[Phoenix]

[atrb=border,0,true][CS=2] Ratfur of NightClan ill be king undisputed. respected. saluted.

[style=height: 300px;] [style=height: 75px; background-color: #000000; width: 100px; padding: 2px; border: 2px outset #254117;]words: 589 notes: -- credits: [style=font-size: 8px;]Cat from here Be Prepared - Lion King

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Deer were interesting creatures. Ratfur had seen a few in his time, wandering up and down the path as they picked at the sparse grass. They were tall and walked on spindly, twig-like legs tipped with stone colored paws that looked just as hard. A long neck and gentle features gave them a dainty, peaceful appearance. For all of their height, they certainly were not threatening in anyway, for the odd creatures did not have the build of a fighter. Ruled by their flight instinct, they fled at any sign of an attack, without even bothering to size up their opponent.


Take the one in front of him, for example. It was a doe, and she picked delicately at the grass at her feet, completely ignorant of his presense in the nearby undergrowth. That was one thing that Ratfur had always excelled at, remaining hidden. His dark fur helped him considerably in this area, as did his small, wiry frame. In any case, the doe would instantly flee if he made his presense known to her. He could imagine the terror she would feel if he did so, imagine it very vividly. It would be the same terror that would course through his veins if Blackwolf, or any of the felines in his group, discovered his secret. Ratfur would no longer be the feline crouching in the shadows; he would be the flighty deer, caught and cornered, unable to think clearly for fear. And he did not like that prospect.


But the skinny warrior was better than some mousebrained deer, too. He could think. He could plot. He could adapt and find a way to fight back. He would not fall to the level of that creature; he would not let himself. Unsheathed claws dug into the soil beneath his paws, and the tip of Ratfur's tail began to twitch. Other cats thought him as weak and pathetic as the doe. His own friends didn't truly appreciate him. Part of it was due to his own creation, but Ratfur always felt tolerated because he lacked what almost every other warrior had. Hunting and fighting abilities. He could barely hold his own in battle; no cat in their right mind would ever flee from him.


Lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl, and claws unhooked themselves from the soft dirt, leaving grooves in the soil. He would show them. He would prove that he wasn't as weak as the doe in front of him. Without his permission, a snarl ripped itself from his throat as he flung himself forward. The fur along his spine bristled angrily and claws slashed at the startled doe before him. Cruel satisfaction raced through him when he noticed the whites in her eyes, the terror that caused her to cry out. He halted, having not landed any blows, but stood his ground, snarling at her. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted another brown figure, almost as tall as the first. Her baby, perhaps? That was interesting. Ratfur lashed out at the doe again, enjoying the way she skittered away a few steps to dodge his swiping claws. He moved closer, fully on the offensive for perhaps the first time in his life. He was completely unprepared for the hoof that came crashing down right beside him, missing his skinny body by the width of his paw. Now it was his turn to feel the terror, to react, and Ratfur did not like it.

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and seen for the wonder i am.

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[eli]

[style=font-family:ovo; font-size: 42px; letter-spacing: -1px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align:center; color: #111; line-height: 99%]hawkbone,

Hawkbone was tired. Her frail bones ached and her fur felt slick and dirty. She'd gotten caught in one of NightClan's many bogs during a walk and had nearly fought for her life to get free. She could still remember the feel of that sucking blackness, closing around her thin limbs and drawing her under, threatening to devour her. And for a heartbeat, she'd nearly let herself fall under the pulling spell of the bog's murky depths. What point was there in living any longer? Her body was destroyed, robbed of its key purpose: kits. She would never have them, and was doomed to watch other cats have families while she stewed in her fruitless body, reminded every time she heard a kit's mewl or saw a queen swollen with young of her own limitation. Perhaps the mud's ruthless grip would hold her under and liberate her of that pain. It could be so easy...everyone would think it was an accident...would Blackwolf even miss her?

