sensitive topics I CARE IF I AM GUILTY! . . .

[DUKE]

PRELIMINARY CW : This thread will contain violence, blood, and minor gore. Proceed with caution!

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He hadn't wanted to come back here, not so soon . . . but, damn it, he's hungry and he's desperate. No kittypet wants to let him into their home yet, and the sparse unclaimed scrublands yield next to nothing. He sleeps under bushes, inside logs, wedged between rocks . . . and each night he falls asleep with a gnawing in the pit of his belly and an ache in his dry throat. It's funny . . . green - leaf is the season of plenty, in his experience, and yet he's never been hungrier. Maybe he relies too much on the kindness of infatuated kittypets.

He just wants a drink of water, something to make the scratching of his parched mouth and throat abate . . . the algae - ridden pools of the scrubland have little to give him, nor the oil - streaked puddles of Twolegplace. And if a piece of prey happens to pass by while he is, he'll get it and he'll leave. As he scoops mouthfuls from just near the scent line, savoring the cool freshness, he would swear up and down ( like he swore he'd stay with her ) that he had no worse intentions than that.

" It's you. "

He whips around on the sound of the unfamiliar voice, thick tail slapping the earth behind him, a growl stuttering low in his chest, cords of his neck pressing against his spiked collar. This freak again. Duke bares yellowing fangs, overgrown claws sliding out into the sand. The not - stranger's voice is as gravelly as their first encounter . . . and that time, he'd given the beastly young tom the benefit of the doubt, let him have the first strike, and sorely regretted it. The Maine Coon notes the newly healed tatters in his ear with some satisfaction.

" It's you, " he parrots mockingly, can't help himself from indulging in the little cruelty. Then he pounces, claws bared.​

 

[CICADAFLIGHT]

" It's you. " The words leave his mouth like a curse, like a prayer, like thanksgiving . . . because, in a way, the reappearance of this stars - damned rogue is a blessing wearing the cloak of a misfortune, sheep - devoured wolf. The behemoth had fled last time with Cicadaflight's ear snagged on his claws and nothing more than a few scratches to show for it, and he's certain it won't be the same this time. He'll leave with the rogue's life hooked on a lone lower fang.

He's startled, though, when the big tom swivels, his heavy tail smacking the earth as a growl rises to life in his barrel chest—and then lunges with spread claws bared, bowling over Cicadaflight's equally tall, albeit slightly less broad - chested, frame. Claws flash and fangs are bared, raking overlapping scores into the burlier tom's back, talons tracing pathways of blood down his thickly furred spine. Two tones of black fur fly, torn - out tufts flecking the earth as they tussel, grey clouds hiding the sun that might watch them. A light rain mists the pair—they're near indistinguishable, a twisting mass of black and white, pinning and flipping and swiping.

" Dammit— " he pants out, dull blood climbing slowly towards a song, towards the adrenaline - fueled frenzy that will ideally end with this tom's throat torn open and oozing a river into the puddling water in the sand as the rain pelts down, now, not a mist but a downpour that drenches both of their dense pelts. He catches the tom's cheek with spread claws, chunks of black fur tearing away with the warm spurt of blood that sets his own alight.

He's ablaze in the rain, now, smashing the rogue's head into the wet sand, sending a backwash of watery grains splattering them both. He pants steam over the lonely fang crowning his lower jaw, fire lighting up every limb . . . not the white heat of pain, the excess hellish burn that had kissed up his forelegs naught but a quarter - moon prior. No, this is a blessed blaze, a purifying one, excising the poison from his blood until it creeps back in, a momentary purity granted by the violence.

Cicadaflight raises spread claws for the killing blow.

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[DUKE]

For the young tom with something to prove whose claws are locked in his flesh, this is something with gravitas, with meaning; a purification, a redemption as fleeting as the summer storm that rages on alongside their battle. For Duke, long a betrayer and a forsaker of honor, of justice, this is pure survival. He fights not for his family, for his Clan, for his own shaky mind . . . no, for him, this is as simple as a fight for fresh, cool water and warm, living prey to fill the pit in his stomach.

But he's losing.

Last time, the warrior's motions has been all function, perhaps a hint of irritation when faithless claws had pulled flesh from his ear . . . nothing more. Now there's a vengeance behind each blow, each swing, each painful rake of claws down his spine. It's like holy fire courses through the tom's body, spilling out in his claws, digging deep and burning. Each pin isn't just a pin but a slam of his whole body into the watery sand until they're nearly in the river, a smash of his cheekbone into the ground, waves lapping dangerously close to his open mouth.

He can barely seem to land a scratch on the young tom, this time, and it might infuriate a braver cat, but it fills him with a coward's fear. Every second they battle is another set of clawmarks scored down his back, flesh wounds dotting his body, until . . .

. . . . His face is caught in spread claws and slammed into the dirt, watery sand spattering his face, filling his mouth with the unwelcome taste of the river. His enemy stands over him, panting, pupils dilated, two black moons swallowing up alternately toned eyes. A white paw raises, ready to seek the soft meat of his unguarded throat, and Duke has a horrible realization as cold as the rain: He's going to die here.

He's going to die here, unless he does something.

And so a great smoked black paw rises, tufted claws spread wide, and strikes.

A shriek splits rain - soaked air.

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