duskclan vulture culture // privetkit

[vervainfang]

Quite far out from Clan life, and desperate to survive, Vervainfang has found the new routine to be horribly boring. In a day that had once been filled with border patrols, hunting, and even expanding what was theirs - days were much more cautious now, licking wounds and spending almost too much of her day dedicating to hunting down whatever meager prey could be found. It was important to be mindful of where she went: now, a simple infection from even a mouse bite could kill considering Cottonfang and turned tail and fled to the barn with the rest of Sootstar's rotten brood. How had such a powerful cat bred such disloyalty? Not a single kitten of hers had stayed to fight at her side, even from her litter predating Weaselclaw. Perhaps it was the environment they had been raised in, slowly poisoned by Clan life. All they had known was WindClan, not even a taste of what life in the colonies had been like before "WindClan" had even existed. Maybe that was why they had shuddered at the thought of their idyllic life requiring blood to wet their path. Thriftfeather, Juncoclaw, Thornrunner, the others who had stayed loyal to their Leader, they knew the cost of what it meant to be able to live easy and well. Vervainfang was a far cry from impressed at Granitepelt of all cats being placed in charge of them amidst the battle for their home, but she also knew to follow power as it was above her. His own daughter, at least, had the wits about her to follow him.

Berrysnap had done something incredibly foolish and grew fat with kittens, fathered by one of their many traitorous deputies. New life in their bloodied band of misfits was a hard thing to welcome at first, too busy licking their wounds and focusing on not dying from exposure or dirty cuts. Starvation was a worry that came second, and then Vervainfang humored that maybe the kits should be kept around too. Turns out Vervainfang would never have to humor the thought too much - Berrysnap had righted her wrong, one way or another, and three of her litter had vanished basically overnight. Whether they died due to the conditions their group was in, or Berrysnap had left them to die, Vervainfang didn't particularly care. Berrysnap did keep one around, a smart-mouthed little tyke with the illusion of tabby stripes on his little body. Privetkit, he had been named. Lucky for him, he had managed to tap into some kind of weakness for Vervainfang, having an affinity for his plant name that was much like her own.

Kindness did not come easy to Vervainfang, on the occasion it ever came at all. But with their wounds slowly healing, and Privetkit off of his mother's milk having survived the hardest part of kithood, the dust-dappled molly found herself slowly drawn toward the boy. More than often not he was left to his own devices. It was to be expected; everyone had a job to do to ensure their survival, as small and disheartening their group was. Spinning tall tales to a baby was hardly a worthy job. But cats gave in to their infections, followed Sootstar down a path of never waking again and Vervainfang realized that Privetkit was their sole kit. Their sole future. A legacy they had fought for, killed for, shed their own blood for, sat on the shoulders of a young boy shouldered past throughout the days. Her barbed tongue could soften for Privetkit, if only for now. It was important that he grows up strong, able to defend what they were trying to build for him.

Finding him is easy - he didn't have access outside of whatever sort of "camp" they could scrounge together. "Privetkit," the scarred warrior beckons around a mouse in her mouth, scrawny and hardly a meal. It's the best she can really find during the end of leaf-bare, away from all her usual hunting spots. It's skin and bone, but even those are edible. Privetkit will quickly learn to not be picky. The multicolored molly sits herself and sweeps her tail around Privetkit, tugging him toward her with force. She would not give him the option to just walk off from her. She drops the mouse unceremoniously, nudging it forward. "Eat." It's a command, not a suggestion. Bicolored ears twitch twice, adjusting her attitude. "It's important you eat. You have very big paws to fill, do you understand?" He would never rise to what Sootstar had been, but he could certainly rise to fill the pawsteps of Granitepelt. Hah, easily. From there, Privetkit could grow even stronger. Yes, yes, he had to. Vervainfang's whiskers twitch at the scent of blood beneath her, disinterested by the lack of meat on the mouse she had brought but hungry for a meal nonetheless. Leaf-bare was cruel, and Privetkit would not fall victim to it yet. She would catch herself something heartier later - Privetkit would accept what he was given until he learned how to hunt for himself.

Vervainfang huffs. This puffball had large paws to fill, and little time to do it. "Tell me, do you know why you're named Privetkit?" She asks, raising an eyebrow as she tilts her powderblue eyes down toward him.
​

𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 ——— 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛-𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙫𝙖𝙞𝙣

• @PRIVETKIT :3​
• 

  ₊ ⋆ * ⊹ ₊ ☾

  vervainfang

  
  

  — she / her, current duskclan warrior
  — a massive, war-torn fawn-silver tortoiseshell with blue eyes
  — formerly a windclan moor-runner, defected with the rest of sootstar's loyalists after the rebellion
  — full length tags
  — penned by izanami, contact on discord @nullmoons for plots or threads :)

  ​

 

[PRIVETFROST]

The son of man was borne from the hands of gods. Crafted slowly, surely, by weathered claws, molding deftly the cornices and manicuring quickly the heart. The hopes of his home had been poured into him as easily as the goblet takes sweet honey, as it seeped into the tips of talons and ends of whiskers. Privetkit was Duskclan's wunderkind, and the derelict clan's only child. It was only natural that he would be met with some sort of bemusement, as though cats of their stature could never hope to create something of themselves. A spark in the night, of which wayward souls turned to like the North Star, as fleeting as it may be.

