duskclan DEVIL I KNOW ✶ REPORT

[GHOSTMASK]

She doesn't bother tempering her velvet - soft stride or tossing her blackened gaze over her shoulder to ensure Privetpaw is keeping up as they trek back to their makeshift camp in the scrubland. Out in the wastes, where nobody with a shred more honor dares to live. He'll keep up or he won't. Nor does she breathe a word of questioning or reassurance to the young apprentice; there's only the sound of a low, keening greenleaf wind and the brisk snap of her tufted tail with each step, the unicorn - esque sprig of fur at its end whisked by the wind.

Foolish. Granitepelt had always been foolish. Her father had made his first mistake when he let himself be so clumsily exposed by Smogmaw and his loud - mouthed brood, and doubly so when he had pledged himself to a madwoman, and she alongside him. That his latest mistake is fatal is of little consequence to her—one so reckless, who fumbled with his own life in his paws like a youngling apprentice with a frog, was bound to eventually lose his fortunate streak. It's a little inconvenient, though; without the minor fortune of her father for their leader, there's wholly the potential to lose some of her minor privilege.

" Rumblerain! " Her voice is as silken sweet as ever, even when raised into an impatient shout. She waits, ears twitching with avarice and the pleasant anticipation of feeling contempt. When the seal point arrives before her, the joy is doubled by being the one to deliver the grim news, to fully dump the burden of leading their ragtag group onto their incompetent shoulders. Not that she envies them the role. She saw firstpaw how small the benefit, how great the sacrifice ( his life, in Granitepelt's case ), and she has no interest in either.

" Granitepelt is dead, " she says, quick and clipped and businesslike. Maybe they should have brought his body home . . . oh, well. It's too late now.

// @RUMBLERAIN but no need to wait!!

" speech "

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[Possumscratch.]

IF I DON'T GO TO HELL
WHEN I DIE I MIGHT GO TO HEAVEN ​

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'possum & 18 moons & trans masc & he/they & duskclan rogue ​

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The king is dead - or something like that. Possum is wholly unaffected by the news that echoes through the camp - everyone dies in the end after all. Perhaps if he'd known - if he'd remebred[/i[ they'd shared more than a 'clan' he would've - or perhaps not. He's never been a caring sort of cat.

Teeth flash as he turns away, hiding the smile that passes across his muzzle from prying eyes. There is no grief, no pity - no compassion to be found in the scruffy chimera. Granitepelt was just another broken toy, discarded by the world when it'd lost it's use - nothing more. Instead, amber eyes follow Ghostmasks figure, seeking out the deputy of Duskclan - the new de facto leader. " You're to lead us now then? " comes merry chirp - bright grin and wild eyes blatantly amused.

━ actions & " speech, " & 'thoughts/quotes' ━

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M I G H T ━ G O ━ T O ━ H E A V E N , ━ B U T ━ P R O B A B L Y ━ N O T !

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[Thriftfeather]

A breath, two. Thriftfeather waits in something akin to anticipation for Ghostmask to make some kind of elaboration or conclusion—the disbelief that finds Thriftfeather is the quiet kind. He was no medicine cat: this, Thriftfeather had already known. He was no medicine cat and his paltry attempts at tending to Granitepelt weren’t enough. Thriftfeather hadn’t liked the tom, had questioned his motivations and his place in the clan—and still he didn’t want Granitepelt to die in such a way.

“Was it the fever?” That is what makes the most sense to Thriftfeather, but he cannot put away the possibility that Granitepelt had done something stupid while in his fevered state. It is then that he notices a lack—Granitepelt’s lack, “Where is uh—shouldn’t Granitepelt—” Thriftfeather grimaces, his damaged voice pitching upward with uncertainty, “—shouldn’t the body be here?”
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DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 16 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[RUMBLERAIN]

Ghostmask and Privetpaw return together, an dark ears prick upwards at the sight. Rumblerain turns, affixing blue eyes on the two, as Ghostmask seeks them out in particular. Granitepelt ... dead? Rumblerain exhales, shaky. The wave of relief that sweeps them nearly knocks them over, forcing blue eyes closed for a moment, but their muzzle tightens at the guilt which creeps in after it. The short scruff around their neck fluffs up defensively as eyes turn their way, Possum's chirrup piercing to their core. DuskClan's deputy - its leader, StarClan forbid - squares their shoulders as if it would hide the way their paws tremble.