But she'd seen reason before becoming too engulfed to free herself. StarClan had taken from her the dreams she'd relied on...but they would not take her final breath. Not yet. That wasn't theirs. Hawkbone dropped her haunches upon a span of clear, short grass, turning to groom the thick, saplike muck from her short tabby fur and wrinkling her nose at its foul taste and stench. She had nothing to show for the day but irritation, a numb tongue, and a dirty pelt. Once she'd removed what she could of the mud she made her way towards the deer run, where a wide, babbling stream ran clear and clean near the border. She leapt in headfirst and rolled among the gently rolling water, rubbing the remainder of the mucky mud off on the pebbles lining the bed of the brook. Most cats - other than RainClan, anyway - had a strong aversion to water, but Hawkbone didn't mind it much. Her fur was light and thin, terrible in leafbare until her winter coat grew in but perfect in rain and sunshine. She shook out her pelt, sending crystal droplets spinning away from her tabby fur, before crouching to drink and wash the gritty, tar-like mud from her mouth. The water tasted fresh and bright, like melted snow.

As she lapped up the cold water, she heard quite a commotion past the undergrowth ahead of her. Large, tufted ears pricking forward, she lifted her head: the bray of a startled doe reached her ears, and the furious hiss of a cat. The fur along her spine rose. What cat would be lurking at the border? She leaped to her paws and slunk through the grasses until she could poke her head under a hanging holly branch and witness the source of the noise. A doe, her large fawn hiding behind her, was kicking out angrily at something in the grass. Hawkbone snorted: some poor soul wasn't bright enough to understand that a doe would snap a cat's spine before it left its fawn unguarded. Then her yellow eyes widened at the sight of a familiar pure brown pelt: that poor soul was Ratfur.

The response was instantaneous. Hawkbone let out a shrill, earsplitting shriek that sent the birds above them into the skies with a frightened flutter before racing into the clearing with her fur fluffed out and tail kinked high over her back. She didn't head for the doe: she knew the she-deer would only injure her for her efforts and refuse to back down. Instead she raced for the fawn and watched with some satisfaction as it skittered away with a little bray for its mother. Predictably the mother turned and shot after Hawkbone, her cloven hooves splitting the air, and Hawkbone did her best to avoid being struck. A hoof grazed her shoulder, sending a spark of pain along after it, but she kept after the fawn until it finally fled for the bushes. At that point she turned tail and raced back towards Ratfur; for a moment the doe pursued her until, with a fiery snort, the she-deer turned on her tail and followed her fawn into the forest.

For several breathless heartbeats Hawkbone watched after the doe's white tail disappeared into the shadows, her sides heaving and shoulder burning. Wetness snaked through her shoulder fur. Once she'd caught her breath she turned around to face Ratfur, yellow eyes narrowed in anger but, more importantly, concern. He could have died, had she not come to his rescue. "Mousebrain!" she snarled, swatting him over the ear with sheathed claws. "You could have been stomped to death! What were you thinking!?" Her fondness for the young tom, the cat who most ignored and considered weak and useless, had stemmed from their kithood. He was always the odd cat out and she disdained it. She knew he was brilliant, she could see it in his eyes, but his brother's nature had left him trampled and left in the shadows without any cat to bring him back into the light.

She'd always held a friendliness for him, though it'd been hard to look upon him with kindness after she'd been attacked by the badger. Losing all of one's hopes and dreams could do that to someone. She tried her best to remember that friendliness now, silence her rage and misplaced anger and look him over with a firm, sharp yellow gaze. He didn't seem injured, though her own shoulder was burning with sharp pain. Why in the world had he challenged a mother deer, of all creatures?

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[Phoenix]

[atrb=border,0,true][CS=2] Ratfur of NightClan ill be king undisputed. respected. saluted.

[style=height: 300px;] [style=height: 75px; background-color: #000000; width: 100px; padding: 2px; border: 2px outset #254117;]words: 937 notes: -- credits: [style=font-size: 8px;]Cat from here Be Prepared - Lion King

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While he started at the close miss, a second blow came toward him. Ratfur had barely registered the follow up movement before he skittered to the side, changing what would have been a direct strike to his spine to a hit off the side of his shoulder. It stung, and the skinny warrior's breath caught in his throat. He had never been good at dealing with pain or any sort of physical problems at all. As it turned out, his thoughts about those hooves being as hard as a rock were correct. They hurt more too; rocks usually did not make habit at throwing themselves at cats with the force commonly associated with a warrior's attack.


