pafp Please, please, please, | Doeblaze | don't prove me wrong

[Sorrelsong]

SORRELSONG ​ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥​

Boom!!

She batting her anxiety away, the molly stared her sparring mate down with shakey breaths. Her lungs ached with memories. Was she really doing this? A wind kicked up rain, soaking her flank.
Doeblaze... Sorrelsong had never really been one for fighting. She was repulsive as a warrior, honestly. All hunt, not fight. It didn't really make any sense to her, she had little problem hunting small animals, but the second it could talk her claws were seathed. The first time she'd fought in earnest was when the foxes invaded the territory. Sure, she had helped reclaim Sky Clan territory under Blazestar's leadership, but... she hadn't fought as much as hid in a tree. The poor rogue... She still felt the slippery bark under paw. Was being a warrior synonomus with death? It had to be.

She frowned, shivering. Did she want this?

She had asked Doeblaze, a trusted friend of Duskpool's, for sparring help eariler that day. She had hoped that sparring someone she knew would help - this wasn't the frist time she'd asked someone to spar. She tried sparing Florabrezze and Silversmoke but had run away both times. She shoved her paws into the wet sand. It clamped onto her pawpads, sticking them to the ground with a concerning wet feeling. She would not run this time. maybe it's not that I need to know the person, maybe I just need to be stronger. She still felt guilty eating freshkill.

"Ready when you are," she called, her voice a trained stoic tone that did not match her body langauge. Tail lashing, Sorrelsong inenvertly sparyed herself with water. With a soft hiss she glared at her tail before returning to glance at her friend, muscles tense.

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Thread prompt from your prompt hub! Thank you for making it :D The day has been miserably gray and rainy, but for whatever reason—be that a strict mentor or an admirable work ethic—you're out here in the storm, listening to the crashes of thunder as you stand in the rain, waiting to spar on the now - damp ground of the Sandy Ravine. Huh, it's sure raining a lot . . . you can see a bunch of deep puddles forming in the old riverbed. Maybe you'll decide to splash in them, or maybe you'll be stricken by anxiety about the tales of flooding you've heard—it's up to you!

 

[DOEBLAZE]

The flinch she represses is withheld, but only barely; tension throbs anew in the narrow line of her jaw as she stands against Sorrelsong. Rain assails them both in tandem with the sky's thunderous crashes, the product of the tempestuous horizon above, its deep gray hue purpling like a bruise. Droplets slide down her thick cheek fur, drawing shaggy strands earthwards, but she does not waver in the face of the weather—if anything, musclebound shoulders square tighter, devotion in defiance of the sky.

Her pursuits have become obsessive lately, as devotion is apt to be; she seeks out sparring partners at every free hour. She wishes she could chalk it up to care for her clan, a selfless passion for its defense—these might be present, but they are eclipsed by her greater motive. Safety. Survival. She has never been a rogue, but the constant feeling of eyes on her back is like a viper twined between her vertebra. Irrational, some might call it, but she swears it to be true—she can feel someone watching her. Is it paranoia if they're really out to get you?

" Gotcha, " she mrrows simply in reply as Sorrelsong's words bring her crashing back into reality. She settles more deeply into an approximation of a battle stance, ivory forepaws set shoulder - width apart and the steady muscle of her forelimbs tensed and ready. A ripple of visceral satisfaction curls through her veins at the relative ease with which she falls into it, at least comparative to moons prior. Once, she had been as uncertain as the sleek she - cat before her, hesitant to deal a blow, to raise a paw, to align herself with violence. Now—now, she does not revel in it, but carries it out with the grim loyalty of a footsoldier. Doing what she must to survive, to guide forward the Clan she makes her oaths to.

Her paws slide in the damp earth, grit clinging uncomfortably to the tufts of fur between calloused pads. Doeblaze lunges forward, darting low and aiming to deal a blow to Sorrelsong's ankles and disrupt her balance. She moves with appropriate speed, but a misstep shifts her center of gravity and puts her slightly off - kilter, pulling some of the intended force of her strike.

OOC : —

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