camp GOD WILL CUT YOU DOWN —— open

[SLATESNARL]

The beast has reared his blocky head from the shadows of the medicine cat den for the first time in what seemed like moons. Slate's presence was a rarity in itself nowadays, with the former lead warrior being tucked away in Dawnglare and Fireflyglow's abode like a broken keepsake hidden away atop a dusty shelf. However, now that Slate's journey to recovery was underway, he knew that he'd have to try moving himself eventually.

It's blatant that his coat hasn't had much maintenance over the near-moon — his charcoal pelt is disheveled and tangled with his limited mobility and his defined brawn had seemingly withered; the Maine Coon was still large as he's always been, but his current state is visually depressing for a lack of better word. Never has Slate experienced such a decline in his appearance, even when he'd been bedridden in the past for more minor injuries.

His once sturdy, muscled arms tremble as they lower his hefty form carefully onto the floor in front of the medicine den. "Ow, shit, ow." The male curses through gritted teeth as a sharp pain momentarily zaps his hindquarters, jaw clenched ever so tightly as he shifts his weight to ease the pressure. Gracelessly, Slate lolls back as much as he could take, his bad leg now carefully at rest. An upward flick of his dull, heavy eyes meets those of nearby clanmates who had undoubtedly witnessed this pathetic display. His pride wounded, the Maine Coon attempts to brush any embarrassment off his shoulders and hopes that no one would say anything.

𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 ✹ .　 + 　˚ 　　 · 　 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

• 

• 

  a warrior ( formerly lead warrior ) of skyclan, slate is forty-two moons. he is mated to orangestar. he is a hulking longhaired maine coon with black fur and prominent reddish rusting on his chest and belly. scars litter his form but are prominently present on his face. ✦

​

 

[DAWNGLARE]

Perhaps if he had Fireflyglow's sensibilities... thick - skulled, cotton - headed, web - eared sensibilities... he would trail after Slate with nobler intention. Perhaps to swoon over him. To coddle his hip with the plushness of his own spine so that the brute would not have to suffer... Oh, perhaps he'd groom him too. Delicately work out each of the kinks in his fur, knead paws across his flea - bitten back, whisper affirmations of him mattering and being adored... ( Or whatever it was Fireflyglow did, anyhow. ) Dawnglare was different in that, he rather enjoyed seeing him struggle. More pleasing, still, was the prospect that he may soon be gone from his sight, and no longer the hideous decoration ( could he even call it that? ) that he's forced to glimpse from the comfort of his and Mallowlark's shared nest.

His smile curls saccharine upon his face, shaping full moon eyes into crescents. And then he pouts, cooing a coddling, " Aww, " at the display. The mongrel's leg is observed with a scrutiny that could be mistaken for judgement of smooth recovery. It is not.

Blue lagoons flicker toward shimmering amber. " Once you have more of a... handle on that, " he says starts, and an airy tittering at his expense is stifled poorly... " -You can leave my sight for good. " Well, unfortunately it is exaggeration for the most part... but he could do with less of him in his life, all the same.​

 

[SILVERSMOKE]

He supposed that Slate's condition should have brought him some satisfaction.

When it came to the other tom, the spotted tabby had a lot to be angry about. But, staring unblinkingly towards the black cat as he hobbled out of the medicine den, a feeling he'd never thought he'd have for him pinched at his belly: pity. Beyond a shared loyalty to SkyClan, there was something damning about seeing a great fighter brought down to such a level. 'He'd be dead if we were where we were all those moons ago.' There were no medicine cats in the Twolegplace, no food brought to you when you were poorly, or shelter when you could not fight for your own. You either remained in your prime, or you died.

A part of him wondered if Slate would rather die than become something weaker than what he once was. Then, Silversmoke looked away, and the image of the tom within his mind quickly turned into a silver visage and when he asked the question again, he could not give a definitive answer.

Silversmoke prowled closer, ears pinned to his skull at Dawnglare's mockery. 'The clan'd be better off if you left their sight for good.' His glare spoke when his tongue refused to, shifting his head away from the wine-red tom to address his former adversary. "I know it's difficult for you to twist about at the moment." A glance between Slate's hip and the knots of obsidian upon his back, hesitance filled the silence following his observation. "But you and I both know how much matts hurt." A shared ancestry somewhere between them, similar fur, similar... problems. StarClan, he couldn't believe the solution he had for it. "Let me take care of them."

