his focus shifts to the camp.

Unlike their clanmates, Gravelsnap remains silent as they lower their body to the ground. They do not need to call out, not when their clanmates already have. Surely the jeers and taunts from the scorned WindClanners at their sides will draw enough attention. Instead, the black-patched tom turns to his apprentice, hazel eyes narrowing. "Fight well, but stay close to me or another warrior." They are here to take back their home by force, but there is no reason for Thriftpaw to die in doing so. They can end this conflict with no deaths besides the filthy rogues who started it all.

// assuming @Thriftpaw is somewhere nearby lol​

[ you put the fun into dysfunction ]​

​

 

[BLUEFROST]

◇────────────【☆】★【☆】────────────◇​

XXXXXBluepaw is ready to return to her home, to conquer the filth that spread like disease over their moorland. She pads behind Sunstride, behind Harbingermoon, alongside her eldest brother and Rabbitclaw. “We will teach them why WindClan is superior,” she murmurs, her ears flicking forward. She gives her brown-streaked littermate a look as he begins to bark curses toward camp, hoping to bring the rogues rushing toward them. Gravelsnap, Azaleafrost, and Thriftpaw remain close by, preparing to drive the heathens out toward the tunnels.

XXXXXBluepaw gives Harbingermoon a single nod of acknowledgment. She slips into the narrow tunnel opening behind him, then splits off at the first diversion. Above her, she can hear paws beginning to thump against the moors—rogues, Clanmates, other Clan warriors, or both? She tastes the air, and overwhelmingly, blood is the scent that bathes her tongue. Blood of her comrades and of her enemies, it makes no difference now. There is no turning back.

XXXXXShe places her paws confidently in front of her, whiskers twitching. Fresh air grazes the tips. She knows she’s found an ascending pathway, and with a steadying breath, she emerges like a siren from the ocean. Her pelt is mussed, thick with dust and clods of earth, and her half-lidded eyes blow wide with surprise, with fear. A rogue rushes in her direction, a thin and bony tortoiseshell with reddening stripes down one flank. The cat who pelts after her is golden and stocky—her friend, Thriftpaw.

XXXXXShe had failed during her fight with SkyClan, but she cannot fail now. She will not. Somewhere inside of her, something stirs. “I will take what is mine by birthright,” she says to no one—to the rogue, to herself, to Thriftpaw, to StarClan—and unsheathes her claws. With a terrible snarl, her beauty vanishes, replaced by wild ferocity. Her lips shrink away from teeth yellowed at the root, from a tongue dirtied from the underground. The rogue looks at her with uncertainty, but she must see she has a size advantage, for she springs forward, crashing into Bluepaw with all her skinny weight.

XXXXXOof. She hits the ground hard, her back slamming down and her head ricocheting off a particularly bristly clump of grass. The rogue says nothing, but her claws are frantic and her hisses come like clockwork. Bluepaw’s hind legs scrabble, the piercing back claws finding purchase in soft belly fur. With a kick, she heaves her freckled enemy away, feeling wetness seeping into her back paws. “Thriftpaw!” She wheezes, her eyes small and cold in her ravaged face. “Help me!”

XXXXXWithout waiting for a reply, she charges the rogue again, her claws drawing across the she-cat’s lower throat. Blood trickles from the wound. The spotted feline retaliates, scoring Bluepaw over the eye.

─────────​

tl;dr – briefly powerplaying @Thriftpaw charging the rogue toward where she hides in a tunnel; Bluepaw is knocked down and pinned, but she throws the rogue off and slashes at her throat. The rogue scratches her eye. Planned battle with Thriftpaw at this time!
​

 

[Thriftfeather]

After spending time in the damp of ShadowClan Thriftpaw cannot shake the feeling that the whole of the moor is parched. He imagines that when blood spills the starlit sand will soak it in eagerly. Grit catches in the callouses of Thriftpaw's pads, it waits with the selfsame impatient anticipation of a dog pacing at the border of a closed gate. There are countless ways to consume and to be consumed — the ground wants enough that Thriftpaw feels it seep upwards into his claws, and into the surrounding air.

He twitches into half motions at every little sound; his rabbit-heart is loud enough that his world has been reduced to his own rapid pulse. He thinks a prayer, feelings and sand-scrambled half-thoughts rather than proper words. He knows it should be StarClan to hear and heed it, but rather it is his own mother's severe expression that comes to mind: a hushed best behavior in a voice that he otherwise struggles to remember.

