Ok...it felt kind of nice to NOT write 2020 LMAO. Welcome to 2021! To kick off the brand new year, we're introducing a round of updates, including new bio and forbidden romance rules, our Secret Santa reveal, OTM winners and nominations, our monthly patrols, and a fun new infectious disease! So make sure to check out the January Announcements for all of the new content! As we leave 2020 behind us, we hope everyone is able to put themselves first this year and practice self-care! Here's to another one! Let's write some cats!
The Apostles is a warrior cats roleplay based in northern Wisconsin. On Lake Superior, the wild cats have made the Apostle Islands their home. It is on these islands - Rocky Island and South Twin Island - that the clan and tribe cats have lived in a peace and harmony that ebbs and flows with the tide.
But as the tides turn, so does the truce that binds them to one another; and as the water raises, a darkness follows, an evil that will end in bloodshed and violence.
An infamous gray cat would refer to a certain set of of cats in the clan as "leaves in the wind." Content to float through life, doing what they want, drawing reprimand and ridicule from the more productive clanmates, generally looking out for themselves more than they did for others, and kept to themselves.
It was debatable whether he would put himself in that category, but his assumed introversion did certainly. Sometime, there was a fluffy blue and white cat eating his lunch, or sleeping in a tree. Others, he was wrapping up a conversation, or heading out on patrol. Those that wanted to speak with him could do so, but more often than not, he was transitioning from place to place, or off by himself.
He had settled into this liminality, being seen by all and known by a few. Things in this quiet woodland were changing, however, and with it, his wants. The gathering had been a high like no other for the blue point tom, and the world he had to return to was a crash unlike any other as well. Since the ultimate social occasion featuring faces and tongues from every clan, Eggpelt now found himself more connected to the stagnant limbo of the Thistleclan camp and it's inhabitants than he had been in a long time, and he was at odds with himself about it. The curfew seemed like paradise for a time, but it soon felt like it was pushing him closer to the people he wanted to keep at arms length. Upon examination, he wasn't too sure he wanted that to be the case anymore, but wasnt sure if the rest of the clan shared that notion.
Strolling in from a Sunup guard patrol, he spent some time on his own, performing a grooming ritual, cleansing the dirt from his fur, and making sure it was unmatted and neat. A short search for a flower yielded a sure sign of the warming months, a sand tickseed. Finding a puddle, he affixed it behind his right ear before smiling in satisfaction. Now that his looks were nourished, it was time for his body to be nourished.
As he approached the kill pile, he found another tom already pawing through and inspecting the available catch. His fur was meticulous, and even though it was the afternoon something about it reminded Eggpelt of a evening sky, the way the burning reds of his pelt rippled with gossamer textures in the sunlight. The coat belonged to Sorrelfeather, brother to the clan sweetheart and one of Woodstrikes lackeys during the egg incident. Although, that was a long time ago.
"Some time with him might not be the worst." he thought. The ragdoll was aware of his reputation for barbs and cutting insults, but Eggpelt thought of himself as the only cat in the clan that could laugh at himself.
"What's up, Sorrelfeather?" he chirped, before digging into the scant pickings himself.
It wasn't even two minutes before Eggpelt had given up the ghost. Each piece was already eaten, or growing too old.
"Pitiful. Just pathetic." he sighed, before turning to Sorrelfeather. "I'm guessing you haven't had any luck either."
Who cares? There's no place safe to hide Nowhere to run, no time to cry
There wasn’t much to find as the silky-furred warrior pawed through what was left of the fresh-kill, turning up his nose at the meagre remains that wouldn’t be filling his belly for long. The biggest animals he’d found had only been meagre shrews, and the second he bit into them, they were already finished. Maybe he was just too hungry, though this certainly wasn’t worth his fill. Rolling a mouse absentmindedly underneath his paw, he gave a sigh as he finished off what was left of his meal, looking at what remained on the pile. Not much at all… And though he did have a knack for being somewhat selfish, at times, it didn’t feel right to take any more.
It seemed as though their prized hunters had been lazing about the camp during the curfew, and he couldn’t exactly blame them. Thievingstar had taken away their best hunting hours, and he knew that all too well. He was practically devastated once he’d heard the order, that the early morning and late night were out of limits, the best time one could hunt. It was no fun to hunt in the midday, Sorrelfeather already growing weary with their leader’s rules. He didn’t have to hunt in a group, if anything, the extra company only weighed him down. It was hard enough finding hunting partners that weren’t… well… Thunderheart, in the first place. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d be able to sneak out before he got in trouble, either.
