duskclan THE TASTE OF POISON — infection

[GRANITEPELT]

The fever comes for him with a vengeance, with bared fangs and outstretched claws. He awakens from too-vivid dreams gasping. His skin crawls beneath his pelt, awash with searing heat and then flushed away with cold worthy of the bitterest leafbare. The wounds seep endlessly; they will not dry, no matter how thoroughly he cleans them, will not scar. Each scratch has a throbbing burning quality that has caused his limbs to stiffen.

"Water... please,” he mutters to the cat nearest him; his vision blurs them into an indistinguishable face. "I need... herbs, I think,” he rasps. His mind whirls, then blanks, the thoughts running together. What had Starlingheart used—Cottonpaw?… Granitepelt closes his eyes against a wave of cold that grips him.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Granitekit . Granitepaw . Granitepelt, he/him w/ masculine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 23 moons old, ages realistically on the 10th.
  — mentored by Pitchstar and Dogfur ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored Applepaw
  — "duskclan" leader. flint x sandra, gen 2.
  — formerly mated to Starlingheart, currently mated to n/a.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh blue and white tom with dark green eyes. arrogant, stealthy, sneaky, observant, perceptive, cunning, spiteful, envious.
  
  

​

 

[Thriftfeather]

Thriftfeather holds no illusions about this tom's supposed greatness. Granitepelt shivers where he lays, stinking of blood and pus. It isn't the first time Thriftfeather has seen him in such a state, but it is certainly the worst. Not for the first time, Thriftfeather wonders why this outsider had been chosen by Sootstar; he has never stopped wondering. It hadn't been foolish to strike WindClan's camp beneath the full moon, but it had been foolish to do it as Granitepelt had planned, and it had been foolish to do it with Granitepelt's goals in mind.

Granitepelt speaks—he gasps for help. Thriftfeather's lip curls into disdain; the depths of callousness that he finds himself capable of don't surprise him anymore. Had he been younger, Thriftfeather's heart would have broken in sympathy for Granitepelt.

"We don't have herbs," Thriftfeather ignores the request for water, and feels all the more powerful for it, "But then you rushed into a fight anyway because—because I guess you just aren't the sort to get hurt. Or care if it was one of us with the infection in your place. And this—we don't even have prey and there's—we don't have prey enough as it is and you're collecting more mouths to feed."

Thriftfeather would never dream of snapping at Granitepelt, had he been well. Already he feels regret for his words—not for their harshness, but because Thriftfeather knows there will be consequence should Granitepelt be lucid enough to both remember this and recognize it to be Thriftfeather that is speaking.

With a sigh, Thriftfeather pushes himself to his paws and, with heavy steps, comes to Granitepelt's side.

"Someone else fetch the water," It isn't that the anger in Thriftfeather's voice has cooled—it is simply that exhaustion has taken it's place, "And enough moss to put over his wounds. I'll see if—I can try to cool him off." Haltingly, Thriftfeather rasps his tongue over the fur atop Granitepelt's crown, opposite to the direction that it lies. Perhaps with a miracle or—as Thriftfeather is increasingly feeling—a great misfortune, Granitepelt's fever will break on its own. ​

DUSKCLAN WARRIOR ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 16 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

The blurred figure in front of him morphs into Thriftfeather, who bares his teeth at him like he's a limping rabbit. Granitepelt's body shakes, but he pushes himself into half-a-sitting position with what little strength he can muster. His wounds scream with protest, but he lifts his aching face toward the golden warrior's. "We needed... kits. Youth who will believe in our cause. They... will.." He opens his mouth in a wordless pant, then falls back to the ground. He stares without sight as Thriftfeather reluctantly orders someone else to get him moss, as the tom's hesitant tongue begins to clean the fur on his head. It provides little relief, but it has been so long since he's felt the unantagonistic touch of another cat that he closes his eyes and lets it happen.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Granitekit . Granitepaw . Granitepelt, he/him w/ masculine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 23 moons old, ages realistically on the 10th.
  — mentored by Pitchstar and Dogfur ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored Applepaw
  — "duskclan" leader. flint x sandra, gen 2.
  — formerly mated to Starlingheart, currently mated to n/a.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh blue and white tom with dark green eyes. arrogant, stealthy, sneaky, observant, perceptive, cunning, spiteful, envious.
  
