- Jun 7, 2022
- 416
- 336
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this thread takes place after the pine cats have gotten their reinforcements! please remember to keep one character to one thread, so if your character is active in one of the other two threads, they can't come here! also, do your best to tag any extensive violence, gore, or death, just so everyone knows what they're getting into in each post. this thread will be locked when StarClan intervenes, but you are free to continue plotted pvp in private threads to its conclusion if you'd like.
− ♱ ABOUT : they’d had enough. moon upon moon playing nice with the kittypets until they ran them into starvation, killing or scaring any prey that dare cross their path. they sat back and got fat while his colony plucked away at frogs and lizard, chewing away at thin bones and too - tough tendons. lazy, fat twoleg pets had starved his colony for long enough. they would return to their nests, whether they wanted to or not. the bicolored smoke leads a patrol of the marshlands soldiers forward, keeping himself low to the dew - studded ground, keeping to the layers of shadow lying just beneath thick underbrush. briar had called for war, should the pets refuse to head back where they belonged ; a war that could have been won long ago, before rain and his posse grew to the size it was. it would have been much easier to chase off a couple of frightened, gathered pets than it would be a colony of misfits — rogues and loners alike had banded with the behemoth of a silver tabby now, padding their numbers with excess mouths to feed. the early morning sun begins to peek just over the pine - studded, the bitter bite of cool air seeping through wispy curls and chilling him, blood pumping adrenaline through his now too - thin body. the incident in the pine forest had led him down a path of rage ; cicada stands tall now, lined up in the clearing along with two separate marshland patrols, teeth bared and orbital audits pinned flat to the slope of his skull. the heavens are painted in watercolor pinks and baby blues, thick streaks of red sunrise bleeding through the scattered clouds like a wound itself.
they'd awoken early that morning, and as the rise of dawn stretched its cold fingers over the star - studded heavens, cicada would make his rounds. check on quiet, check on the freshkill pile, check on the soldiers that bustled about the early - risen camp ; fur bristling and muscles taut with the promise of war. the spike - furred ebony felidae had led her initial group with the intention of offering them one last warning. it had gone unheeded.
the second patrol bursts its way from the undergrowth in a wave of hisses and snarls, the mottled bicolor at its head. cats were already flying, fur torn in scraps and blood flying. he scopes out the battlefield through slitted pupils, before tossing his head towards the sky. they were prepared for this, for a fight ; he just hoped they wouldn’t scream for mercy once they've been beaten enough, like the dirt - colored tomcat who’d attempted to steal from right under their claws. his heart pounds wildly, a thrashing songbird battering already - aching ribs with sudden anxiety. they were prepared for this, “ drive them out! “ the tom yowls, the curled fur along his spine bristling with rage, icecap eyes alight with fury, “ send them back to their twolegs with their tails tucked. “ his tone is alight with a fiery rage, long, curved claws unsheathing from snow - dipped paws. they would have their forest back, and even if it had come to the point of taking it by force : so help him, they would.
− ♱ ABOUT : they’d had enough. moon upon moon playing nice with the kittypets until they ran them into starvation, killing or scaring any prey that dare cross their path. they sat back and got fat while his colony plucked away at frogs and lizard, chewing away at thin bones and too - tough tendons. lazy, fat twoleg pets had starved his colony for long enough. they would return to their nests, whether they wanted to or not. the bicolored smoke leads a patrol of the marshlands soldiers forward, keeping himself low to the dew - studded ground, keeping to the layers of shadow lying just beneath thick underbrush. briar had called for war, should the pets refuse to head back where they belonged ; a war that could have been won long ago, before rain and his posse grew to the size it was. it would have been much easier to chase off a couple of frightened, gathered pets than it would be a colony of misfits — rogues and loners alike had banded with the behemoth of a silver tabby now, padding their numbers with excess mouths to feed. the early morning sun begins to peek just over the pine - studded, the bitter bite of cool air seeping through wispy curls and chilling him, blood pumping adrenaline through his now too - thin body. the incident in the pine forest had led him down a path of rage ; cicada stands tall now, lined up in the clearing along with two separate marshland patrols, teeth bared and orbital audits pinned flat to the slope of his skull. the heavens are painted in watercolor pinks and baby blues, thick streaks of red sunrise bleeding through the scattered clouds like a wound itself.
they'd awoken early that morning, and as the rise of dawn stretched its cold fingers over the star - studded heavens, cicada would make his rounds. check on quiet, check on the freshkill pile, check on the soldiers that bustled about the early - risen camp ; fur bristling and muscles taut with the promise of war. the spike - furred ebony felidae had led her initial group with the intention of offering them one last warning. it had gone unheeded.
the second patrol bursts its way from the undergrowth in a wave of hisses and snarls, the mottled bicolor at its head. cats were already flying, fur torn in scraps and blood flying. he scopes out the battlefield through slitted pupils, before tossing his head towards the sky. they were prepared for this, for a fight ; he just hoped they wouldn’t scream for mercy once they've been beaten enough, like the dirt - colored tomcat who’d attempted to steal from right under their claws. his heart pounds wildly, a thrashing songbird battering already - aching ribs with sudden anxiety. they were prepared for this, “ drive them out! “ the tom yowls, the curled fur along his spine bristling with rage, icecap eyes alight with fury, “ send them back to their twolegs with their tails tucked. “ his tone is alight with a fiery rage, long, curved claws unsheathing from snow - dipped paws. they would have their forest back, and even if it had come to the point of taking it by force : so help him, they would.
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− CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
− tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
− speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
- none.