ON AND ON AND ON AND ON — intro, kittypet

C

CLEVELAND

Guest
Dainty paws pick through the snow with disdain, shaking off droplets of water and ice with each step. Why, in heaven’s name, did they choose today of all days to go adventurin’? They aren’t regretting it, though, ‘cause there’s stuff out here! Like squirrels and mice and even that weird wire cage thing that had ham in it. Ham! Their people don’t even give them ham unless it’s a special occasion!

They’re searchin’ for a way home, to be honest. The snow’s obscured their path, coming in heavy overnight, and they’ve been huddled up beneath a log for the night. Their paws are startin’ to go numb, but at least the cape around their shoulders keeps the wet stuff from sticking to most of the fur on their back. The worst part, though, is that they can’t find a litterbox out here. They can deal with a little cold-pawed pain, but the humiliation… the lack of class they’ve had to exhibit! They feel a bit bad for the strays and… ferals that live outdoors all the time, without boxes, but not bad enough to change nothing. They’re still excited to go back home whenever they can find their way out of this snowbound hellscape.

Somewhere in the middle of their hike a shuffling sound meets their ears, and the tabby whirls around in place, back hunched, ready to make a break for it. "Uh," they say, lookin’ around with wide eyes. "Hello? I ain’t got no soul for you to steal, promise."
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[ EVERYBODY NEEDS A FOOL ]​
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"Are you sure? You're living and breathing," Sheep prances out from behind a snowdrift, yellow eyes full of friendly spark and excitement. "Does it scare you if I say you might have one?" whiskers twitch in amusement as eyes go to scrutinize the man. Soft, plump and smells of a past life that she had left behind, oh, the corner of her mouth quirked down in a half-frown. She does not regret her decision but instead finds herself wishing she had stayed perhaps a little bit longer. Perhaps she would know most of the kittypets that trespass through their land (though she doesn't blame them, its hard knowing what scent markers are after being in a den the whole time). More friends meant more fun, right?

"You're on Skyclan territory, though." the slash across her neck had faded to a dull pain and shes grateful for it, perhaps if he looked past that and to her bowtie he could find himself a little more at ease knowing she had been one of the house cats around, once. "What can we help you with, amigo?" though claws want to bury themselves in the ground she resists, knowing there was no possible way this could be a Windclanner. He has a... drawl in his voice, something shes heard before and she squints... Huckleberrys cousin maybe? Hm.... She'll ask later because family of a Skyclanner is always super duper fun!​
"speech"​
 
Being outdoors had never been something so spectacular for Slate, at least not before. He had been a traveler of the streets, a local of the alleyways, always muck and concrete pebbles getting stuck in between his toes. However, after being snowed into the warriors den on account of the blustery blizzard, he'd rather be anywhere but sheltered inside. As icy as the snow was, as numb as his pads grew, the fresh air was invigorating.

Unfortunately, it was not the scent of a mouse that he caught, but the smell of a stranger. They were not of SkyClan, not of WindClan or RiverClan, but of the city. Slate had not recognized the murky stench in weeks now — had he really been away for that long?

The stranger is scared, or spooked at the very least. Had he not noticed the scent of the border? All cats had a territorial instinct, an ability to pick up on turf markings and the like. However, judging by the accessory draped around his neck... perhaps he was not so well-versed in how the outside world worked. Slate momentarily squints towards the cape, immediately making an assumption about where exactly this tom came from. "You're not from around here, that's for sure." Grunted the former rogue, his stoic aura offering a complete counterbalance to Sheepcurl's optimistic and upbeat energy.

It was not impossible for cats from the city to find their way out into clan lands, as he's gathered from personal experience. Slate either assumes that the tom is lost or snooping around; for his sake, it'd better not be the latter. SkyClan, while ( perhaps overly ) inviting, still had to maintain borders. "You got a reason for being here, kitty? If not, you'd better run on home." It's not a false statement. It's not a lie. What, were they expected to let the tom stay and have a bite to eat instead? Perhaps share some stories? They had more important things to worry about in the middle of leaf-bare.