  

​

 

[Ebonylight.]

*+:｡.｡ Although it'd been ages since his time in Twolegplace, he'll never forget the ways he'd witness cats die. Murder by other cats, killed by two-legs or their dogs, poisoned by something foul in the garbage bins...or, worse yet, illness. To think, something could attack you from within, eating through your stomach and intestines, drinking your blood before it could reach your brain, leaving you frail, pathetic, choking on bile and withering in your own dirt...to experience all that slowly, what an awful way to go. Ebonylight had vowed that when it was their time to die, they'd die by someone's claws. Quick and clean, painless, and hopefully not as humiliating if they pick the right opponent.

Granitepelt was not so lucky.

Ebonylight watches with a smirk, glad it was him and not her, as the once proud traitor of two clans and leader to an unofficial one groans in pain. "@HUNGERKIT , you know where the nearest stream is? It's a bit far, but I know you can make it. Go fetch some and come back" he meows to the child at his side, swiping her ears with a loving kiss, "and if you take too long, no supper for you, alright?" he adds patiently. Of course, with so many cats injured it'd be a miracle if there'd be enough food for anyone, so he was already planning on denying Hungerkit a bite - she could come back in less than a second and he'd still tut at her that she's a moment too late. Gotta keep the kids humble, after all.

In the meantime, Ebonylight swipes a tongue over the burning scars along her cheek. She didn't want to think about how great it'd be to have a medicine cat apprentice instead of some useless kit. Oh well.
Padding over, Ebonylight would sit down at Granitepelt's side, and proceed to groom her leader, "You got any regrets? " she asks, eyes aglow with mischief as she totes the line between teasing and comforting. She doesn't doubt that she's probably one of the last cats Granitepelt wants at his side while he's suffering, but Ebonylight finds the idea of gleaning some rare information from the dying too amusing to resist.

*+:｡.｡ Updated 4/13/24

• 
  
• 
  
  
  
  GENERAL:
  ‡ Ebonylight
  ‡ DFAB— He/They/She — Pansexual
  ‡ 18 moons — Ages 1 moon every month real-time
  ‡ Duskclan (Rogue)
  ‡ Mates with Nightingalecry, father to Frightkit, Deathkit and Witherkit
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  COMBAT:
  ‡ Physically hard | mentally hard
  ‡ Attack in bold black
  
  injuries: None currently
  

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[PRIVETFROST]

Privetpaw was not acquainted with illness, the qualms of falling to sickness and then rising in convalesce, like the tides of the moon bared to those that dared stare upwards. Abandoned and vulnerable to the whims of a sweltering summer, like a bloated corpse upon the sun's fervor, the boy saw how terrible Granitepelt had grown since Duskclan's attack on Windclan. There was no light to cleanse him in this darkened den, as wounds blistered and bed as they wept in sanguine. Fern-green gaze glared upon Granitepelt's destitute body, as morbidity bent and broke at his every being, a beast bereft of his fangs and his claws. His leader looked... weak. Privetpaw did well to hide the disgust that curdled just beyond fleecen features, but to stay in this room for much longer was to admit to the state of the man he once looked up to. How disgusting, that you have let the Windclan scum do this to you. "I will retrieve moss." Privetpaw bowed his head to Thriftfeather's command, as he flitted quickly out of the cramped den, as the sickly smell of something had blanched the close air and left it devoid of its former glory.

𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐂𝐘 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 ── X ── 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒

• OOC:
  
• 
• 

  —— PRIVETPAW / He/Him / 7 Moons
  —— Apprentice of Duskclan / Mentored by Rumblerain
  —— Wine-dark and white-tipped, almost like a magpie. He has black fur except for the tips of his ears, his muzzle and chin, a blaze on his chest, bottom portion of the legs, outer end of the tail, and along the upper ridges of eyes. He has ghost striping that can only be seen in certain sunlight. He has fern-green eyes.
  —— Cool, calculating, and much too mature for such a young age. Enamored with the life of a warrior and burdened by the expectations of his people. Hard to befriend and harder to maintain a steady friendship with.
  —— Penned by Tempest. Contact on Discord (naruk4mi) for plots and threads.

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