He’d have to hunt soon, either way. It wasn’t every day he could coax the large ginger tabby to accompany him, though, especially when he was preoccupied with pretty she-cats… Or just the one. A poor choice of one. He hadn’t seen much of Thunderheart all morning, come to think of it. So who would he…
The cameo tabby raised his head as his name was called, or… Well, sang, almost. He was being greeted in such a friendly manner that whoever was talking could be mistaken for the very cat he was looking for, if it weren’t for his light cadence. “Oh… Eggy?” he sounded as though he were confused to see him, as though they hadn’t shared a clan… Or for that matter, trained together in the past. Of course, the nickname went against that, and luckily enough it had more than one meaning behind it.
The red-silver tom exhaled in amusement as the other commented on the sad state of their food supply. Well, he wasn’t wrong. The selection had been poor well before either of them had stepped in to check on what was left. “I’m starting to think the good food’s eaten on the way home.” Usually enough was caught to fill out the stock for those who couldn’t hunt, but with this limited working time? They’d be lucky to get anything back to camp. “Well, I was just having a bite, anyway… The real meal’s out there.” He flicked his feathery tail towards the camp’s well-hidden entrance.
“Actually… I can’t go alone. Are you coming with me for some proper food? You know… Just as long as you’re not useless.” He smirked with those words, stretching in preparation for what was supposed to be his early morning hunt. Not so early anymore. Hopefully Eggpelt wasn’t a shabby hunter, though he bore a similarly bright coat that put them both at a disadvantage. That hasn’t stopped me from bringing Thunderheart, I guess.
By now, Eggpelt had had enough practice in the art not to reveal his annoyance at the nickname. There were certain things from the past that he wanted to keep in the past, including the nickname he tried for awhile to have retired, insisting on being called his warrior name. Among others, Eggy was a name tied to a cat she wanted to both forget and remember, the beaming yellow in his mane a reminder of the paradox of his feelings to the outside world, and to the cat he wished was still here to help combat them. Once she was gone, it took on a more negative connotation, becoming tied more to himself than to any one event or bully.
He drew in an expelled slightly longer breath than normal, and tried to put it out of his mind. To a generation of warriors, it seemed he'd always be Eggy. Perhaps, however, such a thing wasn't bad. Nicknames that once signaled ridicule enjoyed some sizable rises to grace. He wondered then, if Harechaser's pranks had the power to influence the very callings of cats themselves.
"Yep. It's Eggy."
Eggpelt took a lengthier look at the cat inviting him to the fields of pine trees. That clean fur draped lightly over a long, lithe body, in contrast to his larger frame and heavier set. If food was what they were after, they'd have to cover up their bright pelts, lest they act as reflection of the sun and beam their location to all the prey in the forest.
"Thats a shame." Eggpelt found his coat fetching and easy to look at, unlike the other earthen clanmates. Not to mention the implications of the mess he was about to make to his own hair. A familiar sacrifice, and one that would have a chance at bringing others food. That pleased a part of him inside, and it pleased a more primal part of him that hadn't yet received much to eat.
"I would be glad to, I've been peckish all morning. As for my usefulness, well, I can see what happens when I decide to take a few days. I guess you really do have to do it yourself to get it done. Let's get out of here."
He started toward the entrance and slipped through the brambles leading to the outside world. Standing outside, he took in a breath the clean, slightly pungent surface air. Now that he actually had someone with him, it felt good to perform that ritual with all the freedom and privilege of complying with the lockdown.
He had shared a few words of complaint that the woods were seemingly quiet against the sun. Eggpelt wasn't one for making decisions based on the 'rules', but sneaking out during prime hours was becoming a larger hassle, and leaving home was starting to get more dangerous.
"Surely not that dangerous."
After a bit of hiking, Eggpelt stopped and placed his snout into the air. Finally, the scent of quarry pervaded his nose, and her turned to his hunting partner.
"Wow, that took forever. And speaking of, I was thinking it probably took that long for you to get your fur as shined as it is. Are you going to be putting the mud on? "
Who cares? There's no place safe to hide Nowhere to run, no time to cry
He regarded the other wordlessly given the reaction to his nickname, or lack thereof. He’d definitely been getting better at acting as though he didn’t mind, though if anyone could read annoyance, it would be Sorrelfeather himself. It was no matter… He hadn’t exactly aimed to annoy Eggpelt with that name. Surely he could be more creative than that. He was surprised that the seemingly soft-bodied tom had decided to come to him for company… Or food, perhaps. The food made his appearance make more sense, given the cameo tom’s notoriety for his insults.
