Hello and welcome to Purrgatory! We are an 18+ Warrior Cat Roleplay set in an AU where the clans were unable to leave the forest territories and perished!
It has been 100 or more years since then, the clans of the forest are but distant memories to any cats still alive, stories passed down to kits of strangely named wild warriors and leaders with nine lives but the time of the clans is upon us once more and the stars shine yet again.
Two choices.
Forsake his home, his mate, and his lineage on the off-chance he finds shelter before his tail freezes off, all so he can pat himself on the back and congratulate himself on his impeccable pacifism. Or keep his pride in his chest and Halfy at his side, and plunge his claws into a throat or two. He may as well take this chance at grabbing the opportunity by its neck and ripping his destiny from its limp form, rather than end up cold and forgotten in an early grave of snow.
Perhaps, more than anything, that's what shapes him in this moment: a vivid dichotomy of self-importance. Die a nameless death, or secure his place in a new order. It is all too easy to sell himself on what a quick solution violence could be, for reasons both far deeper and shallow than a lifeline against famine's ravages. The unfolding battle is a rare window to test the limits of his brute strength, no longer reined in by code of honour and regard of rules. A concept irresistable in its pull.
Nowhere within him aches the guilt or scruples once held toward his mate's allegiance to Sable's cause. Rather, in its place is something quite like liberation; to at last use the claws he's sharpened against that same tree morning after morning without question. The gnawing of instincts long suppressed. To hunt not because he's hungry. To kill not because he needs to. But simply because he can.
Discretion steals his paws away from the wider battle and into the sparser periphery. He seeks easy pickings. Cats on the sidelines and half-invested in the skirmish, tricked into a false sense of security and preoccupied enough to catch unawares. Cats who, crucially, lack the protection of their battle-hardened kin. Cats who would hesitate in his presence, mind scrambled by the history of his conflict-free idleness in the colony, even while violence ravages the space between them.
Milky is of no great advantage of age or size against him. They also represent one of many unquantifiable elements to Hawthorne's support: indolence. Present yet unmotivated, resting upon the laurels of neutrality. A paradox in a cause that vies for solidarity. He knows her to be a staunch doer of nothing. A loner to her core. And her solitude is about to spell her doom.
Quiet as death, Smoky encroaches from a blind spot, circling around to cut Milky off from the main fight. His presence unfurls like a miasma. Dark, ominous, his eyes like firelight amid a thunderstorm. "You ought'a run for your life." He says this to her. He means it. But will he afford her the time? A hiss and a gale-force lunge is his answer; a full-body charge that aims sends her to the ground so his teeth may access her throat.
@Milkbelly
