Private Territory yours anyway ] maplefrost

[MONSTERGROWL]

Monstergrowl moves like a shadow dragged across the earth, his massive paws pressing into the damp forest floor with a weight that seems to sink into the land itself. The air is thick with the scent of rain—fresh and cold, clinging to his fur in a way that makes his already-dark pelt seem slick, gleaming like wet stone in the half-light of dawn. ThunderClan's camp is behind him now, swallowed by the undergrowth, and he doesn't look back. He never does. His breath curls in the morning air as he exhales slowly, tasting the forest on his tongue. He listens, ears twitching as the wind stirs the branches above, rustling the leaves in a way that almost sounds like whispers. Something is near. His muscles tighten, the powerful coil of a predator who has never forgotten what it means to hunt.

Then—movement. A flicker of motion beyond the ferns. Monstergrowl stills, his body lowering instinctively, shoulders rippling beneath his fur. His eyes gleam like embers in the dim light as he watches. Prey? No. The scent reaches him a moment later, too sharp, too familiar. A cat. His lip curls, baring the edge of a tooth. "You've been following me," he rumbles, his voice as rough as gravel, low enough to shake in the air between them. He doesn't turn fully, only angling his head slightly, enough to catch sight of them from the corner of his eye. It's not a question. He already knows the answer. There is a pause, heavy, filled with the damp hush of the morning. Then, finally, he shifts, just enough to let his full gaze settle on them, piercing and unreadable.

 

[maplefrost]

❄︎

Maplefrost has taken to aimless wandering, mapping the Thunderclan territory with his paws, trying to keep his head empty of noise. There was so much noise. His own thoughts chasing themselves like rabid dogs chasing rabbits. It had been moons, now, since he'd killed the grey tom in the clearing. He still saw his face when he closed his eyes, saw him in dark corners of the warriors den, in the slivers of black between the stars. He had not seen the star-swept cats that came down from the sky, and he does not know if the grey tom joined them. He's not sure if he wants to know. He's not sure he wants to meet him again. What do you say to someone you killed?

He brushes against a plant, morning dew clinging to his ears– he flicks it off, sighing. Plants make him think of Rowanpaw now, which is no good– plants are all around him, everywhere, and so is she. She's his sister as much as she's his shadow. She still can't quite look at him. She talks to him, though, which is at least an improvement. After the rat attack, she'd looked after his wound.

His nose catches a scent, as familiar as it is unfamiliar. Known and unknown. Maplefrost comes out from behind the fern, and Monstergrowl addresses him, accusatory words angled in his direction. Following him? Not really. Maplefrost had been walking entirely without purpose. But he supposes… a familiar scent on the breeze, something curious. Perhaps subconsciously, if nothing else. His ears flick, part annoyance, part apology.

"Didn't mean to," he replies. "Wasn't thinking about where I was going, just… went where my paws took me," he pauses, unsure of why he's explaining himself. But at least he's not thinking about the other thing.

"Little early for hunting, isn't it?" Maplefrost says, attempting to make casual conversation for the first time in at least a week. "Unless you're out looking for more rats, I suppose."

He's only guessing that Monstergrowl was out to hunt– a supposition based on two things; Monstergrowl did not seem like the kind of cat who went for a meaningless stroll, and Monstergrowl had been crouching like he was going to jump Maplefrost like a shrew coming out of the ground. He could be entirely wrong, but that would at the least lead to more conversation, something else to think about other than ghosts and shadows.

would you stare forever at the sun

and never watch the moon rising?

• ooc: -
• 

  MAPLEFROST, he/him, 24 moons / thunderclan warrior
  large tortoiseshell tom cat, lawful good
  healing and soft powerplay allowed

  
  

 

[MONSTERGROWL]

Monstergrowl does not answer right away. He holds Maplefrost in his gaze like a weight, like something to be measured and judged. His eyes—sharp, ember-burned things—do not soften, even as Maplefrost's words drift through the mist between them. The young tom's voice is uncertain, meandering. It carries the brittle edges of someone trying too hard to sound casual, someone dodging the jagged truths beneath his own fur. Monstergrowl recognizes the tone. He knows what it means when a cat speaks just to keep silence from swallowing them whole.

He straightens slowly, his muscles rolling beneath his pelt like distant thunder. The morning light spills over him in strips—through the leaves, across his shoulders, over the line of his jaw—making him look more like stone than flesh, shaped by pressure and time. His breath is slow. Measured. "You think I wait for the sun to tell me when to hunt?" he rumbles at last, voice low and rough, each word pulled like a claw through gravel. His tail flicks once behind him, the only sign of amusement—or irritation. It's hard to tell with Monstergrowl. Everything about him seems carved into stillness, except his eyes. Those are alive, and watching Maplefrost too closely. He steps forward once, not threatening, but deliberate. "Your paws don't take you anywhere you don't already want to go," he says. "Even when you don't know it yet."

The space between them seems to draw in, close like breath on glass. Not hostile—just heavy. The way the forest gets before a storm. Monstergrowl tilts his head slightly. "You've been walking in circles. Chasing ghosts. You smell like sleep you haven't had." His nostrils flare slightly. "You reek of guilt." The words aren't cruel. They aren't gentle, either. Just true. As if truth, to him, is something neutral—something cold and clean, like river-stone beneath running water. He doesn't look away. Doesn't give Maplefrost the dignity of pretending not to see the way the other tom is fraying at the edges. But then—softer, just barely, a breath different from before—he says, "The forest's full of shadows. Best not to feed them too much."

A pause, like wind stalling in the canopy.

