- Apr 15, 2023
- 28
- 4
- 3
OOC: set just after dusk. mottlepaw, ivyback and sabletuft leave camp for mottle's warrior assessment. after a successful catch of a sleeping snipe, mottle comes face to face with a fox- but there's a patrol nearby! maybe they can help.
MENTIONS: @S A B L E T U F T @smogmaw @honeypaw @moonspire ; this thread is also open to those who weren't tagged, with no need to wait!
COMBAT: please note the fox has a hit difficulty of 2 on a d20 roll (i rolled so low on this lmfao?), and will withstand 8 hits before attempting to run away. the fox may be powerplayed to attack your character if you would like.
When explaining the parts of a warrior's final assessment, Ivyback had placed great importance on their night hunting task, as it would count towards their overall marks for stealth, tracking, hunting and night vision. This had been terrible news, as Mottlepaw dislikes night hunting. She's much more of a daytime enjoyer, even though she's less so when they're this hot ... but she doesn't get a say in the matter. Sucks to be the apprentice. Sabletuft would be joining them as an assessor, for which Mottlepaw is glad; her view of the lead warrior is largely positive, a steady figure for her to ask questions of and glean other knowledge from. He is a lead warrior, though, for which Mottlepaw is less glad. He wouldn't let them slack off anyway, but now the stakes would be even higher.
Her mentor had also stressed that it was normal for former loners to fail their first attempt at the assessment if they'd joined after apprentice age, which concerns them a great deal even if Mottlepaw doesn't know whether it's true or not. ShadowClan doesn't see too many loners join, or at least hadn't really done so since he himself had; and even then, it had been mostly luck. That, and Chilledstar seeing some potential in them after they'd saved Granitepelt.
Ivyback had tried to snag an early assessment, as early as she could, so that Mottlepaw's eyes could gradually get used to the night. She'd been met by a partial success; it's the blue hour of dusk when the trio set off from camp, the swamp's night-chorus muffling muddy pawsteps as they traverse the waterlogged land. It's a balmy evening, cooling off from a scorcher of a day that had ShadowClan stick close to their namesake in an attempt to beat the heat. Mottlepaw takes the vibrant sunset, now fading into the evening, as a good sign.
She doesn't feel particularly nervous, though the faint tremble in her whiskers might say otherwise.
It's odd to be left to her own devices at a time like this. Her assessors are somewhere nearby, camouflaged far better than Mottlepaw's own peachy fur, paired with with the skills of two experienced ShadowClan warriors that far outpace those of the lanky apprentice. However, after rolling in mud again and seeing the way it dulls their white markings to an uncomfortable grey, they feel far better about their chances. Rosemire and Thicketpaw had agreed that it masks her scent, too, which Mottlepaw is sure will come in use here. Even if it didn't, she finds some comfort in being a bit muddy that she knows Wheatpaw will chastise her for later if she doesn't get it all off this time.
Under the night sky, Mottlepaw can't rely on her vision. Too many long shadows, too little light to differentiate a whole lot. She likes to think her eyesight is quite good, which makes this a horrible experience to do without, but she has been taught a little trick. To close her eyes for a moment, and to focus on all her other senses. The way the slight breeze presses against her left. The little cracks of twigs high up in the trees, where bats and night birds wheel silently overhead. The way a prey-bird smells, carried to her on the wind as if delivered by StarClan itself. Mottlepaw doesn't really believe in StarClan, not having any warrior family, but if it is because of their influences she'd thank them in the flesh someday (is that the right term to use when it's just a soul? Maybe she should be saying in the spirit ...)
Perched atop a nest set low on the ground, Mottlepaw catches sight of her quarry: round, and probably brown, and surprisingly stripey for a bird. Did birds have tabby stripes like cats? Maybe, maybe not- but it does grant her the wonderful mental image of a feathered, fluffed-out Smogmaw that she'll never share with another cat. It's asleep, with its head tucked under a wing. A feathered orb with legs! How wonderful, Mottlepaw thinks with a small glow of warmth. She almost feels bad for sneaking up on it! Almost (Mottlepaw has never actually been told what they're called, by sheer coincidence, but she knows they have a ridiculous little squeaky call when they're awake. No need to worry about that if it's asleep, though).
