@
Naiad
Juniperclaw got up and moved across, giving them maybe ten paces of space between them. He hardly noted the grit beneath his pads.
"It'll help you keep your grip on the ground," he meowed, and turned to face Newtheart.
In the rogue groups, when he fought someone, he had just... attacked. They had looked at him, he had looked at them, and they had read in each other's faces,
fighting time.
But Newtheart was grimacing. He was a kitty-pet. He didn't know anything about fighting.
Juniperclaw hesitated.
"Alright," he meowed.
"I'm going to attack you. Ready?"
Giving any kind of warning hurt like gravel in his mouth, his self-preservation scraping the inside of his head. He told it to shut up. It was not in possession of all the facts.