private SHOOTIN' SHAMBLES ↷ [ dual training ]

[smogstar]

Neck-deep in Leaf-bare's stranglehold, there remains hardly any merit left in griping about the snow. With that said, however, the bitterly cold weather is not something a single cat here will forgive easily, least of all the cats who haven't experienced this before. Kits born at the season's cusp, apprentices who've not a clue about how bad prey shortages can get. They complain, and they moan. They scold the cold and scorn the snow, as though the stars owe them any degree of charity.

Here, in this low-lying, dismal expanse generously called a territory, the wind itself bites more viciously than any fox or badger could. Even a passing draft is like a blizzard; and with so little prey, no cat wants to risk the perils of even setting so much as paw outside the camp walls. It is yet a reality ShadowClan endures in unison: no prey, no dignity, and no voice to proclaim their frustrations.

Thriving in spite of adverse circumstances is what defines survivors from the fallen. Hence the basis for today's dual training session. It is the deputy's intent to prove a very simple lesson to Ashenpaw: adapt and overcome, or else submit to the whim of nature's will. Combat training sessions were already part and parcel for his apprentice's curriculum—this time around, Ashenpaw shall pit his prowess against another apprentice in his age group, all in the epicentre of a swirling snowstorm.

Saffron eyes, framed by brows pinched, keenly trace Flintpaw's path behind Scalejaw. Once more, he yearns to see Granitepelt's spawn fail - miserably - in a spectacular manner. "Use the terrain to your advantage, Ashenpaw," Smogmaw asserts, head swung over shoulder. His tone is loud, and his breath comes in a hot puff from pursed lips. The deputy is certainly putting more than a little emphasis on today's session for his son. He stands at the tail-end of his tutelage. Today's display can, and will, act as a pre-examination. "Let your hind paws find purchase in the snow, and use your front paws to push your momentum ahead. You'll cover distance much more quickly."

Then, his dark-smirched noggin cranes low, maw hovering just aloft the younger tom's crown. "Make him eat snow," he whispers.

Snowflakes pelt against his square face. Such conditions prompt a squint when he reroutes his vision, nodding once towards Scalejaw. The burden of commencing the spar falls upon her black, sturdy frame, and as he studies the warrior opposite, the early hints of a smirk begin to stir.

// @scalejaw , @ASHENPAW , @FLINTPAW ​

 

[ASHENFALL]

˚⊹₊‧ 𖦹 Thriving is not exactly what Ashenpaw would describe himself as doing amidst these various adverse circumstances, but he was indeed... standing there. And breathing, and such. Which would count as at least a passing grade in existing, right? And he was fine with that.

Though... complacency in one's own unremarkableness probably is what got Sharpshadow locked in the apprentice's den for seasons upon seasons past his expected graduation date. Ashenpaw figured if his training period got extended longer than his littermate's he would simply banish himself to become a carrionplace cat. He would lord over the garbage with a rugged sense of duty, take an oath to never look into the eyes of another feline in his lifetime, and learn how to speak crow... Or something. Regardless, he would be humiliated. He comforted himself with the assumption that surely Smogmaw would've chewed him out by now if he was doing as poorly as his predecessor had been.

Or perhaps Smogmaw was just holding it in for the sake of saving his ego. This seemed a logical enough explanation for why the four of them were trekking out into the middle of a snowstorm. Watching Flintpaw trudge through the snow ahead of them, the younger cat looked about as scraggly and unimpressive as they ever did, and it occurred to Ashenpaw that maybe they were being escorted into the heart of the storm to be left there to fend for themselves. Shadowclan's prey situation was never anything to brag about in the best of times, it was only the logical next step in the process of cutting corners that eventually they'd want to shed off the dead-weight of their most pathetic trainees. How had they decided on them two to cast off, he wondered ... Had there been a vote while he was sleeping?

Ashenpaw never would have thought that Smogmaw would be one to resort to filicide so easily, but maybe whatever had gotten into Granitepelt's brain and scrambled it up into murder-mush really was contagious...

