pafp TRIAL BY FURY 𓆩♡𓆪 A STUMBLE

[DAWNGLARE]

Once upon a time, Dawnglare had not known just how blessed he was to have a den of his own. Privacy is concession here, not a thing afforded to all. Even though it is temporary, his den would never reach the capacities of the Warrior Den without Yellow - Death as incentive. Perhaps he ought to cherish it. Once upon a time, he had...

Today, his own den is suffocating. The sun - dapples that peeked through his walls could not hide the very nature of what they were, an enclosure, first and foremost. One that held onto him with snaggleteeth, and with his role: Medicine Cat, destined him to suffer without a cause. With a cause, perhaps Another would argue. And Another would claim that the cause is the people. But what have the people done for him?

Out, he scrabbles for out. Dawnglare is straining for the entrance to his den without further thought. Whereas breaths had once quickened, they now hitched and left him breathless. The odd palpitation in his chest told him he would not spare another one for this wretched place. In sight: the daylight ( And he isn't thinking about how it would burn him. What all sat out beneath the blazing sun was just as hot of a reminder as his den was ). For now, he does not dwell, does not stop to ponder if he would truly find what he is looking for. In the light of daytime, he hallucinates relief, and then—

He trips. It's unfitting, the yelp he lets out. He falls. It's unsightly, the twist of his body. And with eyes swimming amongst the clouds, he gapes for about a heartbeat.

Dawnglare rights himself with a quickness, and blazing eyes look desperately for a why. He finds it: a scruffy, outstretched limb. That should be impossible, for he had been certain that Slate was elsewhere... But oh, he was simply here too, the overgrown weed of a tom. He was there at the same time, with his rock of a head. He was elsewhere as well, with his tail splayed about. If Dawnglare were to slice him to bloody ribbons, his overstuffed guts would surely stretch across the half of his den. " You, " spat like a curse. " You make me sick with your oafishness. "

It is here that he decides: His problems lie within the maggot - bellied Slate. If he disposes of the body, so will his problems be gone. " How does anyone manage anything with yourself in the way? Your overgrown skull or your overgrown self. " His hackles rise, and Dawnglare snaps with spit flying from his maw. " Leave! Get out of my sight! "

OOC: please wait for @SLATE :3

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[SLATESNARL]

What Slate would give to afford the comforts of a spacious den again. He had not shared a space with anyone but Orangestar for moons, allowing the Maine Coon ample room to splay his limbs comfortably without accidentally hitting anyone in the face. Now he has to share a space with two other cats who also happened to be large. He is typically mindful of how he stores his legs and appendages, but in the midst of a daytime nap, Slate couldn't help how his arm stuck out across the walkway.

Abruptly, force knocks against his outstretched limb and rouses him from his slumber. "Urgh- hey!" Slate grumbles, yanking back though it's already too late as Dawnglare is sent stumbling. The red and white tom is fuming, and instead of simply brushing off the accident, he channels anger and resentment in Slate's direction.

When a fiery insult spews from the healer's maw, Slate scoffs, " 'scuse me?" He receives the brunt of the medicine cat's rage even though the other clearly hadn't paid attention to where he was walking. Why was he to blame?

Before Slate could say anything else, Dawnglare continued on his tirade, making jabs at his large size. He suppresses a roll of his eyes — the Maine Coon was used to navigating the world with his heft, so the other's disdain for his size did not bother him. However, faux eyebrows raise as he is taken aback by the red tom's demands for him to get out. For how long? Half a day? Until tomorrow? The rugged Maine Coon decides that he doesn't care. "Fine. 'm sick of your stench, anyway." Slate spits back, albeit a bit groggily as he blinks sleep from his eyes.

With a huff, the injured warrior hauled himself to his paws and limped out of the medicine den, annoyance worn on his features as he moved at a sluggish pace across camp. His rusty muscles burn as he supports his weight but he doesn't care — he wants to get as far away from that oversized rat as possible.

𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 ✹ .　 + 　˚ 　　 · 　 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

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  a warrior ( formerly lead warrior ) of skyclan, slate is forty-two moons. he is mated to orangestar. 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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[Chickbloom]

It was a bad omen, far worse than clouds covering the moon or a starless night. A sign of the end of days, the breakdown of society and the reduction of them all to worms struggling for survival amongst the dirt. Cats should make preparations and say their prayers, for Slate and Chickbloom actually aligned on something.

An amused amber gaze had been watching the ever-intensifying spats between doctor and patient like his own personal sitcom for a little while now, half as a form of catharsis seeing his two least-favorite cats in Skyclan absolutely miserable, and half out of worry that one of them would end up dead. In the milksop’s mind, Slate was like if an elk had a wolf as a security guard, and Dawnglare was if a salmon had a particularly skilled bear for a surgeon. The coward didn’t like interacting with either, but he also recognized their indispensability (and their incompatibility with each other)

So when today’s episode was cancelled as one star threw out the other, the live studio audience stepped in. Chickbloom bounded towards Slate, staring a hole in his leg and worrying it would snap off any moment while padding alongside him. He’d seen the whole ordeal, and yolk-stained fur bristled in rarely-seen annoyance at the medicine cat’s behavior. Still, that didn’t mean he was forceful in expressing it. “Is that - are you s-sure that’s a good idea?” The coward asked cautiously, gesturing to the weight the warrior was putting on his leg.

He slowed for a moment, trying to think of a solution before speeding to catch up. “M-Maybe…maybe if you - y’know - apologize, he’ll let you back in? I know it’s not - n-not your fault, but you know how Dawnglare is…” The idea was quintessentially Chickbloom. Hell, the whelp would probably act as a personal leg pillow if Slate asked nicely enough (or threatened him in the slightest).​

 

[TWITCHBOLT]

Twitchbolt had never had a spacious den in his entire life- crammed in the nursery, then the apprentice's den, then the warrior's den. He shared a nest now, too ... and as wonderful as that was in every other avenue of life, it wasn't brilliant for space. He'd thanked his genes, for once, that he wasn't a hulking cat like Slate or Dawnglare- he'd always been a slight, wiry thing, growth probably suppressed by worry.

Twitchbolt bristled, recoiled at the sound- Dawnglare yelling clearly off-put by something ... something. It sounded as if Slate had merely dared to exist. While Twitchbolt could understand Slate worming under the skin with his attitude...

Well, Dawnglare wasn't someone Twitchbolt had ever understood. Trembling but purposeful pawsteps picked his way closer to the mouth of the den, Slate's shadowed form shouldering past. Chickbloom offered a quiet suggestion that Twitchbolt prematurely assumed Slate would not heed (for he was not sure he'd ever known that cat to apologise), and the small tom swivelled his attention upon the medicine den. Spiny fur shivered, and he stuck his head through the threshold, narrowing his eyes.

"If he t-tears himself open again while he'd moving about, he'll have- have to stay here for longer, you know ..." Twitchbolt huffed, agitation a little evident beneath his voice. Did Dawnglare not want to do his duty, even ...?​

penned by pin ✧​