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.
{$title} Implied violence, very brief description of blood.
A loud, pained yelp breaks through the monotony of life on the moor. It's quite a boring one, if you ask Bengt — there are lots of different folks around, some more interesting than others, but most of them only seem to care about the basic stuff, like having food and somewhere warm to sleep. Those are all great and all, of course... but that's not really living. That's just worrying over bare necessities. Bengt would rather let his belly rumble with hunger for a bit just to ensure good fun.
That is sort of what he's doing, except he has gotten the best of both worlds. A quarrel with a dog over scraps of prey; he had not hunted it nor found it, but honor and all that does not really matter in a wild world like this. He had snatched the good bits right out of a dog's mouth and then turned on it when it attempted to pull him apart for it. Little did it know, Bengt is no easy prey like that bird had been.
The wind combs through his thick fur as he pelts through the grasslands. He does not even feel tired yet, and there is no real reason to keep this pursuit up, but the temperature has been rising and it had been too inviting to pass up. His unsheathed claws tear through the ground beneath him, sending it flying backwards. Today, he remains king of the moor. Bengt outstretches a limb just so he can shred through the dog's soft hindleg one last time — its pale fur is short, and the whole creature is barely taller than himself, so it is really easy to damage it. Perhaps it's still young... that'd explain how quick it had given up on fighting. Whatever the case might be, Bengt finally lets it keep running without staying on its heels so adamantly. It has learned its lesson.
That is sort of what he's doing, except he has gotten the best of both worlds. A quarrel with a dog over scraps of prey; he had not hunted it nor found it, but honor and all that does not really matter in a wild world like this. He had snatched the good bits right out of a dog's mouth and then turned on it when it attempted to pull him apart for it. Little did it know, Bengt is no easy prey like that bird had been.
The wind combs through his thick fur as he pelts through the grasslands. He does not even feel tired yet, and there is no real reason to keep this pursuit up, but the temperature has been rising and it had been too inviting to pass up. His unsheathed claws tear through the ground beneath him, sending it flying backwards. Today, he remains king of the moor. Bengt outstretches a limb just so he can shred through the dog's soft hindleg one last time — its pale fur is short, and the whole creature is barely taller than himself, so it is really easy to damage it. Perhaps it's still young... that'd explain how quick it had given up on fighting. Whatever the case might be, Bengt finally lets it keep running without staying on its heels so adamantly. It has learned its lesson.
"Ha! Take that, you stupid mutt."
A victorious yowl erupts from his chest. Full of pride and renewed energy, Bengt throws himself on his side, tongue running over his bloodied paws with a set rhythm.