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— * ✰. ooc information recent events * ✰. —


  • ✰ SLATE
    —— amab, uses he/him pronouns. twenty-nine moons old. warrior of skyclan; former rogue.
    —— unrefined, rough and tumble rogue who is not accustomed to clan life. only trustful of his littermate, duskmane.
    —— link to tags. @ on discord for plots.

    quite the hulk of a cat, slate stands above the average clanmate with an arrogant gait. he has a dark gray ( bordering on black ) colored pelt with a pale-brown-tinged underbelly and whisps of tan at the tips of his chest hairs. amber-colored eyes contrast against his dark palette. notable features include a jagged scar across his right eye and two small scratches across the bridge of his nose.
  • —— decided to officially remain in skyclan as a warrior
    —— participated in battle with windclan, currently recovering from belly scratches and a bite mark on hind leg

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☁ "Oh do be nice, Slate, it won't kill you." Sharpeye hummed with a curl at the corner of his maw as a smile threatened to peer through. He could understand why some might be more prickly than usual at that current time given the recent assault on their clan, but he didn't believe that their wariness of the unknown should take precedence over the way they conducted themselves. It is evident to him that this was a kittypet, likely lost.

"I feel like we're getting off on the wrong foot. My name is Sharpeye, this here is Sheepcurl, and Slate. We live out here in this forest as part of SkyClan. Who might you be, and what has brought you out here?" The tom would query with a gentle tip of his head.
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Kindness was not a weakness, but plenty of times it could be a prequisite to one. There was a brief moment, as he prowled closer, where he found himself agreeing with Slate's words, until he remembered where the rogue tom had come from and how much hypocrisy dripped from his stance on trespassers. He shot a scornful glance the back of his adversary's head, biting back an 'I could ask you the same thing'. Slate's intentions were still easy ones to doubt, even if the rest of the clan had warmed up to his loyalty due to the raid, Silversmoke knew that blood knights did not need a motivation to lunge into the thick of battle. He preened down the unruly fur on his chest before approaching any further, and when the long-furred feline looked up again, his mismatched gaze was settled on the stranger. A dark pink nose twitched. No clan scent, though that was to be expected after the implementation of the borders. With the weird pelt on its body and an accent seldom heard among the cats, the spotted tabby's neutral mouth dropped into a disappointed frown. Of course it was a kittypet, StarClan be damned, why wouldn't it be a kittypet where SkyClan was concerned?

His ears pinned back picturing the welcomes and greetings now, the promises of fulfilment a life as a Daylight Warrior would bring and the charity that a housecat thought they could over to 'lowly' ferals. Questions had already been asked and Silversmoke, with his head held high, chose not to add on to the list of things for the other to answer. Instead, he'd wait for an opening to speak his peace, watching ever so carefuly for any signs of threatening behaviour. Thankfully (as long as Cleveland didn't want to join), the other tabby seemed as hopeless in the new environment as a newborn kit.

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An answering voice comes from a snowdrift, saying that surely they’ve got a soul, and they cock their head to the side. They stare for a moment, and then a cat appears from behind the snow, all curled fur and pretty eyes but definitely not their type. She wears a collar, so maybe she knows the way back home? She says somethin’ about a SkyClan and wants to help him, so he concedes, "I think ‘m lost."

The next cat he sees is absolutely his type, though, with scars and a handsome face that he’s very weak for. He’s caught up in amber eyes for a few heartbeats—but not distracted enough to miss the gruffness of the other tom’s statement. He can’t help but bristle a bit at the word kitty and the venom in it, but that’s prob’ly the reaction the big guy is lookin’ for. "Now, y’all," he drawls out, "we ain’t gotta be hasty or nothin’. I’m just lookin’ to head home, yeah?" He looks around, wide eyes taking in all the ferals who now face him. His mouth goes a little dry.

Holy shit, if he ain’t dead by the end of the day he’s gonna have the best story to tell the neighbors.

