private THE KINSHIP OF MAN // slatesnarl

[RAMKIT]

Butterflytuft lets them out of the nursery now - not necessarily unattended, but with strict rules to keep them in line should her attention be divided. The camp's entrance and medicine den, off limits. The warrior's and apprentice's dens are, too, but the elder's den is near free reign. "They may even tell you stories!" She had said. That interested the little she-kit. But evidently, not enough, for the cracks in her foster mother's instruction left much for the youngling to explore.

Ramkit cannot claim to have seen her father. She grows frustrated with how every blur looks the same, and much more how some cats will not stay still enough for her to examine them. He knows he's dark furred, tall, broad shouldered... some of his fur looks as if it was tinged with some of hers, she thinks. If he had been born pale, then his fur would have rusted red, like she. Colors are something she understands, to a degree - as more often than not, they're all the youth has.

She finds him. A patrol pulls from his sides and though he is nothing but a black swath of fur, she can see the subtle shift in his belly fur. If she focuses, she can see the flop of an ear and the breaking of fur where scars scrape through his pelt. Ramkit prowls like the huntress she is, diving between wandering paws and darting in and out of crowds of cats. All until -

"Gotcha!!" She pounces against his front, fully expecting him to fall flat like her brother would.

​

𝘪𝘵𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 ˖⁺‧₊˚☆ 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘴

• ooc // @SLATESNARL​
• 
  
  
  
  

  ☆ TWO MOONS
  ☆ SKYCLAN
  ☆ TORTIE WITH WHITE, BLUE EYES
  ☆ AUDACIOUS, CURIOUS, CRITICAL
  ☆ SHORT-SIGHTED, PARTICULAR
• 
  
  

  ⸻☆ ramkit is a wily, outspoken, borderline ill mannered she-kit. born of orangestar and slatesnarl, raised alongside lambkit, this nearly blind she-kit takes life by the horns. the brain to her twin's brawn, ramkit can often be found tattling on rule breakers (whilst breaking them to the benefit of herself, too.)

 

[SLATESNARL]

Another day of a fruitless hunting patrol. Discouraged, the Maine Coon trudges back into camp, mangled ears wilted like dying flora as is his bushy tail that hovers close to the ground. It's difficult to feel like a competent warrior—a worthy father—when his efforts result in nothing. Leafbare has not been merciful to SkyClan, but Slatesnarl was especially struggling to build his strength to what it once was after his extended stay in the medicine den.

On a day as gray and dull as this, only when his young child appears out of the blue and launches toward him does a sliver of sunlight metaphorically break through the clouds. Slatesnarl's kits are getting bigger every day, exploring the world around them and already exhibiting a warrior's drive. Ramkit, for example, shows good effort with her pounce but ultimately fails to take down her target. "Nice try, Ramkit," Slatesnarl rumbles, amusement unwinding upon his stoic features as he gently scoots his daughter off of him, "But you'll need t' be a lot bigger in order to knock me down." Maybe she would be, one day, unless she inherited her mother's shorter stature.

Not that size would affect Ramkit's ability to fight. Slatesnarl would ensure that she honed her skills with or without such an advantage. "Try again," The Maine Coon encourages, crouching down to the best of his ability with his bad hip. "Attack me like a fierce warrior. Give me all you've got." It was strange; now that the kids were bigger, he could actually tussle with them. It seemed like only yesterday they were squirming little newborns at Ora's side.

𝟒𝟐𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐆𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐈𝐆 𝐉𝐈𝐌 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑 ✹ 𝐇𝐄𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐋-𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐀 𝐆𝐔𝐍

• 

• 

  — slatesnarl / 45 moons / he/him
  — skyclan warrior & former lead warrior
  — mate to orangestar / father to lambkit & ramkit
  — lh solid black maine coon w/ rusting, amber eyes. scars litter his form but are prominently present on his face.
  — click for tags

​

​