Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
The air tasted sour this morning, a low fog hung over the forest. Creeping and crawling like tendrils, a hunt perhaps wasn’t the best idea in such low visibility. But it was about time him and Newtbelly went hunting once more, as friends. Especially now that restrictions had been lifted by Dawnstar. For that he was thankful.
Ahead was Mourning Ruins, seemed like a long time since he’d visited. But there was always a mouthful or two to be found. Scuttling with rats and often blackbirds in the early hours, he was partial to a nice rat. Owlthroat had never been a particularly adept hunter, his bulky frame made too much noise. He’d always been envious of those silent cats, those that used the shadows as a second pelt. His white, cow-like patches glowed like the sun even in the dark. Not like he’d ever much needed to be stealthy. Brute force alone was usually more than enough to do the trick.
Black nostrils dropped down to the floor trying desperately to catch some sort of a scent past the acrid fog, a few whiffs of rat? Couldn’t be completely sure. ”Newt, there’s a faint trail here.” He gestured towards the spot he’d just sniffed with his bushy tail. Of course it would be likely that he left Newtbelly to do the real hard work, stalking, chasing, pouncing and killing. But most importantly sharing afterwards, if they found anything more than a mouthful or two they’d bring the rest back to camp to share what remained.
”A toad would be nice… mmm”, the tom’s stomach gurgled. Nothing available at camp seemed quite as satisfying as fresh and warm flesh to sink his yellowed teeth into. A peaceful morning was exactly what was needed, a moment of quiet. Reflection. He’d try and bring Tuftedtusk a trinket back with him, something sparkling perhaps? Out of his depth but surely effort was what mattered the most. Mental notes being made constantly of what was the best and worst way to behave in front of his dearest beloved.
On days like this, the fog practically beckoned him in, not even grand open spaces were without suitable hiding spots. Much to his joy though, the mourning ruins were not one of those open places. Crumbling walls and patches of weeds provided cover even without the fog's aid. The singed walls appeared a little ominous in this light, almost like they were reaching up to StarClan through the cloudy air. He wasn't even alive when the incident occurred, but he'd heard stories. It seemed the scar it left on ShadowClan would be permanently documented here, never fully healed. Though, the derelict barn had its charm. He'd never found it particularly unnerving himself. A thick floor of weeds lay underfoot, growing up the remaining stone walls. The abundance of plants beckoned prey in, he couldn't imagine there was much to find here before it burned down. He was always off put by twoleg structures, so a burnt one was much more welcome. A true signifier of their absence.
He'd found himself on a hunting trip with Owlthroat, determined to impress him after the last time they left camp together - memories of that mess of a herb patrol crept up on him. This time, he wouldn't lose his cool in the face of danger. Plus, maybe he could bring something back to camp and earn the favour of some warriors. It wasn't as good an opportunity as a battle, but it was good enough. Nose tilted up, he tried to map out the wind. It seemed to be headed towards them at the moment, that was good. But, he didn't smell but one scent on it. Lucky for him, Owlthroat caught scent of something. After creeping over, he gave it a wiff. He wasn't sure it'd be toad like Owlthroat hoped, it seemed a bit more ratlike, but he didn't comment on it, since he wasn't actually sure what the scent was - better not to embarass himself. "Right," his tone was hushed as he crouched down, beginning to follow the trail. The crouch didn't feel entirely necessary, but he'd rather take extra precautions; He was too old to scare prey off in front of Owlthroat now. Continuing to creep, his eyes darted about the space in front of him. Nothing was coming into view. "Hey, you see anything old man?" he whispered, tail stiff as not to scare away any potential meals.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
Newtbelly’s crouch almost made him chuckle, he was eager. More eager perhaps than Owlthroat, Newtbelly always had been. The tom wondered if it was his own behaviours that had deviously rubbed off on him over the moons, but by far Newtbelly had turned out the most similar. The need to impress was palpable and the young tom was doing well with that in his arsenal as a tool to further himself.
Following his old apprentice’s line of view he leaned down himself, making his large paws as silent as was physically possible. Shrugging off his old man comment once again, he pushed forward until he could just about crane his ears and hear scratching.