​

 

[budkit]

The last time she had seen Slate he was nestbound and requesting seeds. Seeds to feed the mice. The mice living under his fur. The mice who must be fighting and hurting each other given the maine coon’s uttered ‘ow’s. And ‘shit’ but that was a word that Budkit had never heard before (or at least one she doesn’t recall hearing?). The point kitten tilts her head at the new piece of vocabulary. It’s a weird word… “Shit.” She repeats it to herself as she wanders over to the trio.

Budkit plops herself down beside Dawnglare and titters a mimicked “awww,” at Slate, all while scrutinizing his disheveled coat. Sapphire blues search and scan for what might be the entryway for the mice living in his pelt. Maybe he had a tear somewhere and that’s why he wasn’t as big as he was before? It’s one massive mystery to little Budkit. Her squinted gaze softens as Silversmoke offers to help detangle Slate’s matted fur.

Ah! That’s how I can find where the mice get in!

Brilliance glows triumphant between ebony ears as Budkit springs to her paws (never one to stay seated for long, this child) and scampers up to the massive black tom. “Budkit will help! A’Cause Budkit wants to help… Budkit not helping to find da mice, no worry ‘bout dat,” she quickly explains, making her intentions clear (to her) before lightly trying to tug at a matted piece of fur on the former lead warrior’s tail.

No mice here, she observes.​

[ penned by kerms ]​

 

[Chickbloom]

It felt…wrong, to see Slate like this. Dinner-plate eyes hardened for a half moment from his spot at the other end of camp, wondering how to describe this feeling. Pity? A little, but not much. Chickbloom knew how hard the other worked, but he was also relieved that that perpetually-angry face had been sequestered to the medicine den instead of wandering around camp scaring people (mostly Chickbloom).

It was like…if the moon disappeared one day, or if there were suddenly no more twolegs. A fundamental law of reality disobeyed. Gravity, time, Slate being horrifyingly intimidating. One of these rules had been broken, and it was frankly disturbing. “He could still beat me though, even like this” The whelp huffed the thought to himself, trying to keep a level head.

Chickbloom was content to stay far away and watch until two things propelled the baby bird to his paws: first Budkit, who’d been standing next to him, suddenly tainted her own innocence by repeating Slate’s words before padding forwards. Next (and far more worrying), Dawnglare came out to mock. Perpetually-wide eyes exploded with fear as he began to approach, hoping the medicine cat didn’t get himself killed.

Chickbloom was no fan of Dawnglare either, but Skyclan needed its senior medicine cat alive. Starclan knew what Slate would do! He could rip out his throat, tear off a leg - well, Dawnglare could survive without a leg. Would that be such a bad thing? Might teach him some humility…The Scottish Fold shook the thoughts away, focusing own the (overblown) present danger, at least until Silversmoke appeared.

Silent prayers flooded out of Chickbloom as he saw his friend - and also Dawnglare - surround slate, soon joined by Budkit. They were like three circus performers, all sticking their head in the lion’s mouth. Chickbloom, on the other hand, kept his distance. “You all are b-braver cats than me…” he muttered, mentally preparing himself to intervene the second slate snapped at Silversmoke or Budkit. Dawnglare could afford a few moments alone with the brute, though.​

 

[SLATESNARL]

A giant rodent in a cat's skin, the red-hued heel makes an appearance just to grin and not-so-subtly snicker at Slate's unfortunate physical state. The two have never gotten along—in fact, Slate doubts if he'll ever understand the egocentric medicine cat—and it was even more frustrating that this tom had operated on his mangled leg. The Maine Coon didn't know what would have happened had the medicine cat not intervened immediately, and knowing the possibility that Slate could have lived with a useless limb had it not been for Dawnglare was... discomfiting. Like it or not, he possessed much more skill and knowledge than Slate could ever dream of having for himself. Many cats owed their lives to Dawnglare's steady paw; it was only a shame that he could not be a more deserving soul.

Faux bushy brows knit, fiery embers crackling in molten irises. " 'm lookin' forward to it, trust me." The former lead warrior retorts through gritted teeth, whiskers bristling on his broad maw. Maybe Dawnglare deserved his appreciation, in all truth, but maybe Slate eventually vacating his residence would suffice as payment enough. Hopefully it would be a long while before he'd land himself back into that stuffy, smelly abode.