They eventually come to a stop, as Smogmaw presents them with snow-bounding advice, and so far it seems like his father and Scalejaw do actually intend on hosting a simple battle training practice with an "X-treme Conditions!" twist. This moment was crucial to his final steps toward warriorhood, he knew. He was painfully aware that he lacked the obvious power that Applepaw flaunted in her athletically-honed form, and even Garlicpaw was shaping up to become an imposing figure—especially in comparison to Ashenpaw's skinny shoulders and bird-thin limbs.

Even still, he thought he had a fair enough chance at beating Flintpaw, of all cats, even if Ashenpaw's pulse started thrumming and his stomach began to turn at the gnawing imagery of getting her blood all over his paws and feeling teeth close around his throat. Smogmaw whispers close to 'make him eat snow', and then Ashenpaw is left to stare down toward his opponent with a nerve-twitching tail.

Perhaps it was the bite of freezing cold wriggling into his insides, or the strength of the tugging urge to secure himself a spot within his father's graces, but Ashenpaw thinks he does want to push Flintpaw's face into the snow. Besides, Flintpaw has plenty of moons left in his apprenticeship tenure, what in the world did he have to prove? He doesn't raise his voice over the howling wind, but he glares at his odd-eyed opposite frostily from his place a few foxlengths away.

Don't ruin this for me.

YOULL ASK WHAT CAN I DO? ˚⊹₊‧ 𖦹 AND THERE WILL BE NO ANSWER

• OOC:
• 
• 
  — ashenkit . ashenpaw
  — ftm transmasc. he/him. 10mo apprentice of shadowclan. mentored by smogmaw
  — muted blue torbie w/ pale blue and amber eyes
  — smells of rainsoaked fern and swamp milkweed
  — all ic opinions!
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — sig by nya, fullbody by antiigone, sticker by saturnid
  — penned by eezy
  

​

 

[FLINTWISH]

Flintpaw... is afraid.

Really, he is always afraid. Afraid of himself; disgusted by himself; afraid of his family; disgusted by them. Though Ashenpaw has recently fallen into Flintpaw's good graces, the same can not be said for his father, and knowing that whatever this was that they were doing was orchestrated by Smogmaw makes him afraid, too. The way the wind buffets him now, he feels as though he teeters on the edge of another high bough, doomed to fall without intervention. What if his lungs were to seize up in this cold? Would Smogmaw save him then? Flintpaw hopes he wouldn't, and not for any lack of self-preservation, either; but, rather, because knowing Smogmaw would have saved him twice from a thing of his own making is a burden too heavy for Flintpaw to bear.

He marches along. Scalejaw is somewhere near him, and he's not far ahead of Ashenpaw either, but the thick snow cuts deeply between them all. Trilling scales in the wintry chorus assail him and blind him; he shivers beneath the thin crop of a coat he bears. He must be careful not to misstep on the patches of frozen mud, lest he find himself elbow-deep in freezing, liquid earth. And, really, it does feel like he's being led out to his death — he and Ashenpaw, the problem children, would be tied to some heavy rock and dropped in some deep pit of mud, and centipedes would clean their bones in newleaf and that would be the end of them. Maybe it would be therapeutic for Smogmaw to re-try his casting out of Granitepelt; to sink teeth around the soft, yellowcough-weakened throat and nip things in the bud this time. Flintpaw supposes he could understand if that were the case.

