SLATESNARL
i love you like a rotten dog
- Nov 26, 2022
- 548
- 151
- 43
The pain was manageable today—not unnoticeable, no, but Slate could at least manage to keep himself awake instead of knocking himself out with poppy seeds again. The giant male slowly drags himself out of the medicine den as soon as Orangestar calls the clan together and, by the time he finally manages to sink into a comfortable position outside, she has already bestowed the rank of elder upon Palemoon. Slate clenches his jaw, focusing mostly on his breathing as a mixture of effort and pain has nearly winded him in the process.
His gaze momentarily rests on the red and white molly's stomach, his heart feeling as if it was sinking into his. Seeing how rounded Ora has become only makes the reality of Slate's predicament all too real. His mate still retains her same grace and regality, holding her head high and commanding the entire clan even as their awaited children nestle beneath her. He tears his attention away from them, even if it's difficult to.
Howlfire and Florabreeze are called upon next to join his mate's council; his mangled ears perk up, a dulled amber stare flicking toward the two she-cats who accept the offer silently yet graciously. Ora hadn't informed him about her choices; he knows that she is not entitled to confide in anyone about her decisions, but he cannot help but feel frustrated about being left in the dark, so to speak. Slate hasn't a say in anything anymore, and the stars know how burning with envy he'll be as soon as the meeting is dismissed. He wants to be there. He wants to support Orangestar, to be entrusted to help run the clan smoothly and take responsibility in her stead. Howlfire was a capable warrior, one he had even trained himself at a time. Florabreeze was a daylight warrior, one who was affable and had some training under her pelt by now, but was she ready for this? An underlying anxiety twinges in his chest — Slate only hopes that Ora will make the right choices for herself. If he could not step up again to the leader's council, then he hoped that Johnnyflame or Silversmoke would be allowed to return as well.
A plethora of cats, young and old, are called one by one to receive their new names. Slate does not voice his congratulations as per usual, not necessarily because he does not care but because he prefers to keep praises, if any, low-key. He narrows his pupils once Emberpaw is now known as Emberfall — the she-cat was very lucky that her leader nor her mentor had been present to witness her trash mouth and blatant disrespect for her superiors. Silversmoke would have seen to it that she would have stayed an apprentice—or perhaps been demoted to a kit—for six more moons. Now Emberfall is technically his equal, though it will be difficult for Slate to view her in that way.
Orangestar's next order of business is a critical one; she had gone without a second-in-command for a moon now, and with her expecting kits, someone would have to lead in her place. She would either pick from her current roster of lead warriors or perhaps select another cat altogether. Truthfully, Slate doesn't know who would be good enough to serve as deputy alongside his mate, but whoever it was would be subjected to his scrutiny.
"The deputy of SkyClan will be Twitchbolt."
The Maine Coon jerks instinctively. "Wha—ow." A scoff of disbelief is cut short by a sharp prick of pain that radiates from his bad hip. Slate grits his teeth, wincing, though his jaws slack open as congratulatory meows ring out from across the clearing. Twitchbolt. Varying emotions bubble and boil within Slate's gut — why did she trust Twitchbolt so much? He had let her down once already! There were other candidates more worthy than him. He had not proven himself capable in Slate's eyes. That stammering fool was no better than Silversmoke or Figfeather, or hell, even Howlfire. Slate's ivory claws knead the ground; even he would have taken the mantle for himself if he were able, as opposed to Twitchbolt.
The tom's features are unabashedly soured, though likely to go unnoticed by his other clanmates who were giving attention to the new deputy. Slate twitches his tail in an antsy manner, longing for the ability to storm out of camp and go sulk somewhere in silence. With one last bitter, disappointed glance to Orangestar, he begrudgingly decided to haul himself onto his limbs and drag himself back into the medicine den.
His gaze momentarily rests on the red and white molly's stomach, his heart feeling as if it was sinking into his. Seeing how rounded Ora has become only makes the reality of Slate's predicament all too real. His mate still retains her same grace and regality, holding her head high and commanding the entire clan even as their awaited children nestle beneath her. He tears his attention away from them, even if it's difficult to.
Howlfire and Florabreeze are called upon next to join his mate's council; his mangled ears perk up, a dulled amber stare flicking toward the two she-cats who accept the offer silently yet graciously. Ora hadn't informed him about her choices; he knows that she is not entitled to confide in anyone about her decisions, but he cannot help but feel frustrated about being left in the dark, so to speak. Slate hasn't a say in anything anymore, and the stars know how burning with envy he'll be as soon as the meeting is dismissed. He wants to be there. He wants to support Orangestar, to be entrusted to help run the clan smoothly and take responsibility in her stead. Howlfire was a capable warrior, one he had even trained himself at a time. Florabreeze was a daylight warrior, one who was affable and had some training under her pelt by now, but was she ready for this? An underlying anxiety twinges in his chest — Slate only hopes that Ora will make the right choices for herself. If he could not step up again to the leader's council, then he hoped that Johnnyflame or Silversmoke would be allowed to return as well.
A plethora of cats, young and old, are called one by one to receive their new names. Slate does not voice his congratulations as per usual, not necessarily because he does not care but because he prefers to keep praises, if any, low-key. He narrows his pupils once Emberpaw is now known as Emberfall — the she-cat was very lucky that her leader nor her mentor had been present to witness her trash mouth and blatant disrespect for her superiors. Silversmoke would have seen to it that she would have stayed an apprentice—or perhaps been demoted to a kit—for six more moons. Now Emberfall is technically his equal, though it will be difficult for Slate to view her in that way.
Orangestar's next order of business is a critical one; she had gone without a second-in-command for a moon now, and with her expecting kits, someone would have to lead in her place. She would either pick from her current roster of lead warriors or perhaps select another cat altogether. Truthfully, Slate doesn't know who would be good enough to serve as deputy alongside his mate, but whoever it was would be subjected to his scrutiny.
"The deputy of SkyClan will be Twitchbolt."
The Maine Coon jerks instinctively. "Wha—ow." A scoff of disbelief is cut short by a sharp prick of pain that radiates from his bad hip. Slate grits his teeth, wincing, though his jaws slack open as congratulatory meows ring out from across the clearing. Twitchbolt. Varying emotions bubble and boil within Slate's gut — why did she trust Twitchbolt so much? He had let her down once already! There were other candidates more worthy than him. He had not proven himself capable in Slate's eyes. That stammering fool was no better than Silversmoke or Figfeather, or hell, even Howlfire. Slate's ivory claws knead the ground; even he would have taken the mantle for himself if he were able, as opposed to Twitchbolt.
The tom's features are unabashedly soured, though likely to go unnoticed by his other clanmates who were giving attention to the new deputy. Slate twitches his tail in an antsy manner, longing for the ability to storm out of camp and go sulk somewhere in silence. With one last bitter, disappointed glance to Orangestar, he begrudgingly decided to haul himself onto his limbs and drag himself back into the medicine den.