”This way Newtface! There’s bound to be something”, the tom jeered lightly. A soft smile playing on his lips. Pushing his way forward he found himself clambering clumsily over the outskirts of rubble, carefully sweeping his yellow eyes this way and that. Until a glint caught his focus, something sparkling between a few rocks. Perhaps something suitable to bring home to Tuftedtusk, he squeezed his head into the gap and grasped something hard in between his teeth. It tasted foul, it glimmer clearly masked by a layer of grime but still sparkling. Pulling back he tugged it free and spat it at his paws.
+1 Gemstone
Nice, a sparkling blue rock. He’d lucked out here, the tom chucked it behind him to collect later. Narrowly flying past Newtbelly’s head at some speed. ”Sorry”, he unconvincingly mumbled. He pressed his nose down once more as he continued forward until the scratching became irresistible. The fog still clung heavily to the air masking most scents other than damp and rot.
In a flurry a grey shadow shot towards him. Owlthroat attempted clumsily to bring his hefty paws down but just threw them into the dirt instead, the rat scrabbling. Dashing right underneath his stomach in the direction of open ground, he turned rapidly. Yowling with frustration hoping desperately that Newtbelly would be quicker and make up for his blathering incompetence.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
Newtbelly’s crouch almost made him chuckle, he was eager. More eager perhaps than Owlthroat, Newtbelly always had been. The tom wondered if it was his own behaviours that had deviously rubbed off on him over the moons, but by far Newtbelly had turned out the most similar. The need to impress was palpable and the young tom was doing well with that in his arsenal as a tool to further himself.
Following his old apprentice’s line of view he leaned down himself, making his large paws as silent as was physically possible. Shrugging off his old man comment once again, he pushed forward until he could just about crane his ears and hear scratching.
”This way Newtface! There’s bound to be something”, the tom jeered lightly. A soft smile playing on his lips. Pushing his way forward he found himself clambering clumsily over the outskirts of rubble, carefully sweeping his yellow eyes this way and that. Until a glint caught his focus, something sparkling between a few rocks. Perhaps something suitable to bring home to Tuftedtusk, he squeezed his head into the gap and grasped something hard in between his teeth. It tasted foul, it glimmer clearly masked by a layer of grime but still sparkling. Pulling back he tugged it free and spat it at his paws.
+1 Gemstone
Nice, a sparkling blue rock. He’d lucked out here, the tom chucked it behind him to collect later. Narrowly flying past Newtbelly’s head at some speed. ”Sorry”, he unconvincingly mumbled. He pressed his nose down once more as he continued forward until the scratching became irresistible. The fog still clung heavily to the air masking most scents other than damp and rot.
In a flurry a grey shadow shot towards him. Owlthroat attempted clumsily to bring his hefty paws down but just threw them into the dirt instead, the rat scrabbling. Dashing right underneath his stomach in the direction of open ground, he turned rapidly. Yowling with frustration hoping desperately that Newtbelly would be quicker and make up for his blathering incompetence.
Faint scratching caused his ears to perk up, but it looked like Owlthroat was already on it, big burly figure scrambling over the rocks. What on earth? His ear flickered in a confusion, and almost a little bit of frustration. Not that he was frustrated with Owlthroat or his actions, it was a sort of frustration in not understanding the tom's motives. Since when did the formidable owl care about gemstones? He was acting erratic. It was weird. Though, the feigned apology was quite normal. The young tortoiseshell shook his head, unsure what to even say to that. Owlthroat continued to follow the scratching, whilst Newtbelly followed, still in a hunter's crouch. Lucky he kept position, since Owlthroat sent the thing scurrying towards him. He hadn't really had the time to choose the perfect spot to hide in, but this would have to do. Little paws came scurrying, avoiding Owlthroat's powerful claws; sorry little guy, but this is your last day out here.
His haunches tensed up as he prepared to spring
[Roll: D20 - 10+ for catch, level above 10 determines quality of rat, level below 10 determines how bad he flops][Rolled: 17]
Just as it paced perfectly in front of him, he lunged forward, claws securing themselves in the animal's flesh - then he nipped, making it quick. He always did. Cats weren't horrid to their prey like some other predators, he took pride in that.
It was a decently big one - nothing crazy, but it had definitely eaten its fill this Greenleaf. They'd eat well too, it seemed. "Looks like you spotted a big one Owl," he smiled pridefully, before pushing the thing out with his paws. "You wanna eat it here?" This area was a little more open, but it was a foggy day, so he didn't figure it'd be a problem.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
Thankfully Newtbelly had seized the rat in his claws firmly and dispatched of their new friend. The blood, now that he could smell, a delicious bite. It was big enough to share that was for certain, perhaps after a restock on energy they’d find a couple more to bring home.
