- Nov 26, 2022
- 528
- 141
- 43
Thoughts of varying degrees ruminate in Slate's mind as of late — taking on the role of a father, a mate, a warrior of SkyClan. What the future would hold regarding his hip injury, his new family, and the clan in general. He has had time—far too much time—to think about his life while on bedrest. Duties have always served as a means of occupying Slate's thoughts, disallowing him to sit and think, but now he hadn't a choice but to do so.
His amber eyes linger pensively on the parameters of the hushed camp, nightfall having lulled most of the clan to sleep by now. Cricket song serenades the woods, cushioning the silence that permeates the leader's den. The hulking Maine Coon had not uttered a word to his mate in a while now, his attention having been captivated by a nagging concept that refused to vacate his brain. His earlier conversation with Kite had spurred his thinking, ideas of fractured identity and belonging haunting Slate long after he's accepted his place as a clan cat. It was true that the warrior had abandoned his association with rogues the moment he'd killed one himself, but Slate knew that this decision would only further solidify the distinction.
Slate had grown to despise his parents for who they were — prideful, twoleg-serving show cats whose relationship with their own children was nothing but superficial. He was ashamed of his own origins and was determined to avoid subjecting his future children to a similar experience. He had been a selfish street rogue for most of his early life who lived to steal and fight. As far as he could help it, his kits would know both of their parents as dutiful and loyal clan cats. They would not know their father as a tom who refused to take a warrior name, who had come from such a low place and struggled to let go of his past for so long.
This would be for the better, not only for himself but for his family. Never had he thought he would ever see the day, but unforeseen circumstances had made Slate realize that he should delay no longer. "Ora," The Maine Coon grunts, turning his stiff body to the best of his ability to face his mate. The den was quiet but he could tell that she had been stirring for a bit. For a moment he hesitates, though once his soft amber gaze meets pools of brown, he meows, "I think... 'm ready." The request perches on the tip of his tongue now.
"I want a warrior name."
His amber eyes linger pensively on the parameters of the hushed camp, nightfall having lulled most of the clan to sleep by now. Cricket song serenades the woods, cushioning the silence that permeates the leader's den. The hulking Maine Coon had not uttered a word to his mate in a while now, his attention having been captivated by a nagging concept that refused to vacate his brain. His earlier conversation with Kite had spurred his thinking, ideas of fractured identity and belonging haunting Slate long after he's accepted his place as a clan cat. It was true that the warrior had abandoned his association with rogues the moment he'd killed one himself, but Slate knew that this decision would only further solidify the distinction.
Slate had grown to despise his parents for who they were — prideful, twoleg-serving show cats whose relationship with their own children was nothing but superficial. He was ashamed of his own origins and was determined to avoid subjecting his future children to a similar experience. He had been a selfish street rogue for most of his early life who lived to steal and fight. As far as he could help it, his kits would know both of their parents as dutiful and loyal clan cats. They would not know their father as a tom who refused to take a warrior name, who had come from such a low place and struggled to let go of his past for so long.
This would be for the better, not only for himself but for his family. Never had he thought he would ever see the day, but unforeseen circumstances had made Slate realize that he should delay no longer. "Ora," The Maine Coon grunts, turning his stiff body to the best of his ability to face his mate. The den was quiet but he could tell that she had been stirring for a bit. For a moment he hesitates, though once his soft amber gaze meets pools of brown, he meows, "I think... 'm ready." The request perches on the tip of his tongue now.
"I want a warrior name."