Perhaps it was unwise to place one's trust in the future on a little boy. Desperation cut through the depraved and destitute like the purest form of hunger, a primal force that forewent any sort of predilections or predisposed rulesets. Privetkit had grown into their dreams - or would, for he still bore his down and his naivete. The bleakness of his home's situation had been lost on him, for how could he strive for greater things if he did not know they existed? Privet proved a bird with wool strewn over its eyes, so that he would know naught of the expanse of empyrean above him. He knew vaguely of the world outside of him, though it never concerned him. All he needed was in the grove he had grown from.

Vervainfang had been a constant force in his short-lived existence, like the sun that gave unto young dawn. The battle-worn warrior was not his mother, though every cat in the small group felt somewhat like an extension of his mother. After all, every adult surely knew each other and convened on their shared information with one another. He figured, in his blooming stupidity (though it was a fair assumption to make given his age), that every adult knew the same as the other. And when he grew older, he would surely bite upon the saccharine fruit of knowledge that they did.

Privetkit, the only name the boy had ever known for himself, rolled rough from Vervain's maw. "Okay." Soft voice trembled, though certain, as the young boy glanced down at the meager meal. Though, complaints had never sprouted from the kitten's tongue, as that would have meant that he knew of better days and of plumper mice. This sort of repast was often gifted to him, almost in little and silent prayer, as if their scant earnings would be better off to the newblood of the clan. Vervainfang told him, in stern tone, to eat. And so, Privetkit did. I have big paws to fill. The thought prickled in a still-forming brain as he bent down to tear plush fur from its place. Small snout felt at brittle and bulging bone, careful not to play with his food. Berrysnap chastised him for it once, and he had never forgotten such a lesson. I understand. He said silently.

Her next question caught Privetkit off guard, as though he had not prepared for it. A sort of eletric panic fizzled through him, as if there was some wrong answer and he would surely disappoint her if his response was not adequate for her tastes. He was complaisant for his peers (whom were all adults) and eager to please. Anxiety had surely been painted on eiderdown features, for the boy was intelligent but not seasoned enough to control fresh emotions and unknown experiences that threatened to tear down what little he harbored. "It's the name my mother gave me. I think I'll become Privetpaw soon, because that's what she told me happens in Windclan. Maybe in a few days." Despite Privet's verbosity, childish innocence still peeked through. He was Duskclan's star, but a star did not spring from naught.
​

 

[vervainfang]

The boy obeys commands easily, stumbling over timid words. Vervainfang finds her patience immediately waning, lips twitching into an annoyed flash of teeth. She lifts a downy paw to swipe over her muzzle to hide the sudden expression, almost physically wiping the sneer off of her maw. Pride, honor, something so temptingly close to perfection was not something obtained from something as simple as being born. Privetkit would get a tempered version of Vervainfang, if only for now, because he was liquid gold that had yet to be molded. Vervainfang would certainly not be the one to tarnish potential, and she certainly wouldn't let any of her peers that had traveled with Granitepelt consider doing so, either. Vervainfang watches in imposing silence as Privetkit starts to pick apart the meal brought for him, a gentle thrum of pleasure shooting through her legs down to her paws. This was already progress, already a step - off of milk and onto meat without a single fuss. He knew how to clean a mouse, and Berrysnap might've taught him how to take the feathers off a bird as well. What came next, soon enough, would be teaching him how to catch such creatures for himself.

Privetkit was a good, obedient kit.

But a lack of spine would get him killed away from the cushioned life Sunstar's rogues had tossed them from their home for. How did you teach someone to find their own voice? Vervainfang's ears flick back as thoughts swarm the space between them. Even if Privetkit found his voice, she had to make sure he said the right thing. Grew up knowing what the world was like, and what he should and shouldn't be willing to risk his life for. Power above all - but unfortunately, Vervainfang didn't see this tyke suddenly sprouting muscle as he aged. Even aside from his twig-thin father and lithe mother, Privetkit would be doomed to fail from the start given that he would never be fed enough to grow into a cat with the power to put his claws to real good use. What a shame. Vervainfang was not a wordsmith, but she could certainly try to teach him the strength in his words. It was what landed Granitepelt in such incredible favor with Sootstar, it's what kept the meager band of WindClanners together when survival was bleak with or without each other.

Vervainfang hums as Privetkit breaks their stiff silence, attention drawn back to the little kitten rather than her visions of what he could be. "Your mother gave it to you, yes. But not too long ago, you would not have been called kit. You simply would've been Privet. Sootstar was the first to name her kittens with the suffix of kit. Shrikekit and Sootkit." Nevermind the fact one was dead for challenging their mother, and the other was a turn-coat. "Sootstar is the same cat that guided our paws here, before she lost her final life." Vervainfang's expression darkens. She doesn't want to dwell terribly long on Sootstar's death, hanging limp from a traitor's jaws. A powerful cat supposed to replace her previous pushover of a Deputy. Sunstride had been taken in from nothing, from a scrounging group of rogues, and he had taken her empire from her. Sunstride was exactly what shouldn't happen to Privetkit - powerfully faithful to all the wrong ideals.