He began to shift his weight to make his way back over to Newtbelly, ”Yeah, let's eat then get back to it. There’s more here I’m sure of it.” His voice coming out gruff and disinterested as usual. Underpaw he felt movement, the kind that came from disturbing the ground. The tom had shifted the rocks and with that shifted part of the structure of crumbling rocks and timber. Owlthroat’s ear flickered in hesitation as he stopped and stood still; he didn't want to end up squished under something heavy. It wasn’t obvious how stable this thing was.
It creaked and heaved and squeaked.
Squeaked?
Behind him came a tidal wave of ornery grey monsters. Their little paws scrabbling and raging in a fierce fight to make their way to the nearest exit. Rats could be dangerous in big hordes, enough could easily swarm and bite a cat to death if they got overwhelmed. But he’d disturbed the nest, this was a chance to bag some on their exit, if he didn’t interrupt them too much they’d be more focused on getting out instead of getting him. They swarmed under his paws and belly, smelling plump and ever so delicious. He tried to brace his muscles as they rushed past. Extending a long jagged claw and hooking one, then another. This was easy picking. The way they flooded in panic.
Then came the rumble, not from the structure, or settling rocks, or from the little devils. But from somewhere within, something they’d been fleeing. His entire spine shivered, fur prickling up to twice its size and claws limply dangling rat guts.
A red monster is worse than a grey one. That was for sure. A fox joined the party
The lithe creature burst its way forth after the rats, nimbly swerving a beam in a flash of glorious crimson. Anxiety that had swallowed him a moment earlier in regards to a collapsing building swelled into anticipation of glory. It was easy to see why he’d been labelled a madman, welcoming the sight of a fierce predator and a dash of glory and death. His masterpiece of a rotten mind revelled in sheer excitement to take on this hulking beast.
Owlthroat had never taken on a fox before, but he’d make sure it saw its last days here. Better him than some scraggly apprentice and weak nobody coming under the wrath of claws. ”NEWT! Time to prove your worth”, Owlthroat bellowed. His eyes locked grimly with the beast as it paused to await his move, a snarl locking both the fox’s lips and his own. Only if you looked close enough, his more in the category of maniacal grin.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
Thankfully Newtbelly had seized the rat in his claws firmly and dispatched of their new friend. The blood, now that he could smell, a delicious bite. It was big enough to share that was for certain, perhaps after a restock on energy they’d find a couple more to bring home.
He began to shift his weight to make his way back over to Newtbelly, ”Yeah, let's eat then get back to it. There’s more here I’m sure of it.” His voice coming out gruff and disinterested as usual. Underpaw he felt movement, the kind that came from disturbing the ground. The tom had shifted the rocks and with that shifted part of the structure of crumbling rocks and timber. Owlthroat’s ear flickered in hesitation as he stopped and stood still; he didn't want to end up squished under something heavy. It wasn’t obvious how stable this thing was.
It creaked and heaved and squeaked.
Squeaked?
Behind him came a tidal wave of ornery grey monsters. Their little paws scrabbling and raging in a fierce fight to make their way to the nearest exit. Rats could be dangerous in big hordes, enough could easily swarm and bite a cat to death if they got overwhelmed. But he’d disturbed the nest, this was a chance to bag some on their exit, if he didn’t interrupt them too much they’d be more focused on getting out instead of getting him. They swarmed under his paws and belly, smelling plump and ever so delicious. He tried to brace his muscles as they rushed past. Extending a long jagged claw and hooking one, then another. This was easy picking. The way they flooded in panic.
Then came the rumble, not from the structure, or settling rocks, or from the little devils. But from somewhere within, something they’d been fleeing. His entire spine shivered, fur prickling up to twice its size and claws limply dangling rat guts.
A red monster is worse than a grey one. That was for sure. A fox joined the party
The lithe creature burst its way forth after the rats, nimbly swerving a beam in a flash of glorious crimson. Anxiety that had swallowed him a moment earlier in regards to a collapsing building swelled into anticipation of glory. It was easy to see why he’d been labelled a madman, welcoming the sight of a fierce predator and a dash of glory and death. His masterpiece of a rotten mind revelled in sheer excitement to take on this hulking beast.