His clanmates shout — they must, because rogues erupt from camp like bees from a disturbed hive. Thriftpaw's body cord-snaps into abrupt motion while his mind sputters reminders about Gravelsnap's instructions. None of it matters now, Thriftpaw's frustrations had swallowed him in a bite before his fear could make the decision. He wants his life back; he wants to someday wake up and find that he is no longer homesick.

Thriftpaw sees the fight in still images: a crowd that Thriftpaw narrows into individuals, a rogue's filthy claws against his pelt and the ribbons of red that his own claws leave in her flank like ripples behind a swimming duck. She breaks away from him and Thriftpaw remembers holding a rabbit in place with the weight of himself. He remembers that as he gives pursuit, but he's lost the rogue's focus. Bluepaw rises from the ground and, quicker than Thriftpaw had been expecting, the rogue is on her.

His fear catches up to him here: he's seen this before, or something near enough. He slows, flinches away from a blow that wasn't directed towards him, and doesn't inhale until Bluepaw calls out to him. Alive — despite what Thriftpaw's deepest instincts had shouted.

"You stay away from her!" He moves — remembers how to as Bluepaw rounds on the mottled rogue. Thriftpaw pounces for the rogue's shoulders and lets out a pained grunt when he feels the weight of the impact on his own. He's quick as he bites into the rogue's ear, she retaliates by scoring his shoulder with her unsheathed claws, and twists out of his clenched teeth.​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 8 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[SNAKEHISS]

It still feels wrong, following the burnt amber tabby into battle. Akin to a tick on an elder, Snakehiss can stand to ignore it for only so long — some days, things almost feel normal. However, when his mind drifts back to that fateful day when Sootstar broke the news that her deputy had betrayed her, he is reminded that things will never be the same again. This rogue is his superior now.

Now is not the time to dwell on such things. They had a job to complete. They had a forest to take back.

His clanmates cry and yowl, luring the rogues to them like meat to a hound. Snakehiss does not usually charge into the heat of battle like a mindless brute. Countless times he has laid low, dodging flurries of claws and teeth, emerging nearly unscathed from fights. However, this night was different. He was part of an army five clans strong — all were rested, recharged, and most of all hellbent on taking their territories back. They would not and could not lose. Snakehiss would spill blood tonight for his ancestors, for his dead mother's memory, for his own sake.

Soon, they come, barreling forth like a bunch of uncoordinated kits. Snakehiss is a WindClan warrior who has had more training than these barbarians ever had! This is his time.

Letting out an enraged cry, Snakehiss propels his lanky form and launches himself straight at a passing cat. He hooked his arms around them, and with all of his strength, slammed them onto the floor. Hurriedly, he scrambles to get the upper paw, now pinning the invader under him. "With StarClan as my witness..." Snakehiss pants, unsheathing his claws and piercing them into the writhing maggot's chest. "I will purge this filth from my ancestral home!"

Naturally, what comes next is the final act as judge and jury — execution. However, Snakehiss' arms are tethered to an invisible post, no matter how his muscles kick and scream to move. Do it, harebrain! Why can't he? Why won't he allow himself? His viridian gaze meets burning amber — they are alive, breathing. He can feel their heart, as wicked and evil as it may be, pounding in their chest. Crimson leaks from the punctures under his own claws. He was going to take a life.

The midnight-hued warrior's jaw clenches so tightly that it might break, his breath quickening as his opponent begins to wriggle free. Within moments, the rogue underneath had kicked Snakehiss off, sending the distracted WindClanner stumbling. Before Snakehiss could gather himself, the cat slammed into him with all of their might and sent him onto the ground. Snakehiss heaved for air that had been knocked out of his lungs, gasping when the rogue sank their claws into the side of his skull and held him down. He scrambled awkwardly, trying to swipe outward or slide away—anything—but to no avail.

Nothing but bloodlust glistens in their cold eyes. They would kill him, just as rogues had killed his kind generations before. Through a narrowed eye, he hyperventilates and trembles as the feline fixes their claws for a killing strike...

