Private Territory when the war quiets down — duskpool

[FITZGERALD]

"Where are you going?"

The SkyClan forest feels eerie with the knowledge of what had happened. Fitzgerald imagines the snapping of jaws, the barking of threats, the knowledge that canine fangs can break bones too easily. Perhaps the reality of the situation is only hitting him now, when there is a bit more privacy from it all. Teaselfeather and Stonepaw could have gotten injured beyond recognition... Sagesong could have died. Even Duskpool had been in danger, despite his best attempts at brushing the entire situation off.

Fitzgerald hurries past Duskpool and comes to a halt right before him—maybe that will finally make him stop, too. Or walk right over Fitzgerald. Whichever comes first.

"You- the blood on you is still fresh. That dog might sniff you out again out here."

He hesitates before continuing.

"I hope this isn't 'cause you're blaming yourself? Is that it? Is that why everyone back at camp was so off?"

Fitzgerald knows he's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but even he realizes that there had been things left unsaid.

"These things... they just happen, and it sucks, but it's nobody's fault. Except for that mutt's. Everyone's breathing, aren't they?"

His words are less about comfort and more about logic; Duskpool surely responds to that much easier.

@DUSKPOOL

 

[DUSKPOOL]

DUSKPOOL​

Where are you going? Duskpool raised a hard brow. His gaze pivoted, mangled ears swivelin' in search of a water source that ain't somethin' Swallowbreeze would be usin' frequently. He didn't need to be taintin' somethin' else. Not that he ain't already tainted most folk with whatever black cloud he's got hangin' around his shoulders. Nothin' but bad luck. Someone ought to wonder if it was universal, or just a whole lotta one person carryin' the bulk of it. He's afraid he was the unlucky bastard. "Findin' water." He mused gravelly.

If he were lucky, Duskpool would stumble on a puddle or a small stream he could wring his fur out and get rid of the sticky crimson mattin' his backside. He ain't too thrilled havin' another clanmate's blood on him. It might be different with an enemy, but someone he knew for some time? It made his stomach roll uncomfortably. He already had enough blood on his paws. He ain't needin' more.

Sighin' wearily, Duskpool raised a paw to rub his achin' iris. "More than capable of fightin' it off." He muttered at last, only for scarred lips to thin at the followin' comment. Paw droppin' to watch the other wearily, Duskpool had half a mind to go around the warrior, but Fitzerald was right in one aspect, maybe two, but he ain't gonna admit that to the other; that damn mutt was somewhere nursin' its wounds and likely angrier than a badger protectin' its territory.

"Believe me. I know." He sighed at last, chest vibratin' with a low, guttural rumble. Doesn't mean I can't blame myself for not bein' quicker. He saved 'em once. Why not again? What in stars' earth did this teach anyone other than that life was short? He knew that. He reckoned they all knew that. "Emotions are fickle things. Don't think anyone can tell 'em right from wrong other than someone just about died under my watch." He grumbled sourly.

With a shaky of obsidian wool, Duskpool pivoted, intendin' to go around Fitzgerald. "Are ya gonna help me find someplace to wash this blood off or are ya gonna drag my sorry ass to camp." He raised a brow, watchin' the other with a deadpan expression.

we're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept

ooc

information

main ref

• xxx
• 

  DUSKPOOL he/him a storm carved in flesh and smoke, duskpool towers with the bulk of a maine coon and norwegin forest cat. his wooly black pelt bristles with ghost-stripes and scars—old wounds etched like lightning through dusk. one copper eye burns like molten steel and the other a mangled ruin of war. every step is heavy, thunderous—war-born, death-burdened, and unflinchingly alive.
  
  ᯓ★ senior warrior of skyclan (sun guard during coffeestar's reign)
  ᯓ★ brother to outlawbite & thistlestrike, half-brother to flowercloud
  ᯓ★ eighty-three moons; ages on the 1st of every month
  ᯓ★ speech thought action
  ᯓ★ peaceful/healing powerplay permitted
• ​

 

[FITZGERALD]

Water. Here Duskpool is, against Flowercloud's wishes, to find himself some water. Fitzgerald is somewhere between bemusement and anger—he can't exactly drag Duskpool through the mud for thinking this way, but the situation is still at least a little bit silly.