She skirts around the edges of the pool, slow and quiet. Placing pawsteps carefully, travelling closer bit by bit, jaws parting to scent the air and ears swivelling to ensure nothing else interferes in this hunt. A crosswind tugs her whiskers sideways, but she shifts her angle and it's rendered a non-issue. Mottlepaw is too focused, for once, to register she should be proud of herself. Take it steady, Mottlepaw. Her mentor's voice comes sage through her mind.
Slowly ...
Ugh.
The skinny sepia gets impatient at the last second but manages to snag the bird by a very long leg as it takes off, sending them both crashing into the shallow pool water the nest had been beside. Mottlepaw surfaces a moment later, spitting feathers and swamp water onto land as she drops her catch, but prey-blood coats her maw and she feels a proud sense of achievement wash over her. It's very clumsy, but a success nonetheless, and-
"Oh! Eggs!" The apprentice exclaims, muffled by her prey, mismatched eyes wide as she catches sight of the empty (well, not so empty) nest. Did ShadowClan eat eggs? Mottlepaw has had them before, but not in a long time, and she's never had snipe eggs before. This might be a rare treat for them. And so late in the season, too! Mottlepaw drops her quarry to the side to inspect these little treats.
The next few things happen very quickly.
The wind changes, bringing with it a now-familiar predator's reek. Mottlepaw's head swings around to its source, fur along her neck prickling and hackles rising in a challenge she knows she might not win a third time. With a twitching red-and-white muzzle and dark eyes peering from the scrub, is a fox. Mottlepaw's breath comes faster, and her shoulders tense. Had it been drawn by the scent of her kill? Had it been her splash?
The fox notices she's looking directly at it, and freezes for a moment with one paw lifted from the ground. Is it the same fox that had nipped her ear or scarred her chin? Mismatched eyes flick back and forth, trying in vain to identify it. There's a standoff, silent and mutually surprised (or so Mottlepaw wants to think).
And then it lunges. Jumps, moreso, all flashing teeth and extended claws.
"FOX!" Mottlepaw yowls as sharp teeth close over where her tail had been a half second prior. Out of the corner of her eye she can see movement in the nearby undergrowth. Hopefully it's Ivyback and Sabletuft; or at the very least, hopefully it's not a second fox. "Oh, shit- HELP!"
MENTIONS: @S A B L E T U F T @smogmaw @honeypaw @moonspire ; this thread is also open to those who weren't tagged, with no need to wait!
COMBAT: please note the fox has a hit difficulty of 2 on a d20 roll (i rolled so low on this lmfao?), and will withstand 8 hits before attempting to run away. the fox may be powerplayed to attack your character if you would like.
When explaining the parts of a warrior's final assessment, Ivyback had placed great importance on their night hunting task, as it would count towards their overall marks for stealth, tracking, hunting and night vision. This had been terrible news, as Mottlepaw dislikes night hunting. She's much more of a daytime enjoyer, even though she's less so when they're this hot ... but she doesn't get a say in the matter. Sucks to be the apprentice. Sabletuft would be joining them as an assessor, for which Mottlepaw is glad; her view of the lead warrior is largely positive, a steady figure for her to ask questions of and glean other knowledge from. He is a lead warrior, though, for which Mottlepaw is less glad. He wouldn't let them slack off anyway, but now the stakes would be even higher.
Her mentor had also stressed that it was normal for former loners to fail their first attempt at the assessment if they'd joined after apprentice age, which concerns them a great deal even if Mottlepaw doesn't know whether it's true or not. ShadowClan doesn't see too many loners join, or at least hadn't really done so since he himself had; and even then, it had been mostly luck. That, and Chilledstar seeing some potential in them after they'd saved Granitepelt.
Ivyback had tried to snag an early assessment, as early as she could, so that Mottlepaw's eyes could gradually get used to the night. She'd been met by a partial success; it's the blue hour of dusk when the trio set off from camp, the swamp's night-chorus muffling muddy pawsteps as they traverse the waterlogged land. It's a balmy evening, cooling off from a scorcher of a day that had ShadowClan stick close to their namesake in an attempt to beat the heat. Mottlepaw takes the vibrant sunset, now fading into the evening, as a good sign.
She doesn't feel particularly nervous, though the faint tremble in her whiskers might say otherwise.
