TW: Sensitive Content The Colony i've felt the cold wind of the coming storm [open/intro]

[GHOSTSTRIKE]

THERE'S A POINT WE PASS FROM WHICH WE CAN'T RETURN​

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OOC- Mild TW for mention of the death of young cats and brief angst. Ghost here is a relatively new member who showed up last week sporting some injuries. Feel free to be one of the mentioned cats who've been looking after him and that he's giving prey to <3

Ghost had never thought about the world beyond The Coalition. His home colony was all encompassing, the largest thing his city had, and under it's thumb there'd been no time for wistful wonderings of what the outside world might find. Ghost and those like him were more focused on living to see the next day in a colony that was intent on using them as fodder for the dogs they were constantly at war with. The dark-eyed tom couldn't tell you how many skirmishes or lead-offs he'd been a part of in his life, but you never got used to letting a bunch of slobbering mutts chase you across the city, that's for sure. Most Coalition cats at his rank never made it to their first year, and those who did– like Ghost– often wondered why they bothered trying so hard in the first place.

There was nothing good about outliving all your friends and family. No glory to be found in being the last one standing.

So, when the Coalition was destroyed at the hands of twolegs, Ghost had felt nothing. He'd run, and run, until his battered and exhausted body could go no more. And then he'd climbed into the back of a twoleg truck and slept as it drove him far, far away.

That was how he'd found the Colony.

After hauling himself out of the back of his ride and stumbling away from twolegplace, he'd nearly collapsed in the territory of a group of cats. He honestly expected them to chase him away or just finish the job, but they'd let him be. Leaving him to curl up under a nearby bush to rest. When he next woke up, there was prey and wet moss waiting for him.

In the week or so since he'd first stumbled upon them, a bleeding, towering mess of matted fur and wild eyes, he'd come to learn that it was nothing like The Coalition. There was no rigid hierarchy. No clearcut lower class. Noting that seemed to suggest these cats were forced to work together less some predators rip them pieces. To Ghosts surprise, there were cats who were even willing to share, offering him prey and fresh bedding when he was too weak to do it himself.

The Coalition would have left him for dead, if they didn't just put him out of his misery themselves. One less mouth to feed, that way.

Feeling good enough to look after himself again though, Ghost was no longer in the habit of accepting charity from others. He'd been hard pressed to take it in the first place, but there must have been some small part of him that wanted to live after all, because he had.

Thus.

"Here." he grunted, the bird dropped at the feet of the other cat. 'Consider it a payment on my debt." he explained, the low, gruff timber of his voice rumbling in his chest.

​

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future thunderclanner - male - a large, grey tabby with dark amber eyes and several scars​

​

 

[THUNDERFLASH]

☆ To say he wasn't curious about the tabby would be to lie. Thunder's eyes had widened at the sight of his body under the bush, thinking him dead to begin with. A fearful thing, to find a strange cat dead within their territory, but.. he had moved. His flank lifted up and down. Some cat or another had called Thunder insane for leaving food and water for the clearly troubled cat, more then once. Sharing prey, hard caught and won, to someone they didn't know?

He didn't care. Thunder really didn't, at least. He found it difficult to turn anyone away. That's why we're all starving. A breath left him then, eyes half-lidded as the chill of the end of seasons approached. His chin was tucked into spiked fur, something he spent time taking care of. If there was anything that Thunder was known for- besides his explosive personality- it was how well he maintained his image. Someone around here has to! That had been his answers for moons.

The scent of prey had his head lifting, sharp blues facing up towards the larger tabby. White masked face stared back at him, trying to meet that amber, deep gaze briefly before he looked towards the prey. "What, for little ol' me?" He said, a grin spreading on his face before Thunder could stop it. "Please, you don't have any debt, ya' know." Thunder responded, ears perking as he looked back up to the other.

"... That's not to say I don't want it, though." He follows after a few heartbeats. "Y' hungry? Wanna share?" Thunder offers, a grin on his features still, sharp teeth glimmering in the light.

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ITS TIME TO DO IT NOW ☆ AND DO IT LOUD

• "speech"
  

• ref tba

• THUNDER he/him, future thunderclanner, nineteen moons.
  ☆ a sh/lh chocolate tabby with low white and stunning baby blue eyes. stands of average height with a 'mohawk' and spiky-shaped mane.
  ☆ mentored by who / mentoring no one
  ☆ whichever relations / want listed
  ☆ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ☆ penned by dallas ↛ dallasofnines on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

 

[GHOSTSTRIKE]

THERE'S A POINT WE PASS FROM WHICH WE CAN'T RETURN​

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Dark eyes narrowed slightly as the other cat insisted there was no debt to be paid, something Ghost found very hard to believe. Nothing had been free among strangers in The Coalition. A cat might share their nest or rations with a family member or close friend, but most didn't end up with those for long. And once you lost enough of them, you learned to just keep your distance altogether. He was hard pressed to believe things were any different out here. Some of these cats might have clear allegiances toward one another, but there was no reason for this one to include him in theirs.