"I wasn't hunting," he adds, at last. "Not yet." There is something in the way he says it, quiet and weighty, that implies hunting is only ever a decision away. That violence, for Monstergrowl, is not a question of if, only of when. He carries it like other cats carry names—constant, and close to the bone. His ears flick forward again, the silence between them stretching. "If you want to walk with me, then walk. But don't pretend it was anything but choice on your part." And with that, Monstergrowl turns, not checking to see if Maplefrost follows. The path he takes is narrow, the ferns parting like breath before him, and the forest closes in behind.

 

[maplefrost]

❄︎

It's always strange listening to Monstergrowl speak. He doesn't carry himself like anyone else– the closest comparison Maplefrost could think of is Ghoststrike, but even he is friendlier than Monstergrowl, and even cracks a joke now and then. Monstergrowl is… not friendly. But not unfriendly either. He just is, in a way that is as fascinating as it is mildly infuriating. He wants to crack the hard exterior and look underneath, see if it's all as dark and scarred as the outside.

You reek of guilt.

Maplefrost grits his teeth, nostrils flaring. He feels like he's being split open, insides spilling out, Monstergrowl standing over him and examining the contents of his guts. It's not nice. So whatever it is that compels him to follow Monstergrowl… he isn't sure.

"I don't think anyone tells you what to do," Maplefrost says. "And I think if anyone tried, they'd end up with scars worse than yours. Though you don't seem the type for mindless violence," he says, almost thoughtful. Considering. He studies the tallness of Monstergrowl as he walks in front of him. The heavy shoulders, the rolling muscles, the scars that shine gently when the sun falls upon them. "Just the calculated kind. If I reek of guilt, you reek of blood." A beat. His voice is not unkind either, not unlike Monstergrowl's. The words seem to come from his mouth before he can think too much about them– a terrifying thought. Maplefrost is used to considering each word he says carefully. "Choice is important to you, is it?" He asks, voice softening ever so slightly, taking on a more curious tone. "Choice– and control?"

would you stare forever at the sun

and never watch the moon rising?

• ooc: -
• 

  MAPLEFROST, he/him, 24 moons / thunderclan warrior
  large tortoiseshell tom cat, lawful good
  healing and soft powerplay allowed

  
  

 

[MONSTERGROWL]

Monstergrowl walks, and the forest moves around him. The ferns part at his passage like supplicants. Behind him, the sound of pawsteps—softer, uncertain—trails at a respectful distance, but not too far. He does not turn to acknowledge Maplefrost. He does not slow, nor does he adjust his stride. Instead, he listens. Not to the forest now, but to the voice behind him, the way it scrapes itself together. Maplefrost speaks, and Monstergrowl peels apart the words the way one might peel the skin from a rabbit—with care, and a hunter's dispassion.

"I don't think anyone tells you what to do…"

There's a flicker in Monstergrowl's gait. Not a stumble—he does not stumble—but a brief hesitation. A twitch in the shoulder, too minute to be anything but deliberate. He keeps moving. The voice behind him has taken on an edge, honed not by courage but by necessity. It is not defiance. It is not fear. It is something quieter. A need to understand, perhaps. Or to be understood. .

"You don't seem the type for mindless violence."

He breathes in slowly, letting the air cool him from the inside out. Violence, to Monstergrowl, is not mindless. Maplefrost is correct. But he would not even deign call it violence. It is rhythm. Ritual. The natural pulse of things. Tooth and claw, shadow and breath. A dead thing stills the forest more than a live one. He does not speak; he allows Maplefrost to fill the space with more.

"Just the calculated kind. If I reek of guilt, you reek of blood."

Now, he stops. Stillness overtakes him with such immediacy that the wind itself seems to forget to move. His head turns, slowly, like something carved from rock finally consenting to animate. Ember-bright eyes meet mismatched tones. There is no flash of anger there—only the dissection of a thought, turned over in his mind like a bone between teeth. "You say that like they are different scents," Monstergrowl says at last, voice flat and cool. Iron left in the rain. "Blood. Guilt. They cling the same way. They sink in, and never wash out." A pause, sharp and surgical. "The only difference is which one you allow to linger deeper." He takes a single step toward Maplefrost—not aggressive, but weighted. The way a storm moves toward a low hill. Not because it has any particular feeling toward the hill, but because it is where the wind takes it. It is guided by a force larger than itself.

"Calculated violence," he repeats, the words dry in his mouth, as if he is tasting something half-rotted. "You think a cat chooses every claw they unsheathe? That every wound is weighed on some scale?" He watches the younger tom with a kind of quiet cruelty—not cruel in intent, but in clarity, in exposure. "The only real difference between mindless and mindful violence is how you live with it after." His gaze flicks over Maplefrost's frame, the glance a demonstration of vivisection in action. "You're still living with yours." A breath. "For now." He turns again, but not before the faintest quirk of his lip—so brief it could be missed—draws across his muzzle. Not a smile. A recognition. Perhaps even a mercy.

"Choice is important to you, is it? Choice—and control?"

That, more than anything else, halts him once more mid-step, just for a breath. A pause, pressed between the ribs of the earth. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. Not soft, but lowered, as if speaking into a wound instead of the woods. "Choice is an illusion," he says. "Control is what you build from the wreckage when you realize that." His tail brushes a low branch as he moves forward again, the morning breaking open in shafts of gold and shadow around him. His shoulders shift under his pelt as tectonic plates beneath the earth—slow, inevitable, and shaped by pressure. "But yes," he adds, after a moment. "They are important." The words drift behind him like smoke.