duskclan I'VE BEEN TEMPTING FATE ✧ clan lessons

[GRANITEPELT]

The sun sets against the hills in a blaze of golden glory, though nothing can make the scrubland beautiful. Granitepelt cares naught for the aesthetic of his surroundings; the former ShadowClanner had been born and bred in dense darkness, sucking mud underfoot and towering pines blocking out the sky’s lights. He is no fool—he knows his followers no doubt miss the beauty of the moorland in newleaf’s blossoming glory, but Privetpaw, regardless of his heritage, would never know homesickness for such a thing. Granitepelt eyes the young tabby who stalks beside him, admiring him for his stoic calm the way he might have once cast an eye upon his own sons.

Privetpaw is better than Flintpaw, than Nettlepaw. Privetpaw was born to DuskClan, raised to be great. Granitepelt feels more of a connection to the dark-pelted apprentice than he does to his own kits, and he acknowledges that readily enough.

“Twolegplace will be more difficult to hunt in, so I want to make sure your hunting crouch is up to par,” he mews shortly to the young tom. “Rumblerain hasn’t had an opportunity to teach you yet, but you’re a swift learner.”

He sits, curling his tail over his paws, waiting for Privetpaw to show him his crouch. He’ll study the tom’s form with critical, lean green eyes, and his mouth will twitch upward or tilt down depending on the efficiency of his technique. “Twolegplace is full of cats with no Clan to call home,” he murmurs, “but in reality, the Clans are our biggest threat. Not those strays eating scraps.” He forces the fur on his shoulders to remain flat as he continues. “The Clans are organized around a leader whose word is as good as the stars’. That leader, no matter how corrupt, has all the power. You’ve seen the way I listen to our Clanmates when they have concerns, haven’t you?”

Smoothly, he allows no space to form between his question and Privetpaw’s response. “There is no such democracy in ShadowClan or WindClan. Sunstar and Chilledstar are not fair like I am. They will order their cats to die for them, to kill for them, and will give nothing in return…” He trails off, shaking his head as though despairing over the state of the forest Clans.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: please wait for @PRIVETPAW
• 
• Granitekit . Granitepaw . Granitepelt, he/him w/ masculine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 21 moons old, ages realistically on the 10th.
  — mentored by Pitchstar and Dogfur ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored Applepaw
  — windclan warrior. flint x sandra, gen 2.
  — formerly mated to Starlingheart, currently mated to n/a.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh blue and white tom with dark green eyes. arrogant, stealthy, sneaky, observant, perceptive, cunning, spiteful, envious.
  
  

​

 

[PRIVETFROST]

Privetpaw gazed upon the great sundown that dyed the treelines a saccharine molten orange, though even that would pall and fade as though the hands of the scrublands tore it to shreds and left the sky with naught. Yearning gloom yawned long and ached along the ends of bracken and thorn claws. Wine-dark fur blended into the mire of mukiness, as soundless and serene as the dusk settled upon the lands, for he was borne of the very tenebrosity that had crafted his homestead. For a kitten who had been born in the wasteland, Privet did not conceptualize of homesickness, for the satin shadows of perpetual night had been all that he had known. Alpenglow of the evening casted on both felines, and their path had been the most palmy and lively that the Duskclan territory had been. It would soon sink into nothingness, and Privet would sooner embrace the sweet soundlessness. Whiskers twitched, hairlike and svelte. Not many dared to crow past the sun's expiry.

