{$title} mentions of past death, gore, ptsd episode, and brief mentions of a hunting rifle & traps
DUSKPOOL
It was just like any other day, wakin' up with tangled fur and achin' joints, wishin' more than anythin he'd gone n' shaved himself, but like every other time he thought about it, becomin' a hairless racoon ain't somethin' on his bingo card. No need to terrify someone for the sake of gettin' rid of these fpxhearted burrs in his pelt pokin' him the entire night because he can't reach the blasted things. Damn neck. His mangled ear twitched, hard brow furrowin' in hidden annoyance for the bulk of his fur hangin' in knots, half-groomed and half-messy, it ought to show Duskpool got fed up halfway and said good enough.
Shakin' obsidian wool, Duskpool heaved a weary sigh, pressin' forward on heavy paws, keepin' his eyes peeled as they neared the twoleg border. "Keep yer eyes peeled—" He glanced sideways at the tumblin' bunch with a steady look. "Don't go wanderin' around, ya hear? Ain't needin' folk gettin' snatched up by some upwalker thinkin' they've found a new pet." He rumbled gruffly, wooly plumage sweepin' the ground. Somethin' none of 'em wanted, unless one of their ex-daylighters come searchin' for an upwalker to call home, which he can't get mad at, not when they've dropped everythin' to go with 'em on the journey. That was somethin' to respect.
Sighin' wearily, Duskpool shifted his bulky stance, treddin' forward cautiously, not one to plow headfirst into much of anythin' unless he wanted his head cut off or risk the lives of his patrol mates because he ain't been wary enough. Life taught him good and well not to trust much, and Duskpool ain't ever one to ignore hard-earned lessons.
And ya don't go n' ignore that unless yer askin' for a beatin'.
But that all fell when he saw a flash of a rifle, and everything stopped, blood growin' cold, Duskpool's hackles bristled, fur spikin' along his spine like lightnin' strikes. Everythin' too much and all the same, the Sun Guard's muscles coiled and snapped, dashin' forward before he could think, terror and rage bubblin' beneath tattered skin. His massive frame collided with the nearest warrior, draggin' them to the ground as the air screamed with lead. A fresh line of pain laced his ear where the bullet grazed flesh, and speckles of blood singed his dark fur.
For the patrol, it was over as quickly as it began, but for Duskpool, it was not. His chest heaved, starin' at the young upwalker, frame loomin' above 'em with hunched shoulders and hackles high like black pines against a stormy sky. The older warrior growled, lips peeled back to reveal jagged fangs, every inch of him a beast pulled out of hellfire. His scars twisted with the snarl carved onto his maw. His iris set ablaze in molten fury and a wooly plumage sweepin' in rapid ascension. Mangled and bloodied ears layin' flat against a scarred helm, frame tense like the rapids battlin' against the side of the Moonlit Gorge.
The air felt suffocatin', already thick with rage so old and so raw it seemed alive. For a moment, he looked ready to tear through the upwalker kit, rifle, and the world like nothin' could stand between him and the desperate need to protect his patrol mates.
His stance larger than life, standin' in front of the patrol like a war-torn protector while his mind was lit aflame with the familiar smell of iron and the echo of metal jaws clampin' shut over Smokefang's neck. Shadowfire's rattled breaths, crimson spillin' with every choked wheeze, gaze distant, sufferin' a long and agonizin' death if Duskpool hadn't collapsed, promisin' to help with fangs pressin' deep into the soft flesh of his little brother's throat.
Now, every sound in the forest warped. Every leaf was a snare. Every breath of the wind is a trigger pulled. His chest heaved as if the bullet itself had carved its way into him, unaware of his claws sinkin' into the earth. Body shakin', not from the pain, but from the storm tearin' loose inside him, Duskpool remained hunched over the warrior, shieldin' him from a danger long pasted. His molten iris wide and wild, blazin' as though he were back there, tremblin' over Shadowfire's bloodied form, drownin' in ghosts he thought he'd long since buried.
Damnit. Where–? His head swirled with iron and smoke, choked breaths and silence ragin' war within him. The trauma of it all long since buried, left forgotten except in nightmares where voices sought to make him bleed and tear into his bramble walls until he was left a gapin' wound and scramblin' to leave camp before he collapsed.
It took him a long time to move. Too long to remember now from then. His bulky frame rose, blood smeared his muzzle where he'd bitten his lip raw. His voice gravelly, cracked, and torn, "Stay low. Don't move 'till I say, ya hear?" His words are a suffocatin' command, darin' anyone to disobey lest they get themselves shot and force Duskpool to do somethin' he ain't ever wanted to do. The pain in his ear was a half-hearted thought, barely nicked, leavin' behind a half-crescent indent, addin' more to the warrior's array of blisterin' scars.
Shakin' obsidian wool, Duskpool heaved a weary sigh, pressin' forward on heavy paws, keepin' his eyes peeled as they neared the twoleg border. "Keep yer eyes peeled—" He glanced sideways at the tumblin' bunch with a steady look. "Don't go wanderin' around, ya hear? Ain't needin' folk gettin' snatched up by some upwalker thinkin' they've found a new pet." He rumbled gruffly, wooly plumage sweepin' the ground. Somethin' none of 'em wanted, unless one of their ex-daylighters come searchin' for an upwalker to call home, which he can't get mad at, not when they've dropped everythin' to go with 'em on the journey. That was somethin' to respect.