"Yeah, probably. Most likely,"

he agrees. The senior warrior is a force to reckon with. Fitzgerald cannot deny that, for he himself is at best an average fighter.

"That doesn't mean I want you to fight it by yourself!"

Will SkyClan ever be free of the threat of dogs?

Fitzgerald stares at Duskpool with widened eyes, pupils narrow slits, as he forces Fitzgerald to see things from his point of view. Someone just about died under my watch. There are no words that can possibly ease that reality. Uttered comforts and shushed insecurities will not mend Duskpool's ego nor put Sagesong back on all her feet in an instant.

"'Kay,"

Fitzgerald sighs. He steps aside, allowing Duskpool to pass by him.

"Let's find you your water."

With thunderstorms following the wake of heatwaves like an endless cycle of tag, SkyClan's territory is in perfect condition for the two toms' goal. Fitzgerald looks for a larger dip in the ground, its usually hollow self now filled with leftover rainwater, acting as a decent-sized puddle. By the looks of it, it's not deep enough to completely submerge into however.

"I assume you're gonna say no, but I'll ask anyway- need help? You've got blood on some, uh, harder to reach areas."

 

[DUSKPOOL]

DUSKPOOL​

"Ain't the first time." A mangled ear flickered, unbothered by the thought. He'd fought enough dogs by himself to last a lifetime. He's got a few more left in him before the stars came to collect his bastard soul.

A battered brow raised in surprise, not quite expectin' the other to agree so easily, though Duskpool was a stubborn bastard. He would've gone regardless, but it was nice not havin' to clamber around another clanmate. They usually meant well considerin' the older tom's track record. He winced inwardly, mangled flesh buzzin' in dull reminder. It ain't like he was built for anythin' other than plowin' through enemies like a battlin' ram takin' blow after blow.

Shakin' wooly fur, Duskpool padded forward with a weary grunt. A molten ember dancin' along the ground in search of somethin' suitable, takin' note of fallen twigs and leaves sure to find its way into the thick mesh he called his fur. His left brow twitched in mild annoyance, beginnin' to entertain the thought of goin' bald when the awful image of a shaved rat came to mind, Duskpool shoved the idea deep into the back of his mind to collect dust until the next time he ought to wish for shorter fur.

Heatstroke it is.

Eyeballin' the decent-sized divot, not enough to submerge himself entirely, but it was enough to get the job done without taintin' much. His tiger's eye slid to Fitz with a subtle frown, mullin' over his choices. It seemed he was a man far more predictable than he realized. "That predictable, eh?" He mused dryly, amusement dancin' within a molten iris, settlin' beside the puddle to dunk a paw into the water and splash it onto his back, wettin' the obsidian fur before angrily scrubbin' at the spots he could reach with a paw, not quite wantin' to drag his tongue through the mess and taste Sagesong's blood.

"Foxdung." He paused, starin' at the harder-to-reach places with a flicker of annoyance. Either he asked for help or rolled backside into the puddle and hope to stars it got most of Sagesong's blood out. He breathed wearily, glancin' at Fitzgerald with a look of contemplation concealed beneath a mask of indifference. His claw combin' through what he could reach, nose subtly wrinklin' at the crimson drippin' down to splash the water already turnin' a pinkish tint.

we're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept

ooc

information

main ref

• rolled dice to see if he'd ask for help, and loe and behold, it said no *sobs*
• 

  DUSKPOOL he/him a storm carved in flesh and smoke, duskpool towers with the bulk of a maine coon and norwegin forest cat. his wooly black pelt bristles with ghost-stripes and scars—old wounds etched like lightning through dusk. one copper eye burns like molten steel and the other a mangled ruin of war. every step is heavy, thunderous—war-born, death-burdened, and unflinchingly alive.
  
  ᯓ★ senior warrior of skyclan (sun guard during coffeestar's reign)
  ᯓ★ brother to outlawbite & thistlestrike, half-brother to flowercloud
  ᯓ★ eighty-three moons; ages on the 1st of every month
  ᯓ★ speech thought action
  ᯓ★ peaceful/healing powerplay permitted
• ​