@fire ♡;
Martenclaw sat in the equidistant of camp, grooming a paw. The tom was very paradigmatic, assuming everything to be usual. He stared out into the thicket of trees that rounded the angles of ShadowClan's camp. Now, he looked quiescent, calmly slumping down. He turned, his fluffy off-white pelt patched with sorrel cordons around his icy blue eyes. He saw Sparrowstrike, but no particular emotion seemed to jab the warrior. He padded over to the fresh-kill pile, seeing as the elders and kits had eaten. His outstretched claw tore into the feeble body of a lapwing, and he sank his fangs into its pleuron. The timbre of multiple voices sounded with a servile ring around him. The tomcat was always surprised that he wasn't named Raccoonkit when he was born—he always thought he would be. But the absence of grey hues in his fur signalled otherwise. He looked up when a few other cats trotted up to join them; all not noticing the warrior. His ears twitched slightly as he gormandized the lapwing's zestful flesh. He prepared to stand up and walk away, but the coming of another feline warded him. He gave a sideways glance around him before continuing. Martenclaw was a cat more suited for a life free of adventure.