The Maine Coon regards the appearance of his former rival with a similar, mixed bag of emotion — here they were, seasons later, on leveled ground. Both had been relieved of their duties as lead warriors, no longer mentally competing for influence or standing in the leader's council but instead reflecting upon their dedication to the clan and their new place within it. After all of this time, they seemed to have arrived at a silent mutual agreement that they both desired the best for SkyClan. Slate had accepted this realization later on; it had taken moons of struggle to decide whether he was a rogue or a clan cat, but hopefully Silversmoke saw him as an equal now rather than an enemy. He was done butting heads with the silver warrior — he was an asset to the clan, a tom who had proved himself worthy time and time again. It was about time that they set their differences aside.

However, what came next completely blindsided Slate. Silversmoke was not only expressing a subtle sympathy for the damaged warrior, but he was offering to groom him free of his developing mats. The warrior was true in stating that Slate knew how inconvenient and tedious mats were to work through, especially when gone unattended for so long, but for the tabby to engage in such an intimate behavior with him... Slate seldom lets anyone groom him; even in the rare instances where he willingly participates in sharing tongues, he sits by himself. He only shared tongues with Cloverjaw on occasion and while he and Orangestar had begun to do so more frequently before his accident, sharing such a close proximity was foreign to the lone wolf. "You're... uh," His pupils are narrowed against his will, an expression steadily contorting into visible uneasiness plastered upon gruff features. "You're sure?" Slate could not deny that he needed the help, especially as Orangestar was having more mobility issues herself on top of being busy, but he hesitated to receive it from Silversmoke of all cats.

When the small point-marked form of Budkit scurried over, a small scowl twisted onto his lips. "Huh?" Slate could barely comprehend what the she-kit was even talking about, and as soon as she finished babbling, she fixated on his tail fur and pulled at it. Not that it really hurt or anything, but the former lead warrior did not appreciate the child's lack of personal space. "Hey, get outta' there." The charcoal-pelted tom grunted and yanked his tail away, curling it tightly around himself now. What was Budkit's fixation with him all about? Where was Butterflytuft when he needed her?

With the tip of Slate's tail still twitching irritably, his amber stare lifted, noticing a few eyes on him from around camp. Chickbloom, in particular, says nothing and stands there staring as if he's trying to monitor his every move. "I don't need you all watchin' me. I feel bad enough as it is." The warrior grumbles, flicking a shredded ear twice — a telltale sign that he is feeling awkward and uncomfortable. This truly was more attention than he wanted. Slate would have been perfectly content with being left alone, too, but he supposes that he sacrificed independence and solitude the moment he joined SkyClan.

𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 ✹ .　 + 　˚ 　　 · 　 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

• 

• 

  a warrior ( formerly lead warrior ) of skyclan, slate is forty-two moons. he is mated to orangestar. he is a hulking longhaired maine coon with black fur and prominent reddish rusting on his chest and belly. scars litter his form but are prominently present on his face. ✦

​

 

[WOLFGRIN]

Dawnglare's cruelty never ceases to amaze Wolfgrin. He isn't stupid enough to berate him for mocking Slate, that would get him stuck with apprentice duties for a moon, but as he pads over to join the little group gathered around Slate, he can't bring himself to let Dawnglare's words slide. Slate looks enraged, which only makes Wolfgrin feel more like intervening, despite Silversmoke's presence. Not sparing the medicine cat a single glance, he casually sidles in between Dawnglare and Slate, blocking their view of one another. "Oh, don't worry, Slate," he says lightly. "I'm sure you'll heal in no time under Fireflyglow's tender care."

Budkit's mimicking of Dawnglare would be cute, if it was any other cat besides Dawnglare. Wolfgrin frowns, wondering what kind of an influence the volatile medicine cat is going to be to her. "Budkit," he calls her gently, "Let's give Slate some breathing room, alright?" He reaches to carefully block her with a wide paw, trying to avoid letting his toes touch Slate's tail. He has enough cats poking and prodding him as it is, and he's visibly uncomfortable, grumbling at them like a bear woken too early from hibernation.

