border fallowgray | private for now

[Cherryblossom]

The older warriors say Newleaf has arrived, but Cherrypaw doesn't quite believe them. Circumstances have changed enough for Slate to relinquish her to her own devices, more and more as the days grow warmer and the sun stays longer. It may be her age, almost ripe enough to be plucked from the tree of apprenticeship and savored as a warrior by the body of the clan. Or maybe it was just the prolonged absence of the rogue plague, a distant memory that had taken place somehow only a couple of moons ago. Either way, Cherrypaw tried not to take for granted the freedom granted to her, coming in trickles as it may. She tries not to take much for granted at all these days.

The calico gently foots beneath the winter-bare pines lining their southernmost border, keeping a tree-length or two berth away from the Twolegplace fences. The only thing giving her away from her surroundings, a checkerboard of snow and mud pinstriped by tree shadows, is the brilliant orange in her coat. However, it is enough of a warning to most of the prey. Wrinkles crawl up her nose as the second bird today twitters away from her. She emerges from her crouch, briefly contemplating the benefits of tree hunting despite the lesser cover, when a noise twists her mismatched ears back.

Dandelion eyes narrow sharply. Whatever had done that was too heavy to be anything she could haul back to camp as prey. Turning back doesn't even cross her mind as she pulls herself towards the source, ears pinned to her skull, flattening to the earth beneath the meagre ground cover SkyClan had to offer. It could be one of the deer that had taken up residence in ThunderClan territory (somehow crossing through SkyClan territory completely unnoticed), or maybe a loose dog she had woken up from a nap. Or even another rogue, one too stupid to heed the advice of the rogues they'd already driven off.

Her nostrils flare. A rogue indeed. Her gaze narrows further, brows pulling together in thought. Then, Cherrypaw bolts upright as the scent fully registers in her brain, a key finally slotting into a rusted-over lock. "What are you doing here?" she hisses. Her hackles prickle and claws unsheath, yet she does not immediately spring to attack.​

 

[DOOMPAW]

Twolegplace has not been kind to Doompaw. Nearing his twelfth moon, he’s grown in length and height, but his shoulders remain thin, his chest and abdomen concave. His fur—always messy, even as a well-cared-for kit in SkyClan’s nursery—curls away from his body in white gnarls. Green eyes glow lean and hungry from a gaunt, twisted face. His mouth is clamped around a sparrow, stolen from at least two tree-lengths inside of well-marked borders. Twolegplace has birds, but they’re flighty, fickle, hard to catch in a competitive world of cracked concrete and Twoleg noise and trash. He remembers the fertile forests of his youth, and on a whim, he’s decided to take a trip down memory lane.

He had anticipated trouble, but not so quickly. At the sound of approaching pawsteps crunching through scattered pine needles, he turns, his hackles rising. He spits the bird onto the ground, between two protective, unsheathed paws. “Who’s there? I’ll tear ya to pieces if you come any closer!” The cat who accosts him is at least his age, large and filled-out, with a thick calico pelt billowing from her body. Her wide amber eyes narrow in recognition: “What are you doing here?”

Doompaw’s mouth, bloodied from the bird, curves into a smirk. “Well, well, well… little Cherrypaw. I’m surprised you’ve come this far by yourself.” He swipes his tongue about his lips, catching and dislodging a stray feather. “Ain’t you worried about getting that pretty fur dirty?” Splintered claws grasp the earth and tear in a clear threat. “You wouldn’t begrudge an old friend a measly little bird, would’ja?”

Despite the faux-friendliness his voice wears, his teeth, yellowed to the root, are bared. His tail snakes behind him, lashing furiously. He’s prepared to fight her if she presses the issue instead of just leaving like a good little SkyClanner.

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

• ooc: —
• 
• Doomguy ; Doomkit ; Doompaw, he/him with masculine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 11 moons old, ages realistically on the 1st.
  — mentored by Twitchbolt ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored n/a
  — rogue, formerly a skyclan apprentice. npc x npc, gen 1.
  — currently mated to n/a.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh blue tortie with high white. fearless, fierce, anarchic, disobedient, willful, ungovernable, disrespectful.
  
  

​

 

[Cherryblossom]

Doompaw looks about how she expected him to after all these moons, if she ever thought of him, which she tried not to. Traitors, deserters, especially those of his disposition, didn't deserve the honor of afterthought. He had always been more rogue than SkyClanner in her mind, even as they tussled beneath the many layers of protection a clan offered: the boughs of nursery holly, the sleeping wrath of queens, the warrior army in camp, and the twinkling gazes of StarClan. A snarl, half-aggression and half-disgust, ripples through her porcelain face at the sight of him. The bird, so unceremoniously deposited in mud and between mud, is not so much the subject of ire as it is the creature himself.

