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.
The river is restless today. Its surface, usually smooth and reflective, ripples with the weight of unseen currents beneath. Wormwood watches from the shallows, his paws submerged in the cold water, his body still as stone. A lesser hunter might be deterred by the shifting patterns, the flickering distortions of light and shadow that make it difficult to track movement beneath the surface. But Wormwood is patient. He does not move, does not blink. He waits. The silver glint of a fish flashes between the waves. Small, fast, nearly invisible against the dappled light, but not quick enough to escape his notice. His muscles coil, but he does not strike—not yet. Instead, he waits, calculating, letting the river carry the fish into position. He has learned that the water has a rhythm, a pulse, and that fighting against it is useless. It is better to listen, to feel, to become part of its flow. The fish drifts closer. Wormwood shifts his weight subtly, claws unsheathed beneath the water's surface. He does not breathe. The river murmurs around him, indifferent to his presence. His tail flicks once.
Then he moves.
A sharp plunge, claws slicing through water, disrupting its delicate balance. The fish thrashes wildly, its sleek body twisting in panic as it tries to escape. But Wormwood is faster. His paw hooks its side, dragging it from the depths, sending a spray of droplets into the air. The fish's tail beats furiously, slapping against his leg, but its struggle is brief. With a practiced bite, he silences it, feeling the life drain from its small body. The river swallows the disturbance, smoothing over the ripples left in his wake as if nothing had happened at all. Wormwood steps back onto the shore, shaking water from his forelegs, the fish limp between his jaws. His dark fur clings to his legs, dripping cold against his skin, but he does not shiver. Instead, he sets the fish on the damp earth, his gaze flicking back toward the river. One is not enough. He returns to the shallows, slipping into position once more. His presence is a shadow among the reeds, a silent shape waiting for the perfect moment to break the surface again. The river does not notice him, or perhaps it does and simply does not care.