The third cat—introduces himself as Sharpeye, has a strange name like the first one—says SkyClan again, and he’s never been good at hold in’ his tongue when he it’s be best for him. "Name’s Cleveland, ‘n’ I think I got lost—wait, back up, the hell’s a SkyClan? Y’all are just—livin’ in the backyard?" There’s no way that this is a forest. Where’s all the leaves, and the grass? And ain’t forests supposed to have stuff like squirrels an’ tigers? He doesn’t get it. "And if you’re Sheepcurl and Sharpeye an’ Slate… who’re you?" Mossy green eyes flicker from face to face, and then land on the last cat to approach. This cat says nothing, but looks unhappy to see them, head head high and scrutinizing gaze sweeping over their pelt.
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[ EVERYBODY NEEDS A FOOL ]​
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His spine arched with Cleveland's words, the quiet storm brewing within the tabby finally unleashing. "This isn't just a twoleg backyard for you to play around with. This is the wild, our home, and you will give it the respect it deserves." He warned, his bark worse than his bite when addressing the kittypets. Two ugly scars ran down the tabby's face, a third contorted the fur on his shoulder into untameable strands. He had lived in SkyClan longer than he had ever been in Cleveland's shoes, it was a dangerous naivety that could get them into trouble if they didn't watch their mouth. Silversmoke stomped forwards, assessing the rosette feline even more thoroughly through his bicoloured gaze. How many other housecats had come wandering into their territory with the promise of adventure, only to end up joining the clan as a Daylight Warrior? It was a tale as old as time, and he could imagine Sheepcurl taking the initiative of adding Cleveland's name to the list of kittypet fighters. Time passed and Silver's open-mouthed scowl softened into a frown, contemplative as he mulled over Cleveland's words. 'Of course he's lost... why wouldn't he be lost?' Dread gnawed at him, he didn't want to visit the Twolegplace again.

"Silversmoke. My name is Silversmoke." A name befitting of the feline, whose pale fur plumed like smoke a twoleg tower. His attention briefly flittered toward his clanmates, as if waiting for them to inevitably invite the kittypet to train, before interjecting with a more logical proposal. "I can help you get home. This time. Don't make a habit of invading space that isn't yours, any other clan and your pelt would be lining someone's nest by now." Though, depending on how miserable the Twolegplace had become, killing the cat that forced him there still seemed awfully tempting. He let out a sharp sigh, recalling Cleveland's earlier confusion as he prepared to guide the feline home. Right, he didn't know what a 'SkyClan' was, it would be a miracle from StarClan if recognised the other clans either. "Clans are... groups of wild cats. We have set codes we follow, and different traits and values that separate us. SkyClan..." He grumbled quietly, his ears flattened in embarrassment. "Are known for letting kittypets become partial clan members. Don't take that as an invitation though, I'm not able to accept anyone into the group, and, being blunt, you don't look like you'd be able to handle it."



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He still limps when he walks, and his movements are little more than small steps, paws shuffling against forest floor with no undergrowth. Kicking up watery pine needles and mud as the blizzard remnants melt. Blazestar follows the commotion, jaws parted and muscles tensing as he prepares himself for yet another altercation. But his shoulders relax with relief at the realization that this is just another lost kittypet.

He lifts his tail in greeting, wincing as he quickens his strides to stand amongst his Clanmates. Silversmoke and Slate are blunt, while Sharpeye and Sheepcurl exude kindness. Blazestar only purrs with amusement. The innocence of a kittypet who has never met a Clan cat before -- it's refreshing to him, especially after the barbarism his Clan has only recently survived. "They speak the truth. This is no housefolk play area. This is SkyClan territory, and all of us--" He nods to each warrior, "Are SkyClanners. I'm the leader, Blazestar."

He looks the gray tom from ear tips to paws to tail, assessing, evaluating. "Are you interested in becoming a SkyClan cat, or are you only visiting? In leafbare, prey is too scarce for us to share with kittypets. If you have a place to go and have no desire to contribute to our Clan, I'm afraid I'll have to ask one of these warriors here to escort you back to your housefolk." His tone is gentle, despite the serious steel laid beneath the softness. "But it is true that we have daylight warriors. Sheepcurl here was one, once." He nods to the curly-pelted lead warrior. "A cat who lives with housefolk by night, but works for SkyClan by day, helping us hunt, protect our territory, and train our young."

His whiskers tremble with a smile. "It's not an easy job, though. Ask her. Living with a paw in two worlds can be difficult." The words choke in his throat, and he's dazed, suddenly, realizing he has referenced something darker. Again. He struggles to push the thought away. He doesn't have time to be consumed. Not right now.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​
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They don’t really get why the ferals are acting so rude. The silvery one, all scarred up and spittin’, demands respect for his home and warns of invading the territory of others. As if this group of wild cats owns the backyard, the woods, the trees and the dirt themselves. They must think highly of themselves, to own land like humans own cats. It don’t really make sense to him, but maybe that’s just ‘cause everybody back home lets everybody else into their space, no problem.