✰ INFO

• pls do not intervene! @sparkspirit
  
• 

  ✰ SNAKEHISS
  —— he/him; warrior ( moor runner ) of windclan
  —— bisexual; single; not looking
  —— long-limbed black tom with green eyes, a small white chest patch, and a notable bite mark on his right foreleg
  —— "speech", thoughts, attack
  —— link to full tags; @ on discord for plots.
  —— penned by beatles

​

 

[HARRIERSTRIPE]

Rogues begin to trickle from the camp, he hears the tunnelrs screech from behind the gorse wall. Harrierstripe prepares himself to feel the fury of claws as he rushes forward, straight into the battle with a ferocious cry.

Just like that, blood paints the moors. Clan and rogue cats bleed for their right to the land they walk on. He earns a swipe across his nose, he feels it trickle down onto his chin as he sinks his teeth into the chest of the rogues. As he tastes blood he yanks away, pulling back fur and ripping flesh.

”For WindClan!” He spits triumphantly in the rogues face, and they scuffle some more.

☾ INFO BATTLE

• 
  » Harrierkit . Harrierpaw . Harrierstripe
  » WindClan Warrior
  » He/him
  » A black and chocolate chimera with golden eyes.
  » "Speech" ․ thoughts ․ attack
  
• 
  » A foe who uses jeers and jaunts to distract his opponents.
  » Excels in using terrain to his advantage.
  » Fights to outwit and see another day.
  » May powerplay minor harm. Can powerplay healing

​

 

[sparkspirit]

[ cw: death not spark's lol ]

Weaselclaw? How do you stop yourself from being nervous?

His heart still thrums. A desperate war-torn beat in his chest like the thundering of their paws and the shouting of the other cats. Rogues pour from their camp and that only adds to the cacophony within his chest. There is already blood spilled upon the moorland grass. Their home, this time. This was not a fight WindClan took to another– they fought for their camp, their nests, their rabbits and their stars. His heart is pounding. The world is clearer than it has ever been before.

The rogue he meets is larger than him, but held back by their clumsy bulk. He darts to the side and swipes at the heavy-shouldered tom's ears, a great sneer twisting his face as his ear shreds. When he throws his head, blood echoes out in a cascade. Droplets splatter the red beneath Sparkspirit's eye. Broader claws soon follow, carving along the same patch of fur. Stinging nettle wounds, hot blood seeping out, he yowls in pain and lunges to the beat of his hammering heart as his teeth sink into the meat of the rogue's shoulder. When he's thrown off, he thinks he takes a chunk of fur with him. It clots in his throat as the world spins. He can't breathe past it. The sky is below his paws and his spine aches with impact; when he scrambles to his paws, he spits out bloodied brown fur and parts of his own heart, he thinks.

It's a disaster. The battle trance broken, he looks around to see many of his clanmates similarly entangled. The blood-stench has only grown stronger. There's a certain panic to the way that electric blue eyes scan the horizon. Bluepaw and Thriftpaw, Harrierstripe– Snakehiss. His gaze catches the dark pelt just in time to see him fall. The mass of fur that splits between himself and the other warrior means he doesn't see him rise. That's all it is, right? He'll get up. He leaps around the rogue in his path anyway. He hadn't gotten up.

His flank pressed into Snakepaw's, the scent of RiverClan and WindClan bleeding away beneath the stench of blood. His heart was still pounding. It wasn't fear. It isn't fear now. Excitement. Trepidation. Courage. Horror. Fight with me?

His shoulder slams into the rogue's. They both go sprawling. Claws dig into his shoulder, scraping and tearing up another great swathe of bloodied skin, but he doesn't feel anything but the burning heat of blood flooding his mouth. His teeth sinking into the soft underside of a throat. The weak motions beneath his tongue. He holds, and holds, even as those claws flail desperately at his shoulders and his jaw clenches so tightly it might snap. Still, Sparkspirit held on. Tighter and tighter, until the fight bled out of the rogue beneath him. When he staggers back, it is to a limp body and a hollowness in his own blood-soaked belly.

With every fight you win, though, you will lose your fear. You'll be begging for the chance to prove yourself. Is this what winning felt like?