While curtains of white rain down on them, he pauses at Scalejaw's command, and casts a glance at Smogmaw and Ashenpaw conspiring. He has to squint through the snow to see them, and the wind drowns their whispers, but his mind fills in the blanks: tear him apart. Ashenpaw glares at her, and it chills her stomach far more than this cold ever could. The scars on her shoulder buzz malignantly; Flintpaw averts her gaze and directs it to her own mentor, odd eyes imploring more than she wishes they would. Give me the tools to win, she thinks, as if she ever aspires to success anymore — as if her lot hadn't been drawn when Granitepelt had given his blood-bubbled, raving speech after taking one of Chilledstar's lives. She waits for Scalejaw to say something. Anything. She'll need the help, she supposes, if she doesn't want to rot at the bottom of the swamp after today.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

​

 

[scalejaw]

—————————————————【 she/her | menacing 】————————————————

【◈】
It was cold out. Scalejaw reflected upon this briefly before leaving camp, considering the status of it all. The marsh would be frozen cool with slush, and offensive to less furred individuals. She had considered that, but she also considered the reality of the battles in upcoming leaf-bare seasons. That much alone would be worth taking the time to train in the worst of conditions. Temper your body and soul, and you become that much more of an enemy to your foes.

She had put her own children through similar training. It had been worth it- they all turned out formidable, and an asset to Shadowclan’s offense and defense. Her little gathering of shadows, as it were.

Scalejaw trailed ahead of Flintpaw and Ashenpaw both, a wary eye on the surroundings. There was something in the air, but the wind was pushing it away from her, and she couldn’t get a lock upon it. A soft breath left her, curling white in chilled air before being stolen by the wind as well. It was driving today, lowering visibility, flinging the path of precipitation into their way. Scalejaw takes one, two, three more heartbeats to study their surroundings, before her vision drops to Flintpaw.

Encroaching crunches of snow flattened by bigger paws are unheard as she speaks. "The snow kills your visibility." Thanks for the obvious, Scalejaw. "You’ll need to use your surroundings and speed. Remember how I’ve taught you against myself." Scalejaw’s ears twitched, the piercing vision of another upon her flank. She didn’t have time to satisfy Smogmaw’s antics, considering the spar at paw. "Legs, stomach, throat, face. Sensitive pieces first." She murmured, words soft enough to go unheard.

Scalejaw pressed her nose close to Flintpaw’s ear. "I have faith." No sudden expectations, no sharp judgments. Faith. She knew what Flintpaw could do. She stepped back to allow the two apprentices to face one another. She inhaled softly. "You may begi-" Her words cut off as the crunching of snow became louder, running, drumming. Heavy footfalls surrounded them, even through the howl of the wind. Black and white covered a body that launched itself for Flintpaw.

Nearly double the size of the cats present, a dog-like muzzle snarled, hungry for food it couldn’t get anywhere else. Beady black eyes looked intent upon the prey of the youngest there. Scalejaw launched herself forward, ears shoved forward- flank slammed against Flintpaw to knock her away, head turning in time for the badger’s fangs and claws to dig into the side of her neck and shoulder.

She and the badger alike slammed into the snow, sliding in the marshy spots that Smogmaw tried his hardest to avoid earlier. "Get- OFF!" She snarled, claws appearing to reach up and claw upon the badger’s head. She couldn’t get her left paw up, right paw failing short but just digging into the muzzle of the badger so intent upon her neck.

Red dripped into the slush, turning the mess brown and dreary. Her life-red dripped from her neck which was sure to be torn out soon, dripping down her side and leg. Scalejaw’s eyes dropped away from her attacker in a panic, searching for Flintpaw to ensure his safety, then towards Smogmaw and Ashenpaw- not enough of us. I’m going to die.

// smogmaw response first! after that, badger is powerplayable :evil:

"yuh"

[penned by dallas].

​

 

[smogstar]

Agitation itches at his snow-specked hide, yet the why of it is as nebulous as a wisp. Having weathered more blustery snowstorms than he has claws to count, he knows it not to be the elements at fault. Nor does it stem from unnoticed hunger, or apprehension over his son's imminent scrimmage. Ashenpaw shall fare fine—this rests on fact as opposed to than paternal faith. Fear stokes the meagre fires in his opponent's heart, and Flintpaw would sooner coil up in defeat than face the dullest claw. No. There lingers something unnamed that blights him whole, prickling like burrs beneath fur. Something which chafes him foulest yet denies a clear explanation.