Only now, he realized just how fast a deer could move when she wanted to. A new, reluctant respect for them began forming in the back of his mind as he backed away as quickly as he could, favoring his right foreleg. It was mere luck that the first strike hadn't landed on the top of his head, and he was very aware that luck was a touchy thing. The tables could turn in an instant, and he would find himself with a hoof-shaped dent in his head. Ultimately, he thought that was an undesirable and very messy end. There were better ways to go than by an irate doe. He had to get away, but she would let him, marching after him as he tried to flee from the constant rain of blows falling upon him. The skinny body was in perpetual motion has he danced around on light paws, perhaps the most agile he had been in a very long time. He needed help, badly.


As if hearing his silent cry for help, a brown blur flew from the side. Between his pants, Ratfur almost gave a sigh of relief. Until he realized that the blur was not headed for his aggressor, but rather her fawn. Panic began to flow through his veins again, having been beaten down by the sight of another feline. This cat would leave him to be stomped to death by a deer! He did not have the presense of mind to feel any anger at this obvious betrayal, as focused as he was on trying to dodge the flying hooves. Blood pounded in his ears, accompanied only by the sound of his heavy, strained breathing. He would not be able to continue this for very long. He was going to---


And suddenly the strikes stopped raining down on and around him. Startled at the abrupt change, Ratfur lost his balance from his most recent side-step, his momentum causing him to stumble to the side. Wincing, he whipped his tail around to steady himself, panting becoming wheezes due to the exertion. Racing hoof beats thudded into the distance, matching the pounding of his heart for an instant. Ratfur closed his eyes, trying to regain his shattered control. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. He was alive. He was relatively safe, as that was always a relative term in his opinion. A snarl and a paw came out of no where and connected with the side of his head. It was by no means hard - in fact, it was gentle compared to the force that the mother deer had been putting behind her blows - but it still knocked his head to the side as the accompanying words resonated through what felt like a hollow cavity, echoing and bouncing around inside his skull.


Recovering, Ratfur opened green eyes and faced the formidible figure of Hawkbone. He had recognized her distinctive screech - that's not too harsh of a word, is it? - which had given him some time to adjust to the thought of facing her. She scared him for a completely different reason than Blackwolf. The older tom was intimidating in figure, and he had the ability to follow through with whatever he may threaten. This lean she-cat, on the other hand, shared his skinny appearance, and so she had learned to use her brain and outwit anyone. Ratfur could at least struggle against Blackwolf in a battle of brute force; it took a different kind of strength to defeat Hawkbone in intelligence and sharp insults, and while he was not the dullest in NightClan, Ratfur did not think that he would stand much of a chance against her. Perhaps more than he would against Blackwolf, but that was not a very comforting thought. Besides, something about the she-cat always unnerved him.


"Sorry!" Ratfur cried in reaction. "Sorry! I didn't mean to. I wasn't trying to get killed." With wide eyes, he met Hawkbone's sharp gaze for a moment, something he would not have dared to do with Blackwolf. "Honest, I didn't see her baby. I didn't know she was a mother." The she-cat had always treated him with more respect, for lack of a better word, than the leader of the group. She tolerated his constant mistakes more, wasn't as criticizing or subtly as Blackwolf, and he appreciated it. It was a pleasant change to find a cat who did not think that he was completely useless. "Thanks, Hawkbone," The warrior added, glancing away. "For saving me. Are you alright? The deer didn't hu--" He caught sight of her shoulder, and abruptly cut off the rest of his sentence. Green eyes stared at it for a moment before flicking away. "Sorry."

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and seen for the wonder i am.