Not unless they wanted something from him.

"That so?" His tone was somewhere between bored and unimpressed, clearly not buying their words but not caring enough to argue the point, either– if mr. sunshine over here didn't expect him to pay him back the food, then Ghost wouldn't waste his time bringing him any. But if they thought they were going to try cashing in another way, they'd find themselves sorely disappointed.

"Y'hungry? Wanna share?"

"Negative." he grunted, because even if he was, there was something off-putting about sharing a meal with someone. It was the same uncomfortable feeling he got when he saw cats sharing tongues or playfighting, or any other normal social activity he'd never been privy to growing up.

"You just go handing out food to strangers for fun, then?" he asked, gaze shifting to sweep over the rest of the camp and it's cats, so many of which seemed to be afflicted with the same naïve kindness as this one.
​

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future thunderclanner - male - a large, grey tabby with dark amber eyes and several scars​

​

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada had seen it all before. Battered cats stumbling into the colony's embrace, half-dead from battles that weren't their own. Ghost wasn't the first, and they doubted he'd be the last. When Thunder had brought word of the newcomer—a bleeding, wild-eyed tom with a mask of white fur—it had been Cicada who stepped in to tend him. They hadn't asked questions or offered pleasantries. They never did. The tom had hissed, growled, and snapped like a cornered dog when they'd approached, their herb-laden scent likely unfamiliar and unwelcome. Cicada didn't flinch. They rarely reacted to the spines of wounded pride or mistrust—such things were as natural to them as the prick of thorns in the brush. They simply began their work, a paw steady as they pressed a poultice into the worst of his wounds. Their words were few and straightforward: "This will sting. Don't flinch, or it'll sting worse." When Ghost had demanded why they were bothering, why they didn't just leave him to die, Cicada had only replied, "Your death serves no one. Your survival may yet serve the colony." Not unkind, but not not warm. A statement of fact rather than sentiment.

Now, from their place at the edge of the clearing, Cicada watches Ghost offer his hard-won prey to Thunder. The interaction was almost amusing in its predictability—Ghost bristling with suspicion, Thunder shining with undimmed warmth. Cicada approaches at last, their steps deliberate, quiet as shadows but no less certain for it. The herbs still twined in their fur whisper faintly in the breeze. They say nothing at first, their warm-toned eyes observing the dynamic between the two with a gaze that seemed to see far more than just the surface. When they eventually speak, their voice is as calm and unhurried as the rhythm of the seasons. "There are no debts here. No scores to settle. One gives because they can. One receives because they must. Anything else is noise." They incline their head slightly, their eyes half-lidded, as though the topic is already a passing breeze in their mind as their gaze shifts off to the side, considering other things already.

 

[Straw]

In the emergence of a new face lies a certain fascination. Especially one so distinct as his, a tom donned in a mask of white. He is an anomaly, in this sense, the eye drawn to his features as if to a beacon. Alluring, perhaps, and a touch unsettling for the serene detachment with which he holds himself. There's an air to this one that is not easy to define; not quite imposing, not in an obvious way, but the lingering scent of death and doom paints a bleak portrait of his prior exploits. Who was Ghost? What tales could he tell?

Sufficient to say, Straw is captivated by his presence. The same is true of Cicada and Thunder, neither of whom offer him rejection like many others have in their wariness. And nor will the golden-furred feline. Straw approaches from afar, curiosity brimming and mouth quirked at its corner. A muted smirk, a trace of cheek and - within the realm of possibility - impish charm. His amber eyes dance with an ill-contained inquisitiveness, and after hearing Thunder provide a slice of his compassion to the newcomer, he briefly salutes the pair with a tail-lash. One which sails along his backs breadth as it curves in the wind, the tip drawn away to mirror the canted tilt to his noggin.

With an accented twist of his voice, he quips: "Cicada's got it right, you know. Save for the whole 'noise' shtick. You won't ever shut some of us up." That much is probably a plain fact, to be frank, and without a single iota of insincerity to it. His shoulders lift and settle into a subtle shrug, merrily relenting the point with another prop of the brows. "Good to see you up and moving, by the way. Most cats I know would've croaked after losing half the blood in their veins."

(penned by willie)