Owlthroat had never taken on a fox before, but he’d make sure it saw its last days here. Better him than some scraggly apprentice and weak nobody coming under the wrath of claws. ”NEWT! Time to prove your worth”, Owlthroat bellowed. His eyes locked grimly with the beast as it paused to await his move, a snarl locking both the fox’s lips and his own. Only if you looked close enough, his more in the category of maniacal grin.
Mmm, good job that Owlthroat agreed with his offer, he was starved. Yellow maw stretched out to take a bite of the thing, but then the crumbling began. Owlthroat was stood right near a structure - visions of digging through hefty stones soon plagued him, was Owlthroat about to get trapped under all that twoleg garbage. Momentarily the two of them were still, Newtbelly's head remaining just above his catch. He was sure they hadn't caused enough ruckus to disturb the building, was Owlthroat's muscular frame really that heavy? No.
Rats.
Dozens of them. That couldn't be right, they hadn't crawled into a nest, they'd attacked a stray adventurer. Someone else must be here - a helping hand? With that, they could catch a huge bundle for the clan. He bounced to his paws, exhilarated as he joined Owlthroat, attempting to grab as many as possible. However, his nimble paws didn't smash into the things quite as easily. Quickly, he grasped one in his jaws, shaking it. Great to know that he wouldn't do well in a rat attack... Actually, it was unlikely for the creatures to run towards them without putting up a fight, right? His stomach dropped. It looked like Owlthroat had turned his head too- - if the cards were in their favour, some other ShadowClanner would peek out from behind the walls.
Rat still in mouth, he stared with bated breath. It seemed the cards were entirely turned against them.
The wriggly orange thing came running. It was the first one he'd seen, but he knew it as soon as he saw it. A fox. It wasn't nearly as big as he'd imagined, but that didn't render it weak. It'd be nimble, it could match Newtbelly for speed, or worse, outdo him. No, time to prove himself, Owlthroat was right. The clans ruled this forest for a reason, foxes had been driven off many a time. Owlthroat's brute strength mixed with his stealth should be just enough to beat the thing down. Owlthroat was already staring at it, crazed eyes -was he about to launch straight at it? One well-placed bite and it'd be over, did he realise that? No, he couldn't think like that, Owlthroat moved differently. One well-placed hit from him, and the fox would be over. Newtbelly couldn't do the same. His mind whirred.
The fox had emerged from behind a structure, so if they could keep it's back to the wall, it'd have less space to roam, unable to apply its agile nature. Owlthroat already had the easiest exit covered, whether he knew it or not. So what could he do from here? Stealth was out of the question, the orange canid had fixed them both in its stare. He took a quick breath, before racing to the fox's right, pleaing that it wouldn't turn it's head, then he'd go for its ribs with a simple swipe - that way, it'll turn to him, directing its head away from the huge tom, which would just maybe leave its neck open to him [agatha kitty].
[Roll: D20 10+ = hit u know the drill lol]
[Rolled: 17 - AGAIN??]
A swift jump, and he was right next to it, claws raking along its side as he skidded to a halt. It wasn't the perfect hit, but it was pretty good by his standards - damage had been done. Much to his dismay, the fox's head barely turned, at least, not in the way he'd hoped. Its head swivelled between the two of them, but now it'd ducked down, neck guarded from mouth level.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
TW: descriptions of blood & flesh
The art of the battle, since young Owlthroat had always known where his talent lay. Never the best at well, anything. But claws and blood.
Oh how he basked in the dance, the crimson glory. It tasted like a wrought iron crown. Through it all he’d taught Newtbelly well, pride swelled up as he raked through the beast’s ribs. Not as much damage as he thought he’d do but it left the red devil wincing and swivelling. Ducking down. Now Owlthroat hadn’t fought a fox before, he’d seen them from afar sure. His brain whirring trying to deduct how an enemy of the likes of this would fight, agile, vicious and quick. Seemed like an even pairing between the two, with Newtbelly to throw in a few blows at the side this would be as easy as stealing prey from an apprentice.
So the dance began. With thundering paws he didn’t think twice, strategy wasn’t something preplanned, more impulsive and intuitive. A yowl escaped beared yellow teeth as he dived head on, as his claws extended outwards they contacted with thick greasy fur. Parting through to slick his claws red as he dragged down the fox’s chest and carved it wide open. Its foreign tongue yelped and quivered in pain as Owlthroat’s eyes flashed with glee. He’d almost gotten too caught up in the moment to realise its long snout was bearing down on him in a flash, considerably longer than the short cat muzzles he was used to dealing with. This creature had reach, and much larger teeth to sink into skin and fur.