Brows clench in unison with jaws. If it is a deep-rooted survival instinct informing him, a sense long-forgotten, he needs hear it clearer. Surely Ashenpaw will not object to a brief delay as he scrounges up answers. "Something's amiss," he remarks lowly, and it must have been a painfully obvious assessment; terror springs forth abruptly and violently in mismatched irises, and at once does the tom whirl around in vigilant alarm.

Just in time to glimpse a hulking beast poised to pommel poor Scalejaw into the afterworld.

There is little to appreciate with how swiftly it all transpires; a cascade of suppressed aggression boils over and pulls him from his paralytic reverie into a blinding sprint. Panic emboldens paws that seldom knew haste, and as his heart ricochets around against its cage, an inborn drive to protect sees him shoot forwards, deaf and dumb to his clanmate's dreadful cries. The seconds stretch into eternity, time itself hesitating in abject anticipation. Hurtling past shoved-aside Flintpaw, a jarring feline yowl rips from him with vicious intent.

Mortal danger doesn't make even the briefest cameo in this harrowing moment. Momentum throws him crashing into a wall of muscle and mottled hide, where claws seek desperately for painful purchase. Its skin is sheared with wanton disregard, the barest appearance of crimson peeking forth beneath. But the extent of the damage remains obscured. His own forward motion, rather, serves to wedge the badger from its quarry, and the great brute's response is instantaneous, thunderous in its blaring growl of surprise and dismay both.

Claw-tips unlatch with agonizing difficulty. The creature staggers a few panicked paces backward, caught entirely off-guard. That two—no, four cats occupy its surroundings was something it mustn't have recognized. It is outnumbered, not so out-matched, yet it is enough to awaken its own badgery survival mechanisms. The creature lowers into a stiff crouch before the ShadowClan cats, wavering uncertainly for a heartbeat or two. Smogmaw tastes its indecision. "Rush it! All at once, now!" he shouts, desperation seizing his vocal cords into a pained thrash. "Come on!"

From his place at Scalejaw's fallen midsection, the deputy opts to shatter this frozen standoff, and bursts into yet another headlong, foolhardy gallop. He is ill-equipped to spare any glances Flintpaw or Ashenpaw's way—someone will die lest they all act together, and stars damn every one of them if he doesn't live to see leadership.

// feel free to powerplay any injuries y/c or the badger sustains! and for the sake of everyone here, please drive it off (i'm counting on you) ​

 

[FLINTWISH]

Scalejaw finally cranes her head down to his ear and dribbles bits of wisdom into it. He almost snorts at first — yeah, this snow really does make it hard to see, thanks so much — but she talks some sense, too. Vulnerable places first. He thinks of Granitepelt, thinks of the way he and his father had sparred; a swift, deft kick to the teeth, a claw desperate to pick out his mismatched eyes. Should he turn that instinct against Ashenpaw? Where did fighting smart become fighting dirty? Scalejaw has faith in him, she says. Flintpaw's soul quiets.

Then the world explodes.

Before Flintpaw can realize what is happening, she is skidding across the snow, Scalejaw's shoulder slamming into her side to save her life. The snow falls thickly, obscuring the warring shapes that now occupy the space she's been thrust from — but when she looks up from her daze, something new lights in her chest. Scalejaw is bleeding. The thing has its teeth in her neck, right in her neck, too, shaking and gripping and spilling Scalejaw's life into the snow. He supposes that this must mean she will die. And, really, of course she will; ShadowClan attracts death as rot attracts flies, and no cat has stayed in Flintpaw's life for very long, have they? He feels defeated before he's even tried to fight back. Scalejaw will die in the snow, and it will be his fault, just like it is every damn time.