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[eli]

[style=font-family:ovo; font-size: 42px; letter-spacing: -1px; text-transform: uppercase; text-align:center; color: #111; line-height: 99%]hawkbone,

For a while, Hawkbone just stared at him, her sides heaving as her breath came quickly to her narrow lungs. They'd both just made a miraculous getaway, to be honest: a mother deer was fiercer than the most starving of dogs, for while a dog had slavering jaws and a hunger for cat blood a doe had hooves sharper than flint and a fierce protectiveness beyond any rabid animal's strength. The NightClan warrior bore a painful, burning reminder of that power now, and she turned to examine the wound; it was as bad to the eye as it felt, a bloody gash that cut a straight line through her shoulder fur deep enough that she could see the white glint of bone. "For StarClan's sake," she growled under her breath as she licked the fur back over the wound to hide it from the air until she got back to camp. It seemed as though she'd be seeing Smokefur's stupid striped face again a lot sooner than she'd wanted to.

She didn't despise Smokefur, really. It wasn't she that was to blame for Hawkbone's inhibition and the clear, white scar that parted the fur straight hip to hip from under her belly. She'd done her best for the she-cat; it was StarClan's fault, and those starry figures were who Hawkbone blamed above all. However, she'd had more than enough of the silver tabby medicine cat after spending three moons in her care. If Hawkbone never saw her face again it'd be too soon, but it seemed as though life were intent on crossing their paths. Speaking of injuries, Hawkbone turned back to Ratfur, her gaze almost exasperated rather than angry as she looked him over again thoroughly. It was then that the tabby she-cat spotted the bloody mark on the tom's shoulder, obscured in the darkness of his earth-colored fur.

"It's like you never listened to your mentor when he told you anything," she huffed as she padded over, sniffing at the wound and frowning at it with creases of mild worry above her eyes. She'd learned a lot from Smokefur by proxy and she turned then, padding back through the undergrowth to the stream she'd been drinking from before coming to save her young friend. Marigold grew near water, she could remember Smokefur muttering to herself as she examined her stores. It stopped bleeding and infection. Sure enough, there were several of the low-growing yellow flowers peeking up from the grass at the stream's banks, and she dipped her head to bite off a few of the heads to take back to Ratfur. Shouldering through the undergrowth - and wincing as a branch raked at her injured shoulder - she dropped them at his paws before chewing them into a thick, sharp-smelling poultice.

"If Blackwolf sees you like this he'll shred your ears," Hawkbone explained to him gruffly as she licked the poultice into the gash. That was true, since Blackwolf disliked Ratfur enough already and would leap on any opportunity to find fault in him, but it was merely a front for the very real concern that simmered under the ticked tabby's fur. Hawkbone was a harsh, judgmental cat by nature these days, but Ratfur would never really feel the sharp bite of her tongue like his Clanmates. She flicked his good shoulder with her long, narrow-tipped tail, eyes narrowed as she studied him.

"Now, why in the name of all we hold dear were you wandering around here in the first place?" the sharp-boned queen scoffed, sitting back on her haunches. "And can't you tell the scent of a mother doe when you sniff it?" Maybe the latter part wasn't fair; most NightClan cats didn't stray along the deer run often, but milk-scent wasn't only smelled on queens and the air was still damp with it even after the doe had long gone. The tom was smart enough to scent before he went wandering, so what had been on his mind that'd distracted him enough to send him careening into danger? She wouldn't ask if he wouldn't tell, but she kept one ear turned towards him in interest in case he felt the need to talk. Most cats wouldn't consider Hawkbone to be much use to talk to, but in reality, there was still some part of her that cared for her fellows. Well, maybe not her Clanmates, but Blackwolf and Ratfur...that was a different story.

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[Phoenix]

[atrb=border,0,true][CS=2] Ratfur of NightClan ill be king undisputed. respected. saluted.