𝘛𝘈𝘕𝘎𝘓𝘌𝘋 𝘐𝘕 𝘛𝘏𝘌 𝘞𝘖𝘙𝘋𝘚 𝘛𝘏𝘈𝘛 𝘐  ･｡ﾟ  🗲  ╱╱ 10.15.2023 𝘊𝘈𝘕𝘕𝘖𝘛 𝘚𝘈𝘠 ˊˎ＜

• OOC. —
• 🗲　　. 　 ˚　.  SPARKSPIRIT. HE - HIM - HIS. 12 MOON OLD MOOR RUNNER OF WINDCLAN. VERY LOYAL TO HIS CLAN. PENNED BY REVELATIONS.  ————
  
  
  ——  a trim mock tortoiseshell tom with mostly black fur splashed with the occasional patch orange. he has a singular white mark on the back of his neck shaped similarly to a lightning strike, and a small scar across the bridge of his nose. his eyes are a shocking electric blue.
  

  ✦ ECHOLIGHT x ELMBREEZE. ADOPTED BY YEWBERRY. BRIGHTFAM, BUT SOMEWHAT ESTRANGED DUE TO HIS LOYALTY TO WINDCLAN. ————————

• "speech"

​

 

[SOOTSPOT]

[ tw for some light gore / sootspot being sootspot ]

He was nowhere to be found. Once Sunstride's orders came, the tom was a shadow on a moonless night, solitude was his cloak and patience was his dagger. Other Tunnelers went first, their claws tangled in the matted fur of their attackers, blood-curdling cries rang through the air and Sootspot did not answer them. The same had happened in ThunderClan, death was unbecoming of the tom and he sought not to answer its call at a disadvantage. Bright eyes did not see the struggles of siblings or the triumph of clanmates, they were closed in the darkness of the tunnels, the chimera guided by whiskers and ears alone. Black paws grew muddier and muddier whilst his clanmates' were further soaked in sanguine.

Then a rogue, bloodied from ambush trampled over a patch of disturbed earth. And Sootspot burst through the tunnel's entrance like a shark breaking the surface of the water.

Teeth snapped around the back of the rogue's neck and the deja vu was imminent. He remembered trying to save Mothmoon, how his smaller frame had made it a struggle to deliver a killing blow that counted. Even if he'd saved the young Moor Runner, in many ways, he'd still failed. Battle was the only game his clan knew and he had failed at it, not because he had run away like the rest of them, but because he'd been unable to do what he wanted to do. The ambush had given him a moment of respite, a chance to decide as a wheezing gasp escaped the rogue to his side, adrenaline wiped clean by the shock of canines sinking past the fur on its scruff. A million and one circumstances ran through his head all at once, a million different ways this fight could end, one way it would end. Sootspot went limp in all but his jaws, dragging the rogue to the earth with him before and scrambling to pin him with long claws pressed against his neck.

A look of recognition passed through the rogue's wide eye and Sootspot's ears flattened. Any struggle promised claws in the rogue's throat, instead, pleas left him. 'I accept your offer', 'I have a family', others that were drowned out by the Tunneler's assessment of the creature that had once promised to steal his prey. He breathed through his mouth, drunk on the fearful scent of the other. Power: not over others, but over life and death, the very thing his ancestors swore no one but themselves could wield. He felt as strong as the stars themselves, no, stronger, because he would've never let what happened to StarClan happen to WindClan.

He leaned down, his whisper in the rogue's ear like fractured ice. "Tell StarClan to send stronger warriors." Hindclaws raked at the pinned rogue's soft underbelly as foreclaws slashed across his throat, both deeper than his teeth could've ever reached, both painting his paws the same ungodly colour of his clans'. The creature beneath him began to spasm, gurgling on the blood that pooled in its throat, thrashing out for a life that sought to expire. Sootspot didn't give him the comfort of company in his final moments. Like a fox that had had its fill, he once more snuck underground, this time to lick away the viscera on his legs. He would wait to see if his message would be sent, if power was truly such an easy thing to gain, if StarClan had been lying to them all about their capabilities. Wincing at the copper in his mouth, Sootspot waited for another soul to pass the tunnels.



​

 

[✧ Marmotbite.]

♢​♢ THE BEST MISTAKE YOU EVER MADE ♢♢​

---

marmotpaw & 11 moons & female & she/her & windclan tunneler apprentice​

---

This is really happening, isn't it? Marmotpaw cannot tell if what she feels is fear, or elation. The burrow she dwells within is dark and damp, ears pricked as she listens for pawsteps moving overhead, as mismatched eyes watch the tunnels entrance for the telltale signs of passerby's. They are taking their home back - no long will the rogues have reign over the moorlands. Taunts and shouts fill the air - her blue-one amungst them - and still she waits.