"How do you know this, Ghostmask?" They ask her, attention flicking towards Privetpaw and back again. The white-faced molly seems ... unbothered by this revelation. Maybe she has sent her grief deep down, to pick apart later, and is putting on a brave face for the rest of them: they don't know for sure. She remains an enigma to Rumblerain. The seal point pauses by Thriftfeather, nodding in tandem to his questions, eyes narrow as they await answers.

ooc ✧ 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘷𝘦

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  [ art by antiigone ]
• RUMBLERAIN ✧ they/them, deputy of duskclan
  
  
  — "a lanky, scruffy seal and white point with blue eyes."
  — single ; mentoring privetpaw
  — speech is in #858AC0
  — tags | penned by mercibun, contact on discord for plots.
  
  
  
  

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[PRIVETFROST]

Privetpaw trotted quickly after Ghostmask's fleet gait, though his own faltered just after the older molly's own, as though the sight of Granitepelt's putrescent pelt rotting and decaying into itself still lingered within his mind. Death. It instilled itself even among the sprightly greenleaf zephyrs, that danced and faltered just along the sagebrush perches. That was the purest essence of death, he mused. It was what was left after a glorious fight, it was the state to which the weak deigned themselves to. A pitiful, fetid existence awaited them after death. It was quite fitting for one who wasted life to now waste away in death, the poet in him wove together. Fern-green gaze turned towards Thriftfeather as he raised his question high, arguably the most sympathy that Privetpaw had ever witnessed for a feline such as Granitepelt - and the display almost sickened him more than the blight of a blinded and bastard beast. He was weak. He does not deserve your sympathy. He has run his course as Duskclan's leader. I saw him, and so did you. "We saw him near Shadowclan territory. The body is not here. We left him for the rats of the Carrionplace." The boy mewed almost robotically as Rumblerain approached next, as though even he did not mourn his late leader, like his very image had been putrefied as soon as he had dared show weakness in sodden rasps and cries for help. He could only hope that Rumblerain would live up to the expectations of their people.

𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ── X ── 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒

• OOC:
  
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  —— PRIVETPAW / He/Him / 7 Moons
  —— Apprentice of Duskclan / Mentored by Rumblerain
  —— Wine-dark and white-tipped, almost like a magpie. He has black fur except for the tips of his ears, his muzzle and chin, a blaze on his chest, bottom portion of the legs, outer end of the tail, and along the upper ridges of eyes. He has ghost striping that can only be seen in certain sunlight. He has fern-green eyes.
  —— Cool, calculating, and much too mature for such a young age. Enamored with the life of a warrior and burdened by the expectations of his people. Hard to befriend and harder to maintain a steady friendship with.
  —— Penned by Tempest. Contact on Discord (naruk4mi) for plots and threads.

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[hollowcreek]

( ✧ ) The fight with WindClan had soured in a single blink, wholly unprepared for not only the early return of Sunstar's gathering but the sheer amount of warriors that had still remained left behind in it all.

The scratches he had earned from Dimmingsun had stung and ached, and while he licked his wounds and prayed they would not fester he watched as similar prayers went unanswered for Granitepelt. Battered, feverish and pathetic, he had taken the worst of the attacks. Fur and flesh split apart in a frenzy, while Hollowcreek had latched onto another and luckily wasn't overtaken.

Where are they? I know WindClan's soft, they're here! The nursery was a padlocked treasure chest, but he hadn't retreated without giving the lead warrior something to remember him by.

"He tried to go back to ShadowClan...?" How rotten, how cowardly. "Rumblerain, are we to start recruiting again, then?"
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( I SEE YOUR COLLARBONE ; AND WANNA LOSE CONTROL )