- Nov 26, 2022
- 500
- 119
- 43
❪ TAGS ❫ — Heights were not Slate's forte. Sure, he had climbed atop a slumbering monster a few times and a dumpster here and there, but anything beyond that was utterly daunting to him. How had he ended up in a clan that specialized in tree climbing?
Slate supposed that he had to start somewhere. What use would he be if he couldn't use the territory's natural resources to his advantage in battle? He had always been a good fighter, at least in his own humble opinion, but that would no longer be the case if he couldn't even manage to climb a damn tree. For the sake of his own reputation and pride, he had to ease himself into the idea of being up high. The burly Maine Coon had been up since sunrise, practicing clawing his way up the trunk of a pine slowly and cautiously. His heart was beginning to pound less intensely each time he scaled it now, which he supposed was good.
Some form of a greeting sounded from down below — it was the deputy, Orangeblossom, someone he didn't know particularly well. The scarred warrior, with claws sunk into the bark only a few lengths up the trunk, turned his head and managed, "Er... hey." He scaled back down to the ground, figuring that it would be more difficult to hold a conversation while he was in the midst of concentrating.
He supposed that Orangeblossom wanted to know what he was doing; why else would she have asked? "Just tryin' to work on some of the tree fighting techniques." Slate says, ever so slightly out of breath. For a cat like her, climbing may have been like second nature. To him, he was exerting so much energy trying not to fall to his demise.
The tom really isn't someone who typically reaches out for help... from anybody. Ever so independent, ever so determined to navigate life entirely on his own, it was an adjustment having clanmates that he could approach for favors. There is an awkward edge to his tone as Slate inquires to the she-cat, "Listen, uh, y'think you could watch me 'n let me know if my form is good?" He figured that, if anyone could critique his style, it would be the deputy.
// @orangeblossom
Slate supposed that he had to start somewhere. What use would he be if he couldn't use the territory's natural resources to his advantage in battle? He had always been a good fighter, at least in his own humble opinion, but that would no longer be the case if he couldn't even manage to climb a damn tree. For the sake of his own reputation and pride, he had to ease himself into the idea of being up high. The burly Maine Coon had been up since sunrise, practicing clawing his way up the trunk of a pine slowly and cautiously. His heart was beginning to pound less intensely each time he scaled it now, which he supposed was good.
Some form of a greeting sounded from down below — it was the deputy, Orangeblossom, someone he didn't know particularly well. The scarred warrior, with claws sunk into the bark only a few lengths up the trunk, turned his head and managed, "Er... hey." He scaled back down to the ground, figuring that it would be more difficult to hold a conversation while he was in the midst of concentrating.
He supposed that Orangeblossom wanted to know what he was doing; why else would she have asked? "Just tryin' to work on some of the tree fighting techniques." Slate says, ever so slightly out of breath. For a cat like her, climbing may have been like second nature. To him, he was exerting so much energy trying not to fall to his demise.
The tom really isn't someone who typically reaches out for help... from anybody. Ever so independent, ever so determined to navigate life entirely on his own, it was an adjustment having clanmates that he could approach for favors. There is an awkward edge to his tone as Slate inquires to the she-cat, "Listen, uh, y'think you could watch me 'n let me know if my form is good?" He figured that, if anyone could critique his style, it would be the deputy.
// @orangeblossom