- Nov 26, 2022
- 528
- 141
- 43
Now that Slate was cleared to resume his duties as a warrior again, he figured that he'd stop putting off some much-needed climbing practice. He didn't like climbing trees; he thought himself to be much too bulky to properly balance upon a branch and let alone traverse the trees. However, the battle with WindClan had made Slate feel... embarrassed. Like a letdown. Everyone else had utilized the trees in order to launch a sneak attack on their opponents while Slate had remained behind, only charging into battle when the others signaled that the fight had begun.
Slate would never admit that he needed to know how to climb in order to be a SkyClanner, but he felt inadequate not being able to keep up with his clanmates when it truly mattered. That was why the Maine Coon was crouched atop a wooden limb, situated carefully so that he wouldn't lose his balance. He could manage to climb to a low-lying perch without falling, at least, so now it was time to take his training to the next level — jumping from branch to branch.
After drawing in a couple of sharp, preparatory breaths, Slate quite literally makes the leap.
Perhaps, in slow motion, he'd look quite elegant — wispy dark fur waving in the wind, deep amber eyes narrowed and fixed onto his target, limbs outstretched like a graceful hunter. It wouldn't appear that anything could possibly go wrong... that is, until his claws finally made purchase onto the branch.
Slate's confidence wavers and a cocktail of doubt and fear flood his brain as ivory daggers outstretch and curl into the bark. Back legs bunch upward in an attempt to secure themselves onto the pine's limb as well, but it's a struggle to do so. With his weight pulling his body down, Slate's front claws scramble to get a proper hold of the branch. Shakily, seemingly, they finally do.
If he was smart, he wouldn't look down. He knows that he shouldn't, that it would only scare the hell out of him, but there is a certain regarding curiosity and cats. Dark pupils stretched into moons as he cranes his neck, nearly throwing himself for a loop at how far down it was.
In reality, Slate was hanging from one of the lowest branches, but to an unseasoned climber like him it felt like he was practically in the clouds.
"Holy—" The lead warrior grits his teeth, his muscles trembling as he held on for dear life. Slate had never fallen from such a tall height before. He had just healed from his injuries, too; he couldn't be sent to Dawnglare's den again! What was he going to do?
// he's going to fall, so keep in mind that there's no saving his ass
Slate would never admit that he needed to know how to climb in order to be a SkyClanner, but he felt inadequate not being able to keep up with his clanmates when it truly mattered. That was why the Maine Coon was crouched atop a wooden limb, situated carefully so that he wouldn't lose his balance. He could manage to climb to a low-lying perch without falling, at least, so now it was time to take his training to the next level — jumping from branch to branch.
After drawing in a couple of sharp, preparatory breaths, Slate quite literally makes the leap.
Perhaps, in slow motion, he'd look quite elegant — wispy dark fur waving in the wind, deep amber eyes narrowed and fixed onto his target, limbs outstretched like a graceful hunter. It wouldn't appear that anything could possibly go wrong... that is, until his claws finally made purchase onto the branch.
Slate's confidence wavers and a cocktail of doubt and fear flood his brain as ivory daggers outstretch and curl into the bark. Back legs bunch upward in an attempt to secure themselves onto the pine's limb as well, but it's a struggle to do so. With his weight pulling his body down, Slate's front claws scramble to get a proper hold of the branch. Shakily, seemingly, they finally do.
If he was smart, he wouldn't look down. He knows that he shouldn't, that it would only scare the hell out of him, but there is a certain regarding curiosity and cats. Dark pupils stretched into moons as he cranes his neck, nearly throwing himself for a loop at how far down it was.
In reality, Slate was hanging from one of the lowest branches, but to an unseasoned climber like him it felt like he was practically in the clouds.
"Holy—" The lead warrior grits his teeth, his muscles trembling as he held on for dear life. Slate had never fallen from such a tall height before. He had just healed from his injuries, too; he couldn't be sent to Dawnglare's den again! What was he going to do?
// he's going to fall, so keep in mind that there's no saving his ass