At last, someone passes by, and she moves - light on her paws and as swift as the rabbits they hunt, she darts out into the open - claws and teeth flashing. Jaws find purchase in flesh, snapping and pulling at limbs and sending her target toppling, but she's already darting off again before they can react. She's down in the earth again, until the cycle repeats. One after another, tiny-furred frame makes the stumble - an outstretched paw here, a slam of her shoulders there, using her small size to her advantage best she can to dart in and out of the fray. Blood splatters pale muzzle, dripping down sharp fangs - and down in the safety of the darkness she grins.

— it sounds so fuckin' beautiful when you say my name ♡

• Actions && "Speech," && ' Thoughts/Quotes '
  
  ooc: she is tripping as many rogues as she can while using the tunnels to travel, feel free to have y/c opponent be assumed to be one she's startled
  tw/cw: —
  
• 
  — a shockingly tiny she-cat with pale blue and cream ticked tabby fur, save for a single patch covering her right eye that is brown instead, and mismatched green-orange eyes. she has heavy scarring along the entirety of her left side, from her face all the way down her chest, belly, and flank; which has been there since kithood. she is a twitchy little thing, known for her bad attitude and an unfortunate habit of biting when startled.
  
  — physically medium && mentally medium
  — non-violent powerplay allowed && healing powerplay allowed && minor injury powerplay not-allowed
  — please attack using [b][color=#9ab973]action here[/color][/b] and tag account

 

[Addervenom]

Chocolate jaws unhinge to reveal ivory fangs beneath, ready to take their pound of flesh and more. Today the moors would run red with the blood of their enemies and their home would be reclaimed. Watching Harrierstripe tussle with a rogue sends him into movement as he rushes forward to collide with the attacker. Bloodlust constricts the tabby's hellish gaze as his teeth sink deep into the tender crook of the rogue's shoulder. Curved claws hook into heaving sides to secure his grip as he fixed his brother a wild look. "Do it!" His eyes seemed to scream as he parted his maw only to crunch back down with renewed ferocity. Though the cat beneath him thrashed and hollered, Addervenom continued to hold them steady with iron force. Waiting for his brother to deliver a killing blow. This rogue like a few others would serve as an example as to why windclan was not to be trifled with. (aiding @HARRIERSTRIPE) ​

»»———- windclan warrior / ten moons old / he/him ———-««​

 

[BLUEFROST]

◇────────────【☆】★【☆】────────────◇​

[ tw: death and kind of a nasty description of killing in the fourth paragraph ]

XXXXXThe stars hear her prayers—and so does Thriftpaw. “You stay away from her!” A flash of brilliant golden fur, tawny and sun-crisped as the moorland grass, barrels into the rogue’s speckled shoulder. The she-cat hurtles sideways at the impact. Bluepaw stands, panting—blood runs from a cut above her left eyebrow, but her vision is intact, and adrenaline sears through her veins. Thriftpaw’s shoulder bears the rogue’s clawmarks, and Bluepaw streaks his direction again, her teeth bared in monstrous fashion.

XXXXX“Get off of him!” Her voice, so practiced and careful in conversation, is a rabid shriek, clotted with blood. The rogue twists back in her direction, but there’s confusion in the amber of her gaze now, muddled with uncertainty. She no longer knows if she is going to make it out of this battle alive—she no longer has the upper paw against her small opponents.

XXXXXThe uncertainty is replaced by fear as Bluepaw slips beneath her legs, small and compact as Sootstar, and uproots her with an uppercut to the soft flesh of her belly. The tortoiseshell tumbles onto her back with a wail—the rest of her underside is exposed now, and blood seeps from the small wound Bluepaw had inflicted on her abdomen. The rogue thrashes, panic imbuing every limb, and Bluepaw wildly fixes her eyes on Thriftpaw. “Hold her down! Help me hold her down!” She smiles, blood congealing in one corner of her grin.

XXXXXShould Thriftpaw obey, Bluepaw will lay a clumsy but battering blow against the pinned she-cat’s stomach. She does it once, and blood slicks her claws, coats her forepaw, and it feels too-warm, too-sticky, but she does it again—and now, now she’s up to her elbows in the filth, and she can feel it gelling on her fur, but she doesn’t stop, she doesn’t stop until the rogue stops moving under her, doesn’t stop until her throat is hoarse and her eyes are dry and her body is trembling with exertion and shock.