It's odd to be left to her own devices at a time like this. Her assessors are somewhere nearby, camouflaged far better than Mottlepaw's own peachy fur, paired with with the skills of two experienced ShadowClan warriors that far outpace those of the lanky apprentice. However, after rolling in mud again and seeing the way it dulls their white markings to an uncomfortable grey, they feel far better about their chances. Rosemire and Thicketpaw had agreed that it masks her scent, too, which Mottlepaw is sure will come in use here. Even if it didn't, she finds some comfort in being a bit muddy that she knows Wheatpaw will chastise her for later if she doesn't get it all off this time.
Under the night sky, Mottlepaw can't rely on her vision. Too many long shadows, too little light to differentiate a whole lot. She likes to think her eyesight is quite good, which makes this a horrible experience to do without, but she has been taught a little trick. To close her eyes for a moment, and to focus on all her other senses. The way the slight breeze presses against her left. The little cracks of twigs high up in the trees, where bats and night birds wheel silently overhead. The way a prey-bird smells, carried to her on the wind as if delivered by StarClan itself. Mottlepaw doesn't really believe in StarClan, not having any warrior family, but if it is because of their influences she'd thank them in the flesh someday (is that the right term to use when it's just a soul? Maybe she should be saying in the spirit ...)
Perched atop a nest set low on the ground, Mottlepaw catches sight of her quarry: round, and probably brown, and surprisingly stripey for a bird. Did birds have tabby stripes like cats? Maybe, maybe not- but it does grant her the wonderful mental image of a feathered, fluffed-out Smogmaw that she'll never share with another cat. It's asleep, with its head tucked under a wing. A feathered orb with legs! How wonderful, Mottlepaw thinks with a small glow of warmth. She almost feels bad for sneaking up on it! Almost (Mottlepaw has never actually been told what they're called, by sheer coincidence, but she knows they have a ridiculous little squeaky call when they're awake. No need to worry about that if it's asleep, though).
She skirts around the edges of the pool, slow and quiet. Placing pawsteps carefully, travelling closer bit by bit, jaws parting to scent the air and ears swivelling to ensure nothing else interferes in this hunt. A crosswind tugs her whiskers sideways, but she shifts her angle and it's rendered a non-issue. Mottlepaw is too focused, for once, to register she should be proud of herself. Take it steady, Mottlepaw. Her mentor's voice comes sage through her mind.
Slowly ...
Ugh.
The skinny sepia gets impatient at the last second but manages to snag the bird by a very long leg as it takes off, sending them both crashing into the shallow pool water the nest had been beside. Mottlepaw surfaces a moment later, spitting feathers and swamp water onto land as she drops her catch, but prey-blood coats her maw and she feels a proud sense of achievement wash over her. It's very clumsy, but a success nonetheless, and-
"Oh! Eggs!" The apprentice exclaims, muffled by her prey, mismatched eyes wide as she catches sight of the empty (well, not so empty) nest. Did ShadowClan eat eggs? Mottlepaw has had them before, but not in a long time, and she's never had snipe eggs before. This might be a rare treat for them. And so late in the season, too! Mottlepaw drops her quarry to the side to inspect these little treats.
The next few things happen very quickly.
The wind changes, bringing with it a now-familiar predator's reek. Mottlepaw's head swings around to its source, fur along her neck prickling and hackles rising in a challenge she knows she might not win a third time. With a twitching red-and-white muzzle and dark eyes peering from the scrub, is a fox. Mottlepaw's breath comes faster, and her shoulders tense. Had it been drawn by the scent of her kill? Had it been her splash?
The fox notices she's looking directly at it, and freezes for a moment with one paw lifted from the ground. Is it the same fox that had nipped her ear or scarred her chin? Mismatched eyes flick back and forth, trying in vain to identify it. There's a standoff, silent and mutually surprised (or so Mottlepaw wants to think).
And then it lunges. Jumps, moreso, all flashing teeth and extended claws.
"FOX!" Mottlepaw yowls as sharp teeth close over where her tail had been a half second prior. Out of the corner of her eye she can see movement in the nearby undergrowth. Hopefully it's Ivyback and Sabletuft; or at the very least, hopefully it's not a second fox. "Oh, shit- HELP!"