Sighin' wearily, Duskpool shifted his bulky stance, treddin' forward cautiously, not one to plow headfirst into much of anythin' unless he wanted his head cut off or risk the lives of his patrol mates because he ain't been wary enough. Life taught him good and well not to trust much, and Duskpool ain't ever one to ignore hard-earned lessons.
And ya don't go n' ignore that unless yer askin' for a beatin'.
But that all fell when he saw a flash of a rifle, and everything stopped, blood growin' cold, Duskpool's hackles bristled, fur spikin' along his spine like lightnin' strikes. Everythin' too much and all the same, the Sun Guard's muscles coiled and snapped, dashin' forward before he could think, terror and rage bubblin' beneath tattered skin. His massive frame collided with the nearest warrior, draggin' them to the ground as the air screamed with lead. A fresh line of pain laced his ear where the bullet grazed flesh, and speckles of blood singed his dark fur.
For the patrol, it was over as quickly as it began, but for Duskpool, it was not. His chest heaved, starin' at the young upwalker, frame loomin' above 'em with hunched shoulders and hackles high like black pines against a stormy sky. The older warrior growled, lips peeled back to reveal jagged fangs, every inch of him a beast pulled out of hellfire. His scars twisted with the snarl carved onto his maw. His iris set ablaze in molten fury and a wooly plumage sweepin' in rapid ascension. Mangled and bloodied ears layin' flat against a scarred helm, frame tense like the rapids battlin' against the side of the Moonlit Gorge.
The air felt suffocatin', already thick with rage so old and so raw it seemed alive. For a moment, he looked ready to tear through the upwalker kit, rifle, and the world like nothin' could stand between him and the desperate need to protect his patrol mates.
His stance larger than life, standin' in front of the patrol like a war-torn protector while his mind was lit aflame with the familiar smell of iron and the echo of metal jaws clampin' shut over Smokefang's neck. Shadowfire's rattled breaths, crimson spillin' with every choked wheeze, gaze distant, sufferin' a long and agonizin' death if Duskpool hadn't collapsed, promisin' to help with fangs pressin' deep into the soft flesh of his little brother's throat.
Now, every sound in the forest warped. Every leaf was a snare. Every breath of the wind is a trigger pulled. His chest heaved as if the bullet itself had carved its way into him, unaware of his claws sinkin' into the earth. Body shakin', not from the pain, but from the storm tearin' loose inside him, Duskpool remained hunched over the warrior, shieldin' him from a danger long pasted. His molten iris wide and wild, blazin' as though he were back there, tremblin' over Shadowfire's bloodied form, drownin' in ghosts he thought he'd long since buried.
It took him a long time to move. Too long to remember now from then. His bulky frame rose, blood smeared his muzzle where he'd bitten his lip raw. His voice gravelly, cracked, and torn, "Stay low. Don't move 'till I say, ya hear?" His words are a suffocatin' command, darin' anyone to disobey lest they get themselves shot and force Duskpool to do somethin' he ain't ever wanted to do. The pain in his ear was a half-hearted thought, barely nicked, leavin' behind a half-crescent indent, addin' more to the warrior's array of blisterin' scars.
we're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept
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still in a weird headspace, duskpool is pulling himself from a ptsd episode, so man is still tenser than a log trapped between now and then, so feel free to try and help calm him down! touch is okay! it is something grounding for him, so is trying to get dusk to pinpoint each sense like sound, touch, smell, sight ^^ but silly character develop thread showcasing dusk's more monstrous side, ready to tear down an upwalker, of all things, to protect his clan ^^
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DUSKPOOL stands like a storm given flesh, broad-shouldered and unyielding. His frame was built from the bloodlines of a Norwegian Forest and Maine Coon, every inch steeped in the weight of a life hard-lived. His pelt is a wooly black smoke mantle, thick as winter fog and marked with faint mackerel stripes. Old scars score his flanks and shoulders like lightning carved into the night sky, with each one telling a story that was paid for in blood.
One molten-copper eye burns fierce and unblinking, sharp enough to cut through lies, while the other is nothing but a hollowed ruin. A sunken relic of a battle he walked away from when he shouldn't have. His tail is a heavy, swaying banner of shadow, and his paws are silent despite their size, measured by someone who's learned patience the hard way.
He carries himself with the gravity of an old war-chief, regular in ruin, yet brutal in beauty. His very presence is a warning that some storms don't pass. They wait. And they return.
"there's two kinds of cats in this world. those who learn from others' mistakes, and those who are the mistake."
senior sun guard of skyclan during coffeestar and hawkstar's reign (mentor to sweetpaw)
eighty-three moons; ages on the 1st of every month
brother to outlawbite & thistlestrike; half-brother to flowercloud; father to almondpaw & cinderpaw (wolfstorm & lostmoon)
his voice is a low, gravel-rough baritone, measured and deliberate, carrying the weight of old battles and unspoken truths
his scent is a deep grounding mix of cedarwood and patchouli, laced with the sharpness of pine and a lingering curl of smoke
pinterest | playlist | theme song
speech thought action
peaceful/healing powerplay permitted -
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