private THRILL OF THE FIGHT — chickbloom

[SLATE]

The threat looming like a bleeding sunset on the horizon was now growing too close for comfort. SkyClan had always grappled with the likes of rogues, from full-on invasions to petty scraps at the borders, but murders were only growing more frequent these days. Silversmoke, for example, probably would have been as good as dead had he not possessed the skill to execute the intruder. It was absolutely imperative that every SkyClanner who left camp knew how to hold their own in a fight, especially against a brute.

So, Slate stood in the Sandy Ravine with a cat that he never paid much attention to outside of a few ( tense ) interactions. It was not as if Slate was Chickbloom's mentor, nor did he necessarily want to mentor the former kittypet, but who would he be refuse to train a clanmate? Fighting with Slate's specialty. If this sheepish warrior could pick up a thing or two from Slate's teachings then SkyClan would be better off for it. They had suffered enough death and gloom.

"Rogues are merciless 'n savage. They'll kill without hesitation." The Maine Coon paces like an army head, a stern expression sharpening his defined features. "Pretend I'm a rogue," Maybe it wouldn't take much effort to pretend. Slate was scarred, muscular, and hulking like rogues were; not to mention he used to be one himself. Although there were slim pickings on the streets when it came to food, some rogues still managed to be huge and intimidating regardless. A clan cat would do well to not underestimate how powerful they could be. "My weak spot is my throat. If I expose it, you should take the opportunity to tear it out." A few beats pass before the tom adds, "Don't actually bite me." That should go without saying, but he figured he'd make a disclaimer. Slate thought Chickbloom was a bit of a mousebrain.

With that all said, he padded around until he was facing the orange-patched tom head-on. Slate wanted to assess Chickbloom's strategy... whatever that may be. "On your go." He grunts and gives a lash of his tail, squaring his muscular shoulders as well.

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

• @Chickbloom

• 

• 

  a warrior of skyclan, slate is forty-one 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. ✦

​

 

[Chickbloom]

To any outsider, it must seem like Chickbloom had badly lost a bet. Why else would the butter-stained boy be standing in front of the Skyclanner he feared the most? (Which, given his anxious nature, was an exceptionally high bar to clear.) However, even as Scottish Fold shook like a leaf in the wind and yolk-splashed legs begged to carry him away, he remained and gave his full attention to Slate.

Silversmoke was gone. Probably dead, and Chickbloom had been too weak to do anything about it. Even if he had been at the scene when his psuedo-mentor was mauled, there was no way he could’ve been any help. All that would change was Skyclan ending up with two missing members instead of one, and it infuriated him.

Still, that didn’t make Slate’s training any less scary. Wide amber eyes winced at the other’s tone, unconsciously trying to fix his posture as if he was afraid of being punished. It was impossible to not compare with Silversmoke’s methods. The two warriors were both stern, but folded ears picked up a hint of…frustration? Impatience? In Slate’s voice that made buttery fur stand on end. That was why he was so scared (well, that and all the scars). It could’ve just been paranoia, but Chickbloom was driven to improve not just for his own sake, but also for fear of reprisal.

“So…you - you’ve fought a l-lot of rogues?” The baby bird squeaked while assuming a fighting stance. For such a shy cat, he sure had a tendency to talk when he was nervous. It made Silversmoke less scary after a while, maybe the same would happen here?

Slate’s instructions made him doubt the idea of the icy warrior melting with a quick chat. The baby bird began to sweat at the other’s deadpan orders to kill (or at least pretend to). “C-Can’t I just….” Chickbloom trailed off, not wanting to oppose the terrifying tom. Instead, he would speak with his actions. The whelp lashed his tail to signal their beginning, and charged forwards. Chickbloom quickly darted to the side, and attempted to swipe Slate’s paws from under him. If successful, instead of heeding advice and going for the throat, the coward would back away and allow him to get up. ​