A reddish tom who introduces himself as the group’s leader talks ‘bout the same yadda-yadda danger and death, as though Cleveland meant to be here. "Y’all ain’t listenin’ to me," they protest, though it’s with a careful tone—reasonably respectful, they was raised. They ain’t trying to lose an eye, here. "The forest is the backyard," he states plainly, gesturing around them with a paw as though that explains anything. He tries to steel his face, but his expression sways toward irritation for a moment, brows pinched together for the briefest of seconds. Normally things like this just roll off his back, water off waxed feathers—or in his case, waterproof coat—but the stress of gettin’ lost and then stumbling across some cult in the yard is sorta getting to them.

The slender tom drops into a bow, stretches, and yawns—a quick way to calm himself down, rebalance himself. When he straightens, there’s a bright, boyish smile across his maw. He’s tryin’, so hard, to be nice. But he’s lost and he’s tired and he’s ready to go home and not look at these fuckin’… fuckin’ ferals no more. "An’ you’re right, we don’t play here. We get lost out here and go missin’ and die. ‘Specially in winter when ya can’t smell nothin’."

The red pointed cat—Blazestar, as he’s introduced himself—extends the invitation to join that Silversmoke claimed to be unable to give, and Cleveland stares at him throughout his whole schpiel, unblinking.

This guy’s talkin’ as though kittypets (which must be their word for house cats, although for some reason the word falls from their mouths with the same ease of trash and weak) ain’t built to be outside same as any other cat. "I ain’t a—a naïve idiot, an’ there ain’t no way I wanna join your thing. I got a hearth callin’ my name, soon as I get home. And, with all respect, honest—dunno if I wanna get led home alone by that’n," they jerk their head in Silversmoke’s direction, green eyes narrowed and more than a bit panicked. That fella looks like he might eat ‘em for breakfast, or a light snack on the way back to their home. Hell, he looks like he’s close to biting already. Feral, indeed.
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[ EVERYBODY NEEDS A FOOL ]​
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His claws unsheathed in frustration. "I'm listening to you, it's not my fault all I hear are the words of someone whose world is small and full of mundane privileges." The feral cat sneered, mere femtoseconds away from extracting the kittypet by force until a familiar Ragdoll makes his way through the crowd. He pauses mid-lunge, offering the leader a curious yet concerned eye, before straightening his posture and retreating a few steps behind the injured Blazestar. Silversmoke didn't know how wise it was for the point to be moving around after everything that had happened, but at that moment, all they felt was a wave of relief. There was civility there that the tabby could never have matched, not with each of Cleveland's words grating on him so easily. He'd been forced to grow up early, it was not always easy to empathise with those who'd been able to grow at their own pace. Nostrils flared, he listened to Blazestar explain the clan and explain Cleveland's options, the heavy thu-thu-thump of his heart in his ears a stark reminder of the adrenaline that had just started to coarse through his system. He wouldn't have hurt the tom, he thought.

There's a sick sense of envy that nags at his gut as Cleveland mentions a hearth that forces him to roll his eyes to save face. His flat ears twitched at the kittypet's words, a "Good for you," escaping their scarred muzzle before they even thought about what they'd said. Silversmoke blinked incredulously at Cleveland's next words. "Don't worry, I'd rather pull my own claws out than visit the Twolegplace. I offered to help you to be polite, I don't actually want to do it unless no one else does," He assured them. He could imagine Sheepcurl wanting to lead him home, perhaps even Sharpeye. He imagined Slate felt similarly to him, and if Blazestar even offered to go any further than they already had the tabby would protest. There was a fine line between coddling a perfectly capable cat and preventing them from overworking themselves, Silver only hoped they were treading it carefully enough. "But I won't kill you if that's what you're worried about. You sound utterly naive and insufferable, but you're not a threat to SkyClan, so you don't deserve to meet your ancestors yet." Briefly, he wondered where Kittypets went when they died. Hopefully, far, far away from StarClan.



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☁ Sharpeye was pretty close to giving Silversmoke a clout over the ear, but he managed to risk. Only just. The older tom showed restraint as he sheathed his claws. At least Blazestar had arrived to bring the peace, and to offer the chance for Cleveland to join them. Or to go home with the aid of an escort. Naturally the kittypet shunned the idea of having Silversmoke's involvement with their return to twolegplace. A soft chuckle escaped him as he took a step forward. "If you wish I can assist with getting you back to your twolegs." He offered whilst taking a moment to glance towards Blazestar to make sure that it was okay. It was just a pity that Cleveland seemed deterred from giving the clan a try, but given how things had gone thus far he supposed he didn't blame him. Maybe he could sway him during the walk... maybe.
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