GUESS THAT MAKES ME EVIL &. patrol

[SHADOWCLAN]

FROM THE SHADOWS...​

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Strong gusts allow for the pine needle covered branches to dance against the wind. The whistles can be heard as the breeze attacks the air, leaves and sticks, amongst other debris, being blown around. The wind makes it hard to tell which scents around the Great Sycamore are recent, or have simply been carried from elsewhere. There is one thing, however, that seems clear. There is something big within ShadowClan's territory. Deep claws marks are left behind from some sort of wild beast, carving grooves into the precious tree's bark. The cats of ShadowClan have no idea of the threat that lurks within the murkiness of their lands. What could have possibly been leaving such clues behind?

// the scene is now set! rosemire is the patrol leader, and the patrol has come upon fairly large claws marks on the great sycamore. note, this is placed after the poop patrol, and they still do not know what left these rather strange clues behind! they are more than welcome to guess and discuss because one thing is for sure— whatever is out here, it is certainly a threat.

@GRANITEPELT @rosemire @Lynxjaw @RIBBITLEAP
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[hitch]

It's the first time he's done this sort of thing, which probably should have been the sign to Rosemire that it wouldn't go well. Paired with his immense discomfort caused by even glancing at Granitepelt, it's safe to say Rose wasn't having an especially enjoyable patrol even before their group came upon the Great Sycamore's trunk. Deep, curved wounds have opened the bark, resembling claws— large claws, large enough to fell any of them with a half-hearted blow. "Something tells me this isn't the wind's doing," he says with forced humor, unable to drag his pale gaze from the tree. "It's doing a damn good job muddling the scents, though."

I N F O R M A T I O N
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[Lynxjaw]

He moves through the marshland with fellow clan mates, a looming shadow that rounded the back of the patrol as he trailed along. Mud and muck cling to his larger frame, each step met with a squelch that he had long grown used to. He had been quite anxious in regarding the muddled scent of whatever mysterious behemoth resided in their bog, waiting and watching. Was it watching them now? Was it predatory? His feathered tail sways back and forth in discomfort, the hair along the back of his pine rising and a cold shiver shimmies down to his muddied toes. He could only imagine large teeth, larger than any foe and thick ivory that could crunch any bone with sheer pressure alone.
As they approach the once Great Sycamore, now struck and singed from just one flash of lightning. He examines the charred wood and there he sees it, molten amber eyes resting upon the split bark where Rosemire's own eyes settled upon it. Large marks tore through the sturdy bark, exposing flesh of newer wood lay underneath. Claw marks larger than he had ever seen and made his look like a mere newborn kit's in comparison. A frosted chill rose up from his chest, clutching his throat and drying his barbed tongue. What could make this? At Rosemire's forced humorous statement, his finally tears his gaze away from what very well could be ShadowClan’s end if they weren't careful. "If the wind did that, then I may show an ounce of respect towards our moorland friends with no cover to soften the blow." He answers him, sarcasm dripping in his tone as he mentioned WindClan. Lynxjaw moves towards the tree cautiously, plumed tail flicking behind him whilst tufted ears swiveled for any sounds, though all that he can hear was the moving wind that whistled within his canals. He lifts himself up onto hind legs, stretching a lengthy body and still he could hope to reach that marks that bore into the charred bark. No scent once more, even being this close to it. If the warrior hadn't known any better, he might have thought the wind did this with how elusive whatever prowls in their territory was. He turns to the rest of the patrol, his maw set like stone. "Whatever it is, I don't think we should travel alone. Wouldn't want to stumble upon a curious clan mate that had claw marks like these in it, hm?" The tom chuckles darkly, grim humor glittering within bright irises and pinching at his cheeks.

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[ DESOLATION COMES UPON THE SKY ]​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Wind batters Granitepelt back so that every step is a struggle to keep up. He squints against the gales, dark green slits focusing intently on long white limbs strutting through the marsh grass. Every time their patrol leader meets his eyes, he can feel an unspoken discomfort thick in the air. Granitepelt isn’t sure if he’s imagining it or not, but he is perceptive enough to know there is some reason Rosemire avoids spending any time alone with him. He just isn’t sure what it is.

The Great Sycamore looms ahead of them. Granitepelt tenses his jaw, examining the deep claw marks scored into the bark with a heavy frown. Rosemire comments that the wind has blown all trace of scent marking away. He tastes the air for good measure, feeling the air cut across his gums and teeth, and blanches with displeasure. “We could still investigate,” he mutters.

Lynxjaw cracks a joke about WindClan. Granitepelt snorts in faint amusement, thinking about Cloudedsky and the strange way Sootstar had intercepted their relatively innocent conversation. There are still moments, even half a moon after the Gathering, when the young warrior thinks about his sole interaction with the WindClan leader. About the words she’d hissed in his face about his kittypet mother, and some secret laying between the two former marsh queens.

But now, he simply flicks his tail in agreement with Lynxjaw. The beast that had slashed against this tree is fearsome. He steps closer, lifting a forepaw and trailing the gouges. They are fearsomely deep. “Perhaps a badger?” He murmurs thoughtfully, half to himself. “It’d have to be an abnormally large badger if so, though. Look how high up they go.” He’s never known foxes to have fearsome foreclaws, nor possums, nor raccoons…

He purses his lips, pondering.
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[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[RIBBITLEAP]

It's a struggle to move with the wind battering against his sides, but part of him is thankful it's not a struggle he's alone in as his patrol pushes through the gusts. Ribbitleap will be even more thankful when the winds stop, but with how long the poor weather has lasted already, it doesn't seem like he'll be walking without bracing himself for a long while.

And even if the wind stops now - right at this moment, while the Great Sycamore is within eyesight - it seems he'll still need to be bracing himself. What's upon the charred landmark isn't hard to miss, after all - deep marks marring bark. The tree's home is known to be a training grounds, but the claw marks are larger than any he's ever seen before. Something else is training here, it looks like.

There's a cause for alarm as he parts his jaws to try to identify the source and its whereabouts, only to find the wind that's been striking at them has allied with the beast. There's no discerning the scents around the landmark, no telling when these claw marks were made. He's not the only one unable to track its scent, of course - with Rosemire's comments, the other two were bound to have tried too.

Lynxjaw's own quip is able to lighten the mood, but not by much, as Ribbitleap's gaze locks onto the carvings. What could it be? He watches as Granitepelt nears the tree, a suggestion of this being a badger's doing filling the air, only to follow with the gray warrior's doubt. The brown tabby finds himself stepping closer to the tree as well, but not nearly as close as the younger warrior.

"What else could have done this?" he finds himself asking. He doesn't know if he can imagine anything big enough to make these marks, and finds himself fearing for the moment he's able to.
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