ShadowClan Warriors' Den

[Honey Bee]

Badgerstripe lays down in her nest

[Snivellus]

Rottenheart

Rottenheart naps

[Activity post - closed]

[Realm]

Shadepelt sits in his nest, grooming and making sure his pelt is perfect. He gets tired and after he is done grooming, he goes to sleep.

[DragonloverWV]

Wolfhowl gathers his bedding and gets out!

[Daragca]

Owlthroat
he/him | Shadowclan Warrior | 38 moons
The Dancing Bird

Twitching rigorously as he awoke, Owlthroat’s eyes shot open. Glazed for a second before focus and a typical yellow glint returned. His muscles ached, rippling with tension as if he had sprinted along every Clan border in his sleep. It was a combination though, his own poor sleeping habits and the strain of moving. His large frame never went unnoticed, and had been worked hard. Assisting the elderly, den building, moving stores. His body could support it, the physical weight of the clan that was. Mentally it had become taxing, leaving him more restless than usual. The new camp unnerved him. It hadn’t been uncommon for him to awake as he had done moments before, twitching, hubris shattered from sheer embarrassment. Owlthroat had always been a bitter cat. A forged over confidence with a sickening smile always playing on his maw.

He stretched his pads out as he unfurled, calloused but not painful, they had hardened moons ago. Upwards from his paws ran striking white fur, meticulously well groomed. Intertwining with thick splodges of charcoal black, he was handsome and he knew it. Sauve, but too bitter and it lingered around him like acrid smoke.

Warm light caressed the dirt floor, filtering through the two boulders abreast of the entrance. Breaking through a spattering of cloud cover. It felt like warmer times were on the way, Owlthroat lusted for the days filled with the greenery and abundance of fresh kill. He had no quarrel with gulping down a toad where the clan couldn’t see when prey was plenty, heck he had no quarrel with it when prey was sparse. But he felt the guilt far less and his brother had always turned an eye then. His pale lips curled humorously at the thought of the time that his brother Flytail had carved open his cheek back when they were apprentices. It had been Leafbare and prey had been scarce. He knew it was selfish.

Loyal Flytail would never tell a soul, passing it off as a quarrel to the clan. The one thing they did share was their talent for a proficient lie, bar that and their height they may have well been strangers.

It still cut through his face, pinkish in colour, a sweet reminder not to be too careless.

To preserve the victor.

[OPEN]