Owlthroat felt it pierce his hind leg just before he scrambled from reach, a searing hot agony paired with warm oozing life essence. His claw madly swung back to get it to release him, splitting open its black nose in half. Biting into his own cheeks to ignore the pain, it felt relieving as its clamped jaws opened wide. Head swinging as its nose seared. The tom would ignore it for now, there was more pressing issues at hand than a little injury. Spinning around he went in for it again. This time using his hind legs, however injured, to set the creature off balance. Heading directly towards Newtbelly, he expected he could handle it. Grin still stupidly on his face hoping his prodigy didn’t just curl up and die on him as quick as he came.
For the strong are rewarded, blessed by Starclan and whoa almighty. Owlthroat was never a firm believer, when you died you died. Best to leave a legacy here and now than write one ghostly that no one can see. Did that make him twisted? There was no true concern for Newtbelly, he loved the kid, but if he died, would he really be so torn up inside? Or just numb like always. To experience the pain of life was to live, to bond, to love, to wither. If Starclan was real, Owlthroat didn’t know if a space existed for him. Just another promised land. Another promise.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
TW: descriptions of blood & flesh
The art of the battle, since young Owlthroat had always known where his talent lay. Never the best at well, anything. But claws and blood.
Oh how he basked in the dance, the crimson glory. It tasted like a wrought iron crown. Through it all he’d taught Newtbelly well, pride swelled up as he raked through the beast’s ribs. Not as much damage as he thought he’d do but it left the red devil wincing and swivelling. Ducking down. Now Owlthroat hadn’t fought a fox before, he’d seen them from afar sure. His brain whirring trying to deduct how an enemy of the likes of this would fight, agile, vicious and quick. Seemed like an even pairing between the two, with Newtbelly to throw in a few blows at the side this would be as easy as stealing prey from an apprentice.
So the dance began. With thundering paws he didn’t think twice, strategy wasn’t something preplanned, more impulsive and intuitive. A yowl escaped beared yellow teeth as he dived head on, as his claws extended outwards they contacted with thick greasy fur. Parting through to slick his claws red as he dragged down the fox’s chest and carved it wide open. Its foreign tongue yelped and quivered in pain as Owlthroat’s eyes flashed with glee. He’d almost gotten too caught up in the moment to realise its long snout was bearing down on him in a flash, considerably longer than the short cat muzzles he was used to dealing with. This creature had reach, and much larger teeth to sink into skin and fur.
Owlthroat felt it pierce his hind leg just before he scrambled from reach, a searing hot agony paired with warm oozing life essence. His claw madly swung back to get it to release him, splitting open its black nose in half. Biting into his own cheeks to ignore the pain, it felt relieving as its clamped jaws opened wide. Head swinging as its nose seared. The tom would ignore it for now, there was more pressing issues at hand than a little injury. Spinning around he went in for it again. This time using his hind legs, however injured, to set the creature off balance. Heading directly towards Newtbelly, he expected he could handle it. Grin still stupidly on his face hoping his prodigy didn’t just curl up and die on him as quick as he came.
For the strong are rewarded, blessed by Starclan and whoa almighty. Owlthroat was never a firm believer, when you died you died. Best to leave a legacy here and now than write one ghostly that no one can see. Did that make him twisted? There was no true concern for Newtbelly, he loved the kid, but if he died, would he really be so torn up inside? Or just numb like always. To experience the pain of life was to live, to bond, to love, to wither. If Starclan was real, Owlthroat didn’t know if a space existed for him. Just another promised land. Another promise.
header: @/daragca Content: Injury detail & death mentions toward fox + cats
In the beast's distraction, Owlthroat was in, sharp claws primed for battle as they spilt through its chest, yowls calling out to the forest - if there were more, they'd be dead as the limp rat they'd left in the dust. He'd keep a small eye out, but pondering it was unproductive. This was best done quickly. If they killed it now, there'd be no chance of its skulk running in defence. Its muzzle bore down on Owlthroat, and he began to fear neither of them had fought one of these things before. The huge tom, skirted its jaws, managing to sustain nothing more than a bite to the leg - admirable in the face of the fast creature.
An opening.