XXXXXShe stares stupidly into the mess she and Thriftpaw have made, then, into the empty eyes stretched wide across a slack-jawed face. Her belly roils, but it’s the sensations that causes her sudden nausea. Her coat is slick and sticky simultaneously, flecked with gore. She can barely bring herself to meet Thriftpaw’s eyes, to see the kind of mess he’s now coated with, too.

XXXXXShe finds her footing after a prolonged series of heartbeats, finally croaking, “Thank you for your help.”

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[HARRIERSTRIPE]

Addervenom rushes forward to fight by his side. His fangs plummel into an attacking rogue causing the night to be filled with a agonizing yowl. With incredible strength, his brother sends the rogues to the ground and affectively pinning them down. Their limbs thrash and hisses seethe through their lips.

Addervenom’s eyes are lit with a fire he’s never seen before, they scream at him ’do it!’

Harrierstripe understands, and he does not hesitate. ”For WindClan and for Weaselclaw!” Triumphantly he yowls before his head lurches down so teeth could sink deep into the rogue’s throat. Harrierstripe tastes the blood as it bubbles from the wound, he hears the rogue choke and gasp to no avail. Slowly the two brothers take the feline out, their struggles eventually fade to nothing.

Harrierstripe pulls away. He’s subtly shocked by the lack of life that now sits in the rogues eyes. Any conflicting feelings are pushed aside and he looks to his brother with a grin before turning tail and rushing back into the battle.

☾ INFO BATTLE

• 
  » Harrierkit . Harrierpaw . Harrierstripe
  » WindClan Warrior
  » He/him
  » A black and chocolate chimera with golden eyes.
  » "Speech" ․ thoughts ․ attack
  
• 
  » A foe who uses jeers and jaunts to distract his opponents.
  » Excels in using terrain to his advantage.
  » Fights to outwit and see another day.
  » May powerplay minor harm. Can powerplay healing

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[Gooseberry]

As soon as the clan descends on their rightful territory, Goodeberry’s piercing blue and yellow eyes scan for a target of their vitriol. An excuse to cause as much bloodshed as possible? What an exciting prospect. Anything to get his frustrations out is a good enough reason for him.

As the camp descends into madness, his pupils slit as he spots a familiar visage. It’s the same rogue that had gotten the upper hand on him when they were chased out. Seems like StarClan is on his side today, as this time, he will be the victor.

The scrawny excuse for a cat doesn’t even see him coming, getting slammed onto the moor instead this time. Gooseberry’s expression darkens as he looks his opponent in the eyes, basking in their fear before he takes their life.

His teeth flash as his maw descends on the cat’s neck, biting down with all the strength he has. The rogue gurgles in pain as blood seeps out, no time to yell as their head lolls down, life faded from their eyes. The white tom licks the blood off his chin, satisfaction giving him warmth.​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Thriftpaw's heart doesn't slow. The pain he feels is distant: the knowledge of it without the bite. He watches with no small amount of amazement as Bluepaw jumps to his defense (but hadn't he done the same for her?) and tangles with the rogue. He doesn't stand idly — Thriftpaw circles in search of an opening, his head bobbing like a ferret on a hunt. He hurries when invited in: remembers once more the rabbit he had harmed while hunting as he clamps his teeth around the juncture between the rogue's neck and shoulder

He feels her pulse under his teeth and in a movement that is something like instinct, uselessly shakes his head as if he was killing something far smaller. The rogue is too large to be killed like a mouse; the skin he holds her by is near enough to her scruff to have a similar give. He watches Bluepaw from somewhere in his head — tells himself that he could tell her to slow down or stop, they've already won — but Bluepaw cuts into the rogue with more of herself than Thriftpaw has ever seen her offer. Caught inbetween fascination and fear, Thriftpaw watches.

He watches when the rogues pulse goes from frantic to fluttering, and finally, he watches Bluepaw as it settles after a final heaving breath. He'd felt the rogue die. Thriftpaw unclenches his teeth and stands, body stiff from holding the rogue. He'd felt her die and — later.

Later. Thriftpaw will think about something else for now. He will think about this later.

