THE PRETENDER | SLATE

[BEAR]

Every time a shadow passes by, he tenses, braces himself tightly, clenches his jaw, grinds his teeth. Shaggy body poised to leap or run, it's a discomfort that grips him tightly ever time he settles to eat. The squirrel he's snatched fast from the freshkill pile as if it can run away sits, cradled by his chest. Expecting jaws to scoop up his morsel and take it away, his usually sad, and world weary gaze attains a dangerous glint. He should be used to always being surrounded by bodies. When nighttime descends especially is something he thinks he's never going to get used to, being so close, and so vulnerable when he's out to the world.

Bear's scooping his food closer and closer with each shadow that passes by to choose from the freshkill pile. The shaggy tom doesn't dare look up. He's regretful at the spot he's chosen, nearby enough to the freshkill pile to see every recipient. Caution is ingrained in him, fight first ask questions later has been the way of his life, how he hasn't ended up in the ground like so many rogues. Leafbare although a while ago is still fresh in his memory, has him scooping the creature closer with a paw. Bear has long since grown into his shaggy pelt during his time with the clan, filling out into a big frame. Bear takes great comfort in the fact that he's no longer subject to resorting to sour mouthfuls of crowfood, or theiving mouthfuls of dry kittypet pebble.

Jaws yawn open to snap shut when he boosts himself to his paws, the tension coiling in his unleashing with the click of his teeth. A hot burn under his fur has him cringing away, but can't suppress the terse growl that underlines his words. "Stay back." It isn't long before his shoulders are slumping and the familiar mournful look is melting back into his stare. "Don't come so close next time." He gruffs, falling back on his haunches.

// @SLATE
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[SLATE]

Slate knows what it is to struggle, to barely get by, to starve, to fight. Starvation and desperation were things that the former rogue knew too well, and all the same it was a way that he never wished to return to again. Clan life was not always so simple either; preservation, competition, and survival were still main components of such a way of living. However, it was all so much more... fulfilling. Slate was thriving, belly full and bones well rested without a nightly fear of being jumped by an enemy or being snatched by a mongrel or a twoleg. Even the Maine Coon, someone whose steely outer shell had been forged by seasons of solitude and loneliness, could admit that being able to rely on clanmates to help sustain the food pile and defend the territory was leagues superior to merely fending for himself and wasting away in a dank alleyway.

Witnessing a clanmate resort to aggression ( albeit restrained ) around their fresh-kill was not something that occurred often, so Slate reacted with narrowed eyes and a curling scowl when the cinnamon tabby decided to suddenly confront him. The lead warrior knows that he should not worry about anything, knowing that he has more than enough support amid camp, but deeply ingrained instinct causes the hulking male to nearly jump and square his shoulders in defense. Charcoal hairs begin to lie flat as anger and ferocity are absent from a blueish gaze; they are drained and almost pathetic-looking. Was he remorseful? Ashamed? Either way, the lead warrior issues a rebuke in the form of a grunt, "Relax, will ya'? Nobody's stealin' your food."

It's interesting to see Slate where he stands now, seeing as seasons ago he had been exactly in Bear's paws. "Brute," They had called him while on the lungwort journey, when he had been reduced to his old feral tendencies as a result of starvation. "Typical of a cat who refuses to have a true Clan name." They had scoffed under their breath, casting judgment upon a tom whose humble origins were painfully obvious on account of his name alone. Bear and Slate were not much different from each other... or at least they hadn't been. His ties to the streets were not as prevalent nowadays, with his killing of a rogue back in the tail-end of leafbare causing Slate to officially declare a separation from his identity as a city cat. That was not to say that Slate still did not possess roguish tendencies; there was no telling whether or not he would instinctively revert to his ways of competing for resources should he become desperate, but for now, he tries to embody the ways of a clan cat as successfully as he possibly could. It is not so much that he cares what others think of him, but he needs to do it for himself. This had been the life that Slate had desired as a kit, not the life of a street scavenger. He could not allow others to get away with calling him a rogue anymore — he was not a dirty, foul-breathed, murderous savage. He was not one of them.

However, it had been a long road to accept who he now was. Bear was undoubtedly faced with the same dilemma, the same pull between two different worlds. "You need to drop the act if you're gonna be a clan cat. There's plenty to go around." Hypocritical of him, maybe, but Slate was not well-equipped to lend empathy to the other former street cat. Perhaps he could be understanding, but Slate had little patience for cats who could not ( or simply refused to ) step up to his same level.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 ✹ .　 + 　˚ 　　 · 　 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄

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  a lead warrior of skyclan, slate is forty moons and is mentoring coffeepaw. he is a hulking longhaired maine coon with black fur and prominent reddish rusting on his chest and belly. scars litter his form but are prominently present on his face. ✦

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