Once again, the creature screeched its terrifying call, balance offset whilst it's bloodied nose flailed in the air: so he took his chance. Haunches bunched up, and he sprung onto it's side - he'd aimed closer to the neck, but found himself near the ribs he'd hit earlier, mouth hovering above its shoulder which he swiftly sunk his teeth into. It might not be a devastating injury, but little by little, he'd weaken it, until he felt claws or teeth secure on it's vulnerable neck or belly. Teeth latched into it, in attempts to cause as much damge as possible - he knew the orange foe wouldn't let him stay long, but he had far less time than he'd anticipated. With a quick jump and flail, the thing had thrown him to the ground, and he felt his body cascade against the thick weeds.
Foxdung. The most appropiate cuss for this situation, he figured, as the creature darted over him. Now, he sensed he'd been far too ambitious, sharp teeth flashed in his direction, but he flipped to his back just in time. Searing pain began to run through his shoulder, it'd bitten, and it'd bitten hard. He didn't think it had torn, but he couldn't be sure - at least his swift movement meant it wouldn't be too deep. Whole shoulder blazing, he couldn't jump out from under it, his leg was too weak, so he'd have to attack from below - the only way to do that? Showing his stomach. If he didn't do this quickly, he knew he'd die, needle like fangs would pierce his stomach, and Owlthroat would be left to fight alone, and maybe more importantly, with nothing to show for a whole 6 moons of training.
He winced, inhaling through gritted teeth as he flipped onto his back, shoulder pressing against the (thankfully soft) weeds below.
[Roll: D20 10+ = hit 10- = miss. Lower = worse injury but no death, Higher = better hit, but he'll still get injured]
[Rolled: 12]
Back paws thrashed out, meeting the fox's stomach with as much force as he could muster - back claws jabbed into it's belly, making a small stab wound - not enough to send it reeling, just enough to whittle its strength down even more. Pointed teeth jolted closer, almost scathing his stomach as he rolled onto his side - again, his speed meant they didn't sink deep, but he was still left wounded, frantically trying to find a way out from under this creature.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
TW: descriptions of blood & flesh
It was a strange thing to see the creature of creation, Newtbelly was the fighter he was today thanks to Owlthroat. Now he staggered with a bitten shoulder and curled underneath the formidable beast. Had Owlthroat really meant for him to become hurt? Probably not, it was just a lack of poignant care and understanding for his friend.
He couldn’t leave him to die, the blame would reside entirely on his shoulders. That certainly would look bad, there also was a certain amount of loyalty. One of the few cats in the clan he could actually stand, tolerate less painfully. The tom found himself amping up for his next assault, he could feel the adrenaline masked tingling in his legs and in his bones. It would require surprising grace to take a monolith down, that’s what he had to deliver.
A flash of black and white shot at the beast. That’s all it was now, simple colours. Black, white, red, yellow. Nothing more, nothing less. Owlthroat catapulted himself in a raging ball of fury landing squarely on the fox’s back, immediately throwing off its balance. It swayed and heaved directly underneath him, giving Newtbelly the chance to roll himself out from underneath its hit zone. Thick jagged claws pierced into the creature’s muscles, tearing, shredding and desperately destroying the beast as it wildly lashed out.
One buck threw him from its back, to his side, the sly creature quickly following up. A gash opening down his side as its teeth raked along his ribs, Owlthroat let out a howl as blood gushed forth. Soaking his pretty ivory fur deep shades. But strength willed him onwards, moments and memories shooting through his convoluted vision. Being taken down by a fox, how embarrassing.
Moments like this were beautiful. His heart pounded in his ears as he sprang forth once more, unable to be knocked down forever. Crooked yellow teeth slipping barbarically into the throat of the red devil. Then ripping back.
It gurgled, clawed at what was left of its vocal chords. Then began to rock, crumbling muscles giving way, its life fading as quickly as it came into the world. Before finally dropping to the floor twitching. No more.
Owlthroat was drenched, head to toe in thick sticky fox blood. Hubris glinting in his eyes, his energy was excessive. Taking pregnant pauses heaving lost breath back into his system. Maniacal grin ever present, though red fur and flesh hung in clumps from his maw. Unsteady on his feet he glanced towards Newtbelly, ”Bigger they come. Harder they fall.” It was a breathy rasp. Not quite knowing really whether he was referring to himself or the corpse that now lay in front of them.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
TW: descriptions of blood & flesh
It was a strange thing to see the creature of creation, Newtbelly was the fighter he was today thanks to Owlthroat. Now he staggered with a bitten shoulder and curled underneath the formidable beast. Had Owlthroat really meant for him to become hurt? Probably not, it was just a lack of poignant care and understanding for his friend.