Following Slate's glance, he turns to see Chickbloom's wide-eyed stare, and winces. There's nothing he can say to comfort the tom that can be said in front of Slate, so he simply motions with his head and hopes the easily-frightened tom catches on. Between Dawnglare, Budkit, and Chickbloom, this is escalating into a truly messy affair, though Silversmoke's awkward offer is sweet. This is, as he would say if he knew the phrase, not his circus, and not his monkeys, but he feels compelled to attempt to clean up their shit anyways.
​

[ EVERYTHING DESERVES TO LIVE ON ONCE IT'S GONE -- ☀ ]​

 

[DAWNGLARE]

He scoffs at the tom's reply. Of course, Dawnglare had expected it. In all his moons, SkyClan has taught him to expect nothing more than unjust indignation. Whatever reason Slate had to look forward to a crowded, rotting den like the warrior's den...

...Was that where he's been staying? Something itching at the back of skull screams discrepancy, but he hardly pays Slate any attention when he is not forced to do so. A narrowed gaze becomes scrutinous, suddenly... but oh, looking at him for too long is giving him a terrible headache. He would ponder it another time — or perhaps he wouldn't. He owed no time past seed-dolings to this one. He's so very preoccupied with not-thinking about Slate that the shrewd form of Silversmoke is just-barely caught. By the time he is turning to him with a brow cocked, the tom has shifted his focus. Of course. Of course, because manners were surely foreign to any SkyClan cat. Any Clan cat period.

At the least, Budkit is a glimmering soul amongst a crowd of ingrates. Of course, there is plenty time left for things to array... but for the time being, she remains unmarred. That is, until Slate's foul words reach her ears. Dawnglare gapes. " Budkit, " tumbles from his maw, utterly aghast. Her mimicry would goad a giggle from him, if not for what had immediately preceded it. Dawnglare eyes her warily. " If you are to repeat after anyone, it ought to be me, " he suggests. Not as if he wanted her to, but if she simply must mindlessly repeat after older cats, he would not mind himself, obviously...

He thinks he must be mishearing things, as his ears suddenly swivel toward the likes of Silversmoke and Slate. Then Chickbloom is peeping closer, warbling something birdlike. Dawnglare regards him as if the ghost of a maggot-infested mouse has come to spin prophecy upon him. He wonders how easily his meat would fall off the bone, if given the chance.

Dawnglare does not need to be told twice to leave. Frankly disturbed by what may just be conspiring between the oaf and his silvery-counterpart, he is already keen on slipping away. What a surprise it is, then, to be swiftly intercepted by one Wolfgrin. And oh, what sacrilege upon his tongue. What a dull hope, to ever feel content in a place like this. A scowl mars the dual-toned facets of his face. ( Unease prickles his pelt, but then — it would seem more frustation than anything else... ) An icecap gaze narrows. " Let us hope Fireflyglow is around when something happens to you, hm? " a name only barely not-spat. He does not simply mean to imply that he would not aid Wolfgrin... but that something terrible may happen to him in turn, without Fireflyglow to protect him. Blind as he was, just how well could they detect a silent bite to the throat, he wonders.

Anyhow... Dawnglare wrinkles his nose. Stepping away from the unwelcome interject, his gaze narrows upon those remaining. " Yes, move along you two... Wolfgrin clearly wants to observe Slate and Silversmoke's... show in peace. " A discomfitted shudder wracks him briefly before he returns to his den.​

 

[budkit]

It is all too easy to get shifted off balance as Slate yanks his tail away, a harsh grunt of words to follow. Budkit stumbles slightly and ends up leaning into Wolfgrin’s paw to catch her balance. Big blue eyes stare up at the unfamiliar tom before welling with tears. The watery gaze is then tilted toward Slate and Budkit whimpers a soft “Budkit was helping,” in defeat. The large tom had not yanked away from Silversmoke when he started grooming the maine coon’s matted fur. What did she do wrong?

Maybe it was the mice choosing to be mean to her. Yeah, maybe she got too close to finding them. That had to be the only explanation.

Dawnglare’s voice draws her from her thoughts and Budkit sniffles as she looks to the bicolored tom. He instructs her to repeat after him and not the others (at least that is what she thinks he is saying) and the point kitten nods wobbly whilst lifting a paw to smear the tears in her eyes. “Otay,” Budkit agrees with ease. Not like she’d want to repeat anything Slate says ever again.

As the medicine cat begins to take his leave, Budkit too pushes to her paws and idles for a second before padding back to the nursery, ears angled back against her head and kinked tail limp and dragging behind her sorrowfully.​

[ penned by kerms ]​