Keen ears silently listened to Granitepelt's word like it were gospel, like the stone-colored tom held the answers to the grandest questions of life and the boy hung to his word as the pinpoint dew clung to the bowed leaf. After all, adults knew best, for they had lived on this earth far longer than he did. For the little star of Duskclan, he basked in the shadows of the pillars of his community. Granitepelt must have been the wisest of all the adults to be the leader, even more so than Berrysnap and Vervainfang. He believed leadership should be determined by who was the most whetted of wit and sharpest of skill. Not from starry boon, not from brute strength, not from familial ties. I'm a swift learner. I know that. Fern-green eyes gazed upwards to Granitepelt's scarred form, with Privet still bearing peach fuzz and wine-dark down on his juvenile face. Privet recognized that he was still of brittle bone and butterfly-wing limb, despite what youthful aspirations might have told him. Then, his leader stopped, and signalled for the young boy to show him a proper hunter's crouch, in the taciturn and forlorn manner than remarked so many of his kin of Duskclan. The apprentice did so, though it was a mere facsimile of what he had seen his peers perform, a pale imitation of ambition's scrawl. Uncertain paws shuffled along the treaden grass, eager to please and even more so fearful of disappointment.

The clans had existed to him as some sort of storybook villains, a foe remarked by unending evil and tyranny and avarice and every other bad notion in the world. After all, what sort of fair nation allowed its leader to hold all of the power? What sort of self-purported hero allowed corruption to run rampant throughout their ranks? What sort of brave victors allowed their subordinates to die as easily as lambs to the sleight hand of slaughter? Those of the moors had been declared his archenemy, and as Granitepelt spoke, there was only more reason for him to detest the felines that infested so much of the wonderful wilds. They did not deserve the fields, not when they had chased out the rightful martyrs of his brethren. (He vowed to make it right, someday.) "That's terrible." Privetpaw mewed, voice still fraught in puerile tone, naivete clinging like static to woolen hairs. "Why hasn't anyone stopped them yet? When I grow up, I will make sure that Windclan and Shadowclan get what is coming to them." He said next, pinprick voice full of the resolution that came after years of hardship and warriorhood, as though he had been born jaded and jagged.

𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦, 𝘱𝘰𝘰𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦 ── X ── 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘯 𝘢 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨

• OOC:
  
• 
• 

  —— PRIVETPAW / He/Him / 4 Moons
  —— Apprentice of Duskclan / Mentored by Rumblerain
  —— Wine-dark and white-tipped, almost like a magpie. He has black fur except for the tips of his ears, his muzzle and chin, a blaze on his chest, bottom portion of the legs, outer end of the tail, and along the upper ridges of eyes. He has ghost striping that can only be seen in certain sunlight. He has fern-green eyes.
  —— Cool, calculating, and much too mature for such a young age. Enamored with the life of a warrior and burdened by the expectations of his people. Hard to befriend and harder to maintain a steady friendship with.
  —— Penned by Tempest. Contact on Discord (naruk4mi) for plots and threads.

​

 

[hollowcreek]

( ✧ ) Despite the countless moons he lived and breathed for the moors, for the muck-ridden shadows of the marshes, Hollowcreek did not feel such heavy remorse to have lost it as he expected. The tragic loss of their matriarch, Sootstar, had stirred more feeling in him than being ousted to lands only rogues and loners roamed. Time had nursed him from the loss of the she-cat he called friend, finding a new faith in her chosen successor.

Granitepelt was, above all things, a fighter. Like a weed he clawed his way to survive in even the harshest of environments. For Hollowcreek his ambitions were a large source of his energy, his motivations to keep moving even in the face of hunger or thirst; he wondered if Granitepelt was the same.

One of Berryfang's kits was given the grace of a lesson regarding the Clans and Hollowcreek wondered about the three scaps he had found at Fourtrees. Deep within the tom, he knew they were his. He and Harbingermoon had spent so much time together he could guarantee there was no other cat possible of fathering his litter. But his pride, his pain, disallowed him from ever claiming them as his own. There was no doubt Sunstar was raising them in a nursery the bred fierce loyalty to him. He had gifted the tom a garden of strong potential for his warriors den, and he was prepared to one day meet them in a battle they may not win.

"They are convinced the stars will grant them all they've wished for if they do." Hollowcreek grumbled from the sunny patch he laid in. "Sootstar was the first to see through the lies, but they regarded her as a threat to their little paradise."
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( I SEE YOUR COLLARBONE ; AND WANNA LOSE CONTROL )