Because she could not call him a cat. He had ceased to be one the moment he abandoned SkyClan, which did not want him anyway as far as she was concerned. She would be embarrassed to say Orangestar had ever deigned to nurse him alongside her, as though she had somehow contracted an incurable disease transmitted through the belly they had both suckled at. "Doompaw." The greeting is spat out. His threats blow past her like startled warning shots that she does not return, and sun-burnt eyes stare down the silver-and-gold barrel aiming right between them.

"Maybe it's fallen out of your pebble-brain, but this is SkyClan territory. And that's SkyClan's bird." She wants to wipe all the dirt and sacreligious hunt off his face in a spray of blood; she wants to cringe away from him and hope the matted little beast finds easier prey. "It'll never be yours," she says, something in between a snarl and a coo. "Did you remember that you left?" She boldly takes a step towards the bird, tail lashing to the furious beat of his. She shouldn't be talking so much; she should be attacking. But her tongue is moving on its own. "You missed so much," she drawls. "I'm going to be a warrior next moon. And you're—" She barks out an unsmiling laugh. "—still going to be a mangy little fox-heart."

Adrenaline roars through her ears and buoys her heart. She could float off the ground with how excited she is, oh, she wants to make him hurt. "Was it worth it?" The question is softly delivered, bulging with sarcasm and vitriol. "Leaving, I mean. Did you ever find your stupid little brother?" Her stare is wide-eyed, wild. C'mon. Her curiousity is rage. "Lemme guess: you couldn't!"​

 

[DOOMPAW]

Doompaw sees the snarl ripple across Cherrypaw’s face, and he tenses, sinking splintered claws deep into the earth. Her greeting is more spit than acknowledgment, her words at least as vitriolic as his. She reminds him in that infuriatingly prim manner she has that this is SkyClan territory, and the bird he’s caught is SkyClan’s bird. His lip curls, his teeth glinting in the sunlight. “Oh yeah? Looks like it’s my bird, now.” His tail lashes as he lowers his face to the bit of stolen prey and arrogantly takes a bite from its belly. He chews once, slowly, infuriatingly so, and swallows with an exaggerated gulp.

She snarls, “Did you remember that you left?” “What do you know about it?” Anger cramps his expression. “Ooh, a warrior. I’m so scared.” He leans to grip the bird between his teeth once more, knowing the longer he stays in place, the better chance he’s giving her to attack him or to alert her Clanmates. He knows how it goes—he’d once patrolled these borders as she had, after all, at Twitchbolt’s side.

But Cherrypaw continues. “Was it worth it?” The question rings in his ears. He snaps his face back toward her, eyes narrowing into dark green slits. “Did you ever find your stupid little brother?” He drops the bird again; it lands with a thump between his paws. Rage glitters in his gaze now. “What did you say to me, you fleabag?” It’s laughable, him calling anyone that name, considering the condition of his body, his pelt, but he spits it with hatred in Cherrypaw’s direction. “I was right, back then—you bunch of kittypets never wanted me there, and you’ll all pay for it now!”

Doompaw bunches his muscles and springs toward Cherrypaw, his thievery forgotten. He stretches his claws toward her face, aiming for her ears. If successful, he’ll snag and pull at one or both of them, hoping to tear the flesh, to mar what is so perfect and pretty.

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

• ooc: —
• 
• Doomguy ; Doomkit ; Doompaw, he/him with masculine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 11 moons old, ages realistically on the 1st.
  — mentored by Twitchbolt ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored n/a
  — rogue, formerly a skyclan apprentice. npc x npc, gen 1.
  — currently mated to n/a.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh blue tortie with high white. fearless, fierce, anarchic, disobedient, willful, ungovernable, disrespectful.
  
  

​

 

[Cherryblossom]

The thump of stolen prey has never been so satisfying. Fury's shadow darkens his green eyes, and Cherrypaw stares back with contempt lighting sunnier ones. Fleabag, he calls her, and she falls for the taunt in the blindness of rage. "Me?" Her voice rises to a near shriek. She rounds him as he does her, luscious pelt bristling into tangles now. "You were right! For once!" she spits back, lips peeling off her teeth.

"No one has ever wanted you and no one ever will—!" Her words, slurred with speed, are cut off with a yowl as Doompaw lunges for her. Yellowed claws arc for her face, and she ducks on instinct, but all her stiff posturing has cost her. A squeal of pain slips from her as they snag their target, the delicate flesh of her left ear, and tug a chunk out. In retaliation, she aims a couple of hard, unsheathed slaps into his shoulder, with no plan other than a desire to make him hurt, to make him run.​