He couldn’t leave him to die, the blame would reside entirely on his shoulders. That certainly would look bad, there also was a certain amount of loyalty. One of the few cats in the clan he could actually stand, tolerate less painfully. The tom found himself amping up for his next assault, he could feel the adrenaline masked tingling in his legs and in his bones. It would require surprising grace to take a monolith down, that’s what he had to deliver.
A flash of black and white shot at the beast. That’s all it was now, simple colours. Black, white, red, yellow. Nothing more, nothing less. Owlthroat catapulted himself in a raging ball of fury landing squarely on the fox’s back, immediately throwing off its balance. It swayed and heaved directly underneath him, giving Newtbelly the chance to roll himself out from underneath its hit zone. Thick jagged claws pierced into the creature’s muscles, tearing, shredding and desperately destroying the beast as it wildly lashed out.
One buck threw him from its back, to his side, the sly creature quickly following up. A gash opening down his side as its teeth raked along his ribs, Owlthroat let out a howl as blood gushed forth. Soaking his pretty ivory fur deep shades. But strength willed him onwards, moments and memories shooting through his convoluted vision. Being taken down by a fox, how embarrassing.
Moments like this were beautiful. His heart pounded in his ears as he sprang forth once more, unable to be knocked down forever. Crooked yellow teeth slipping barbarically into the throat of the red devil. Then ripping back.
It gurgled, clawed at what was left of its vocal chords. Then began to rock, crumbling muscles giving way, its life fading as quickly as it came into the world. Before finally dropping to the floor twitching. No more.
Owlthroat was drenched, head to toe in thick sticky fox blood. Hubris glinting in his eyes, his energy was excessive. Taking pregnant pauses heaving lost breath back into his system. Maniacal grin ever present, though red fur and flesh hung in clumps from his maw. Unsteady on his feet he glanced towards Newtbelly, ”Bigger they come. Harder they fall.” It was a breathy rasp. Not quite knowing really whether he was referring to himself or the corpse that now lay in front of them.
header: @/daragca Content: Injury detail & fox death
It was all a whir. Owlthroat's huge figure, more threatening than that of the fox flying through the air, the two tussling, Newtbelly's bare instincts leading him out from under the foe, limping away, shoulder and ribs pounding. Terror wretched it's way through him as he skirted near death. He stared on at the scene, no chance to interfere. Then, teeth were in its neck, and it fell. His first real fight, and it had been against one of those things.
Owlthroat stood alone, drenched in a barbaric cocktail of his and the predator's blood. Newtbelly saw the same coat his own paws, seeping quickly through his shorter fur. He'd call it his first kill. But that glory had been Owlthroat's. If he could take on a fox, though, how hard could fighting a useless Wind or Thunder cat really be? Never mind River. The scene left him burning for it, to demonstrate what he'd learnt, but for now, this would be all.
What now, but to move on? With a flick of his tail, he limped over to the rat they'd been planning to share, "might as well have something to show for all this." He murmured, grasping it in his jaws.
Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 40 moons Killer Aptitude T3 - Just A Scratch - Silver Tongue T2 The Dancing Bird
Owlthroat watched with slitted eyes as Newtbelly seized the rat in his maw they had previously planned to share. He followed suit, stumbling towards his discarded blue gem, absentmindedly he tucked it into his bloodied fur. It wouldn’t be quite as pretty now for Tuftedtusk but nothing a quick dip in a puddle wouldn’t sort.
His steps felt much heavier now the adrenaline had subsided, aches and pains coursing through his body. The tom bit his tongue and pushed through it, they were both in quite the state. Internally he found himself groaning and cursing at the thought of stumbling into Mossfreckle’s den. He’d never been a fan of the place, putrid herbs and sour concoctions. But once glance at his wounds told him they were still bleeding and far too deep to simply shrug off. He didn’t fight off a fox just to be killed by an infection, the horror of that and losing his glorified death seemed worse than being put back together again and tolerating some strong smells.
”Good fight ey”, mumbling jarringly to no one in particular. Nothing like another story to add to his playbook, another boast to tell to the youngsters or scare away the other clans. Certainly earning a medal of pride. Sauntering his way directly back to camp.
Re: Mourning Ruins
+1 rat