He wants to be angry at Bluepaw, then. He wants to hate her for being the one to call upon him and he wants to hate himself because he knows he would have helped in this, even if she hadn't asked. Bluepaw had killed someone and Thriftpaw had helped, and he had done nothing — nothing — (should he have done something?) — and his heart must be too large because his thoughts cannot stop circling around this rogue's name, and all of those who knew her and will now be denied having her in their lives.

"Later," Thriftpaw says aloud, both to himself and as a response to Bluepaw. Catches himself, "We can say our — our thank-yous later."​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 8 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[SPARROWBREEZE]

Long grass brushes against her paws for the first time in a moon, but she cannot celebrate leaving the murkiness of ShadowClan’s aptly named territory just yet. They do not arrive back home in peace, rather in war, in vengeance.

Her first battle is upon her now - one that she will not run from, tabbied limbs crouched down as she creeps forward in silence. An amber gaze narrows, locking on to the rogues that linger in their camp, that treat it as their home - like they’re welcomed here more than she is.

And it’s almost like catching a rabbit - one bigger, though not by much, it seems. The rogue hardly stands taller than her, she notices, as she surges forward, claws unsheathed as she moves to strike. Nails sink into skin, spilling crimson from her struggling catch. Gnashing teeth turn to face her with a cry - they catch her shoulder, leave her with a wound in return.

Her heart pounds as claws slip away from her opponent, as memories strike her mind and tighten her lungs. The rogue tries to escape, tries to run like Sparrowpaw once had, but no. She can’t let them escape, can’t let them win. Today, she must be the dog she fears so much, must strike back, must leave the invader war-torn. For the sake of her home, for all that’s been lost, she must.

With a shout, Sparrowpaw surges after them, crimson spilling from her shoulder.
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[BURNSTORM]

"SPEECH"
Going to battle for WindClan was not something he ever imagined himself doing. For as long as he could remember, he had always imagined a fight in the moors would take place against its inhabitants, not with them. Golden eyes survey the battle field for a moment before his paws launch him right into the middle of it. He calls upon every ounce of strength in his muscles, every moment of training he has ever had and he sends a prayer to his former mentor, to Emberstar, to keep him safe, to guide his paws and to please help him remember what she had taught him. He thrived in this kind of environment, he knows that now. There is no joy in inflicting pain upon another, but a cool sense of calm washes over him, takes over his brain and allows him to think clearly even when blood streams from wounds inflicted by a stray claw. Instinct carries him through the motions and as he finds himself face to face with a rogue he bares his fangs.

The tom across from him is raggedy and covered in scars, and it is apparent from just looking at him that he has survived many battles. He would be a challenge to bring down, he thinks. In a flash, the two cats spring into action. Burnstorm leaps forward at the same time the rogue does and they claws, rearing up on hindlegs and battering each other with forearms. Teeth flash and he feels the fur of his neck sway in the breeze of teeth just barely missing their mark. If he had been just a few moments slower it is possible he would have been dead. He mutters a curse but he does not waver in his vicious fight.

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[Bluepool]

The battle field. Bluepool had been anticipating this fight since the first time they had needed to run, when they had escaped to lick their wounds she had been imagining all the ways she might tear into the cats who had stolen her home from her. Now that she is standing here, surrounded by the very cats she wanted nothing more than to rip to shreds, she feels excitement. Her heart beats wildly and at her nephews war cry she is plunging into the clearing, ready to fight the first rogue she encountered.

Her and a tortoiseshell she cat square up. The rogue is bigger than her, but an opponents size has never intimidated her before. She knows she is a skilled fighter so she does not even hesitate as she throws herself at her opponent with a vicious yowl, a tactic meant to make her enemy flinch so she could gain a quick advantage. It works. The tortoiseshell is taken by surprise and steps backwards, throwing herself off balance and Bluepool uses the opportunity to bowl her over. She feels claws kick at her stomach and she flinches but she does not stop in her attack. She bites down hard but misses her mark, the neck. The she cat underneath her rolls so that she is at an angle and her blow lands on her shoulder instead.

Suddenly she feels teeth dig into her scruff and she is flying through the air. A dark pelted tom is quickly standing over her and it is clear by the way the tortoiseshell grins that they know each other. "Finish her my love!" the she-cat calls and Bluepool snarls. She wriggles underneath those massive paws, trying desperately to escape but the cat who has her pinned is even bigger than the one she had been fighting. She does not close her eyes as teeth come to meet her neck.

// please don't intervene! @SUNSTRIDE is planned to save her

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