- Nov 26, 2022
- 501
- 120
- 43
〔✦〕As a rule of thumb, Slate hardly left the ground. One would never see the Maine Coon heaving himself up a tree where he was certain he would eventually lose his balance and fall to his death... or at least a broken bone. Bold and brave was the lead warrior, except in instances where he was faced with a tree. Many times, squirrels and avians would evade his claws by scaling the pines, leaving Slate irritable and empty-jawed. Today, however, was a little different.
A perfectly juicy and delectable-looking bluejay rests in the center of Slate's vision, seemingly unaware of the pair of determined eyes upon him. The cat's teeth are primed to kill, as well as his claws to bury, but he is not looking to score a meal for just anyone. He knows of a certain molly who would appreciate the gesture of being gifted a freshly caught bluejay ( he could have sworn that they were her favorite prey ). Slate doesn't even stop to consider just how unusual he was acting; he was once a starving rogue who had only hunted for himself, he had once been a brutish tom who growled whenever anyone strayed too close to his meal. Shucking his roguish tendencies has been a long and difficult path to follow, but Slate rarely struggled with giving up his kills to other clanmates nowadays... as long as prey didn't run scarce and there wasn't any competition for it.
Birds were seldom his choice of prey; the lead warrior could sometimes manage to capture large crows as they were slower to move away, but smaller birds were much more elusive. He was not a tom who was built for stealth or speed, but he really wanted to land this catch. The charcoal-hued warrior swipes a pink tongue over his broad muzzle, picturing himself beaming with pride as he carries the limp avian into camp and marches straight up to a form of red and white. He could do this.
What was supposed to be a simple pounce turned into a chase, leading Slate to dig his beastly claws into the trunk of the pine as he hauled himself to a branch of medium height. This was undoubtedly the highest he had ever climbed. Holy shit, holy shit. Slate's mind is frenzied with curses and expletives as he lowers himself, ivory talons outstretched and digging into the bark below for dear life. He balances to the best of his ability on the limb, jaw clenched tightly, his trembling stare steadying onto the bluejay that was perched on the bough directly across the way.
He would have to jump to catch it.
Foxdung, what was he doing? Was he really going to do something so idiotic? Slate tenses his legs, bunching them in preparation to spring. He had climbed all this way; he would not forfeit now, not when the perfect kill was in his sights. He had been one of SkyClan's worst climbers for so long... maybe, if he was successful, he could drop the rather embarrassing title. Maybe this was his first step in overcoming his fear; staring death in the eyes straight-on was surely one way to do it. Don't be a kit. Slate tells himself in the same manner he'd tell his own apprentice.
The bulky Maine Coon leaps, paws outstretched and finding purchase on the jay. Blue feathers ruffle and wriggle under his grasp, and quickly Slate moves to dig his canines into the creature's neck. Clean, quickly, it falls limp and the lead warrior hastily snatches it into his awaiting maw. He still stands on the branch! Had he actually done it? A wave of relief washes over the massive tom, pride beginning to glisten in his eyes as he realizes he'd caught a bird in a tree. A first for him. Maybe he wasn't so bad at this after all—
His limbs wobble, so much so that he loses his grip. "Gr- Ack!" A strained cry escapes him, voice muffled by a mouthful of feathers, as he scrambles to hold onto the pine branch. Like a caged bird his heart flutters madly, legs trembling as they clung for dear life. Fear seizes the lead warrior's heart again, lungs straining to replenish as his kill blocks his airway. What did he do?!
A perfectly juicy and delectable-looking bluejay rests in the center of Slate's vision, seemingly unaware of the pair of determined eyes upon him. The cat's teeth are primed to kill, as well as his claws to bury, but he is not looking to score a meal for just anyone. He knows of a certain molly who would appreciate the gesture of being gifted a freshly caught bluejay ( he could have sworn that they were her favorite prey ). Slate doesn't even stop to consider just how unusual he was acting; he was once a starving rogue who had only hunted for himself, he had once been a brutish tom who growled whenever anyone strayed too close to his meal. Shucking his roguish tendencies has been a long and difficult path to follow, but Slate rarely struggled with giving up his kills to other clanmates nowadays... as long as prey didn't run scarce and there wasn't any competition for it.
Birds were seldom his choice of prey; the lead warrior could sometimes manage to capture large crows as they were slower to move away, but smaller birds were much more elusive. He was not a tom who was built for stealth or speed, but he really wanted to land this catch. The charcoal-hued warrior swipes a pink tongue over his broad muzzle, picturing himself beaming with pride as he carries the limp avian into camp and marches straight up to a form of red and white. He could do this.
What was supposed to be a simple pounce turned into a chase, leading Slate to dig his beastly claws into the trunk of the pine as he hauled himself to a branch of medium height. This was undoubtedly the highest he had ever climbed. Holy shit, holy shit. Slate's mind is frenzied with curses and expletives as he lowers himself, ivory talons outstretched and digging into the bark below for dear life. He balances to the best of his ability on the limb, jaw clenched tightly, his trembling stare steadying onto the bluejay that was perched on the bough directly across the way.
He would have to jump to catch it.
Foxdung, what was he doing? Was he really going to do something so idiotic? Slate tenses his legs, bunching them in preparation to spring. He had climbed all this way; he would not forfeit now, not when the perfect kill was in his sights. He had been one of SkyClan's worst climbers for so long... maybe, if he was successful, he could drop the rather embarrassing title. Maybe this was his first step in overcoming his fear; staring death in the eyes straight-on was surely one way to do it. Don't be a kit. Slate tells himself in the same manner he'd tell his own apprentice.
The bulky Maine Coon leaps, paws outstretched and finding purchase on the jay. Blue feathers ruffle and wriggle under his grasp, and quickly Slate moves to dig his canines into the creature's neck. Clean, quickly, it falls limp and the lead warrior hastily snatches it into his awaiting maw. He still stands on the branch! Had he actually done it? A wave of relief washes over the massive tom, pride beginning to glisten in his eyes as he realizes he'd caught a bird in a tree. A first for him. Maybe he wasn't so bad at this after all—
His limbs wobble, so much so that he loses his grip. "Gr- Ack!" A strained cry escapes him, voice muffled by a mouthful of feathers, as he scrambles to hold onto the pine branch. Like a caged bird his heart flutters madly, legs trembling as they clung for dear life. Fear seizes the lead warrior's heart again, lungs straining to replenish as his kill blocks his airway. What did he do?!
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ooc.
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SLATE —— lead warrior of skyclan , mentoring coffeepaw ✦ penned by beatles
✦ cismale / he/him pronouns / 39 moons & ages every 1st
✦ single / bisexual & monogamous / closed to romance
✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
—— hard combat difficulty & weak to agile, quick fighters / will start fights, will kill if necessary
✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are ic
✦ biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
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stine#3004