Vervainfang bites back a growl at the thought. Fate would turn it's claws on him soon enough, and the moors would see it's rightful rulers in place again. With a twitch of her whiskers, the silvered tortoiseshell tries to push the golden tom out of her mind. "Privetpaw," Vervainfang repeats with a nod of her head. "Yes, kits become apprentices at three moons. That's also a tradition from WindClan. How old are you now, little berry?" Come to think of it, he might be that age now. Vervainfang supposed whether or not he'd be given a name was up to Granitepelt's whims - but Privetkit would certainly be of much more help as an apprentice learning how to finally fend for himself. "Other Clans apprenticed their kits at four moons, to allow them more time to clutter up the nursery, more time to be lazy and weak. Do you think you're strong enough to quit being a baby?" It was a loaded question, and Vervainfang knew such - but she met Privetkit with a stern gaze, expectant of an answer.
​

𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘶𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦 ——— 𝙨𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙡𝙛-𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙, 𝙣𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙣 𝙫𝙖𝙞𝙣

• 

  ₊ ⋆ * ⊹ ₊ ☾

  vervainfang

  
  

  — she / her, current duskclan warrior
  — a massive, war-torn fawn-silver tortoiseshell with blue eyes
  — formerly a windclan moor-runner, defected with the rest of sootstar's loyalists after the rebellion
  — full length tags
  — penned by izanami, contact on discord @nullmoons for plots or threads :)

  ​

 

[PRIVETFROST]

Hunger gnawed dry and rasping, like a dogged cough at the back of a feverish throat, though Privetkit knew naught to complain for anything more. Created of pestilence and plague, the boy and famine had been friends since the very first time his stomach grumbled and roiled about in dissatisfaction. He met it on the backs of bony paws, on the ribs that peered through midnight ocean, and in eyes etched in a weariness that should not have tailed him at such an age. It did not sear nor tear him apart, but merely baked within beating heart of youth, as if the sensations of purest deprivation had been part of him since the day he had been born. He did not call it deprivation - it was but another facet of life, and something he was told made him much stronger than the downy-faced and plump-bellied kittens of the other clans. Deft claws, especially for a kitten so young, plucked through gaunt sinew and brittle bones, and there was little meat to actually be had. Blood splayed along his muzzle, though not ungraceful and messy as if he had eaten out of gluttony. His tongue licked at it, trying to savor all of the flavor that could be gleaned from his prey.

He was not much stronger or bigger than the brittle prey he feasted on. Due to the lack of proper nutrition and health of his home, he was much smaller and much more feeble than his estranged siblings. Perhaps it worried Duskclan, but they had much better matters to tend to than to pamper Privetkit. Ravens and hawks surely bided their time, for the predator of their lands was no more than their food as well. Talons stayed prime, sharp against the gloom of their thrones of bough. He sometimes saw those vultures circle around, cowardly as the scavengers seemed to be, straying along the edges of shadows as though they could trespass no further. Still, Privetkit wanted to stalk through the shadows, swoop down on the scurrying rodents and rabbits, and snap their frost-thin necks. He was much too young to be hunting, but he figured it must feel good to finally bite down on what he was pursuing, as warm scarlet gushed upon his maw and trawled down his chin.

Keen ears drew forwards at Vervainfang's words, listening as though she uttered fervent yet honeyed prayer. Although he did not have a mentor, Vervain was the closest thing the young kitten had to one. To him, the battle-worn feline stood as a paragon of unparalleled strength, resilience, and victory. The warrior was like a stone-melded statue, unfallible and unmovable from its place. Though the winds and waters abraded her frame, she did not fall to its forces. 'Strong', as she often sprinkled into her sermons, seemed to be a mantra that surfaced often from the adults around him, though Privet knew little of what it actually meant aside from having a bigger body to defend oneself with. That was all strength was, wasn't it? To strike the quickest, to hit the hardest, to remain the longest... Devotion kept the child clinging to Vervain's every verse, as though her instruction flowing through mellifluous tone would be enough to help him do what he must. He was their star, after all, and he must burn without fault.

"I'm... three moons. Oh! I must be becoming Privetpaw very soon, then." Juvenile voice, still painted and pricked by the strings and straw of his idiocy, piped up. He never grew attached to his current name - it was what Berrysnap gave him, but he knew he must shed this snakeskin as well. It was life. Greenhorn at heart, yet still willing to hold up his clan's hopes as Atlas shouldered the quandary of the world, his fern-green eyes glowed with an electric excitement. He would become an apprentice as soon as he could, and then he would certainly show Vervainfang! "I'm not a baby. I'm strong. I bet I could fight in so many battles, just like you. In fact, I bet I could kill all my enemies, too!" Fur bristled in agitation, like a fire kindled through sable-splashed fur, a torch through the sea of oil and tar. Though, he bore no anger - it was sterling sort of enthusiasm, as if conflict were nothing but a mere game to him. "What do you think my warrior name will be? Perhaps Privetfang?" He glanced up at the dilute calico.​