[style=height: 300px;] [style=height: 75px; background-color: #000000; width: 100px; padding: 2px; border: 2px outset #254117;]words: 926 notes: -- credits: [style=font-size: 8px;]Cat from here Be Prepared - Lion King

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Out of the corner of his eye, Ratfur saw Hawkfur turn and lick the fur over the deep wound that the doe's hoof at left, assessing his own feelings. Of course, he had to appear extremely relieved and thankful, guilty, and excessively apologetic did not hurt either. However, he had to wonder, and cringe, at the way those emotions stemmed from genuine ones, especially the guilt. Having been successfully pulling off his charade ever since the start of his apprenticeship, the tom had had a lot of time to correct any imperfections and get his act as close to perfect as possible; he had done this based off of what he observed and the experience he was slowly gaining. From that experience, he knew that acts always came off more realistically when he could draw from some genuine emotion. So in a way, it was definitely good that the guilt was there, for it meant that he pulled it off successfully; however, it was the fact that the guilt existed that both surprised and worried him.


Had it been Blackwolf who'd been cut to the bone by a deer, Ratfur knew instantly that whatever guilt he felt now would be nonexistent. That was good, that was acceptable. He could not feel guilt or anything of the sort if he hurt the other felines in his group, even indirectly. His plan had no room for that pesky emotion, and he should cut it off, and make a habit of it. How could he move forward otherwise? Chances were that what he wanted to do, if he succeeded, would hurt Blackwolf, Hawkbone and Dogfang, and he would not put a stop to everything just because of that. No, the wiry tom was more interested in the benefit of himself than preventing the pain of others. He had to put a stop to the guilt now.


Lost in thought, Ratfur did not notice at first that Hawkbone had wandered away, and when he did, the tom started slightly. He should not have retreated into his mind that far with another feline around; what was wrong with him today? Silently, he wondered whether she would just leave him like that, without another word, and no that thought did not hurt him at all. But she wasn't planning on it, for the merely picked the tops off a clump of yellow flowers and walked back. Ratfur eyed them, not quite sure what to make of this. Plants and herbs were not his area of expertise - he left that to Smokefur - and the thought of Hawkbone playing medicine cat, even if she had spent quite a few moons stuck in the den, was not a comforting one. His paranoia made itself known in the back of his consciousness once more. Those flowers could do anything to him, and if she planned to rub them into his shoulder, which stung noticeably, they would get into his bloodstream very quickly. And who knew what would happen once that occurred. She probably wouldn't kill him, since it would bring up some awkward questions later, but Ratfur wished that he knew more about plants. It struck him just how much power medicine cats had.


However, Hawkbone did not give him a chance to act on his worries and run away. Instead he had to brace his legs and mentally prepare himself as she walked over with the poultice in her mouth and licked it into the wound. It stung, and Ratfur's claws sunk into the ground in response; but he stood still, letting her continue. He wished that the stinging would turn to a warm, soothing feeling, but it appeared as though it had no intention of doing so. That's a shame. While she tended to his shoulder, Hawkbone drew his attention away from the sensation with one sentence. Time to act again. "You-You're not going to tell him about this, are you?" Appear shocked, as if this thought had just struck him. "Please don't." Imploringly, beseechingly. "He doesn't like me already, and if he heard I got attacked by a doe, of all things..." Glance back at the shoulder and Hawkbone. "It's not that big, and my fur will hide it. No one needs to know. For you, we can say you fell or something." The Ratfur he played was not a cunning liar; in fact, he could not lie to save his life. The irony almost killed him.


She finished with his shoulder, and Ratfur moved back slightly, mimicking her actions as he sat down. Curiously, he sniffed at the poultice on his shoulder, tongue darting out and giving it a quick lick without his permission. It tasted odd, but not as unpleasant as he had thought. He did not like the two questions she gave him and decided to completely ignore the first one. That meant he had to answer the second and answer it well. "No," Ratfur responded quietly, speaking to his paws, "But does that honestly surprise you? I mean, now I probably could, but not before." He paused, tail tip flicking. "Did I interrupt anything you were doing out here? Not hunting I hope, since the prey will probably have heard and fled." Just because he couldn't hunt himself, it did not mean that he did not understand the action.

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and seen for the wonder i am.

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