And then Smogmaw shoots forward, barreling into the beast, shoving it away from Scalejaw. It is only seconds that pass before the black-striped deputy calls for them to rush it! Really, he must be harebrained to think that they'd be able to drive off the thing, and besides, Flintpaw would almost rather perish at its claws than follow Smogmaw's orders, and yet... the apprentice finds herself rising to white-dipped paws, odd eyes sparking with hatred. If she has to die to something, she may as well die this way, right?

Flintpaw charges towards the badger, claws unsheathed, hoping to help drive it off in tandem with his clanmates. His expression is far from fierce — more fearful, really — but... well, at least he's trying.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

​

 

[ASHENFALL]

˚⊹₊‧ 𖦹 Ashenpaw is quite nearly excited to dunk Flintpaw's muzzle into snow, maybe it would leave a mold of her face behind that he could snicker at from his comfortable place pinning her in a decisively easy victory (Flintpaw would go easy on him or he would be limp-limbed enough that besting him would be as if he were even if he did try). Ashenpaw was entertained enough by this image that the steady thump-thump growing louder by the moment was easily brushed off as a feature of his ever-present bell-tolling dread that hovered over his head more often than not.

This time, it was not that. Or, well, his looming dread may very well have been present—it rarely left, his most faithful companion. But also, there was a badger.

For those few, torturous moments he could do nothing but watch in horror as the beast snapped hungry jaws at Flintpaw's bony form, intercepted by their mentor in an act of heroism brazen enough that even in his adrenaline-flooded stupor he recognized as being surely a death sentence for the woman. He's watched so many die—or be dead—like this, it would almost be boring if it didn't grip him with sickening, heart-shredding terror each time it occurred. (The fact that there was a hungry predator there ready to tear them all to little pulpy blood-dripping pieces may also have done something to kickstart his heart rate, too.)

Smogmaw is assailing the badger with snarls and battering claws, but Ashenpaw and Flintpaw remained frozen for those perilous seconds as the tabby defended Scalejaw with a ferocity he thought surely did not exist within his weak-willed psyche yet. For the pair of brittle-boned youngsters, their instincts leaned more toward the prey-tendencies of their feline genetics. Blood screamed at him to flee, flee, and don't turn back! But Smogmaw's shouting pulled his paws toward the horror-scene even as a rabbit-heart quickened at the encroachment of his certain death.

Well, either he would die, or he would miraculously pass this test of survival and win himself enough points that Smogmaw would for sure feel at least a little obligated to let him graduate on time. He was okay with these odds.

Ashenpaw was sure he was wearing some sort of stupid look on his face as he charged the creature alongside the other two blueish toms, but he ran in without a stumble of hesitation, and for this he was grateful. He ran straight toward its flank, hoping to sidestep its teeth and sink claws into a softer chunk of abdomen. His claws and teeth pummeled desperately at flesh, fueled solely by a repetitive soul-mantra of Scalejaws dying, I can't die, Smogmaw can't die, Flintpaw can't die...

The beast eventually tires of the little scritch-scratches they're barraging it with, huffy with frustration at misjudging the cats as an easy meal. The badger whirls around with a great snarl, but does not leave without a—seemingly disdain-filled—strike of paw, hitting an unfortunate Ashenpaw in the head with its heavy paw. He is knocked over unceremoniously face-first into the snow, stars spinning in a darkened, ringing head.

But the badger has retreated. For now.

Ashenpaw stumbles to his feet, and faces the blurred forms of his companions through blizzard-blind eyes and the sharp pang of headacheyness, and sputters, obviously, "Gotta-mmhh.. G-gotta go-!"

YOULL ASK WHAT CAN I DO? ˚⊹₊‧ 𖦹 AND THERE WILL BE NO ANSWER

• OOC:
• 
• 
  — ashenkit . ashenpaw
  — ftm transmasc. he/him. 11mo apprentice of shadowclan. mentored by smogmaw
  — muted blue torbie w/ pale blue and amber eyes
  — smells of rainsoaked fern and swamp milkweed
  — all ic opinions!
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — sig by nya, fullbody by antiigone, sticker by saturnid
  — penned by eezy
  

​