Regardless, the blue and white warrior still took him up on his offer, assumedly again for food. No shame in that… This wasn’t exactly a bonding walk in the woods, after all. Not even a stroll. Breakfast was their main concern and idle chatter was just the side dish. For a moment, Sorrelfeather could have argued otherwise, given the tom’s lingering gaze, though he didn’t question him just yet. Staring wasn’t a crime, was it?
“My point,” he retorted to his newly appointed hunting partner at the mention of his lack of food. “Besides… We catch it, we eat it. No need to give up any plump squirrels, huh?” The silver-red tabby followed Eggpelt through the slim entrance, shaking off the sensation of the brambles against his long fur. It was nice to be out in the open, not that there was much of a difference. The main difference was the bulky, low hanging branches and tangling bushes just bordering their camp, and though the sensation of coarse and prickly foliage wasn’t exactly comfortable, there was so comfort to be had in the meaning behind that feeling.
Eggpelt’s complaints about the silent woods weren’t unwarranted. A silent forest wasn’t a good sign for prey activity, and after a morning with an unsatisfying breakfast? That was the last thing Sorrelfeather wanted. He gave a passing joke about rogues scaring away all of the prey, but for all he jested, it could have been true. Not that he particularly seemed to mind… He spoke with a confident indifference every time he gave a poorly-timed quip, and that just couldn’t be helped.
Their journey seemed to be for nothing, until finally, finally, the scent of prey had caught on the breeze. The silky-furred tom gave a sigh of relief once it had been scented, Eggpelt even backing that one up. “Finally.” His tone exasperated, he glanced towards the direction of the scent, only to look back at the tom accompanying him at that question of his. And now… Was that a compliment? The red-furred warrior gave a purr of slight amusement at his words. “Of course. I don’t want to stick out like a sore paw.” Given the looseness of the earth and the heavy scent the air carried, mud wouldn’t be too difficult to find in the plentiful shade.
Checking by the leafy coverings just above the ground until he found the perfect spot, he gave himself a good and long-missed roll in softer earth, the tarnishing of his pelt the least of the tom’s worries. Belly up, he glanced at the needle-like leaves of the coniferous tree, spending a moment in their shade. “I’m not the only one with shiny fur, you know. Better have a roll before you make me lose my catches, too.” Leaning onto his side he pressed a muddy paw into the ground beside him, tail flicking impatiently. They wouldn’t be losing a meal to a dip in the mud on his watch.
The mud seemed reflect Eggpelt's shiny pelt back to him as he looked on into the sludge that Sorrelfeather was slathering over his hair, despite it's opaque brown. It seemed to contrast so much, that it pumped up Sorrel's barb to larger proportion.
"What a shame." These words came out, but only as a sigh of mild resignation.
It wasn't so much that he was adverse to donning the camoflauge. To him it was a bit of an enjoyable process. The mud was cool, and having to put so much on meant that not only his pelt, but his skin as well would receive the benefit of the mudbath. His concern lingered more in the sun, and more namely it's ability to bake the mud into dirt, or something harder to remove.
"Yeah, no worries, I'm right behind ya."
He stepped into the mud, and began the process, starting with his legs, moving up, humming a wordless tune as he did. Caking his head, he removed the flower from his head and watched it sit, perched upon the viscous earth. The pair would be able to blend in, and truly get the drop on anything they scented, the fresh mud imbuing them with the scent of pertichor and old pine needles. He turned to his companion to signal that he was ready.
"I scented some various little things, but I'm interested in that certain musky one. There's an opossum around. Let's go be useless."
For awhile, he slunk around, trusting his nose for directions, but with his ears pricked at nothing all the same. After a bit of sleuthing, he finally began to hear a faint knocking noise.
"Hehe...He's looking for some tail. Aren't we all...check this out." he mused.
He cleared his throat, drew in a deep breath, and let out a series of faster smacking noises. He looked like an idiot, but was more concerned with how his message would be received.
Closer, knocking from the wild came, and Eggpelt repeated this deceptive dance a few more times, until their quarry showed itself, smacking it's way out of a hollow, felled log.
"Looking for me? I'm flattered."
He wasn't sure if the look on it's face was more of shock or embarrassment, but it soon tuned to anger as Eggpelt made his approach, his knocking now having turned into a growling. He swiped, as he closed, and missed. The opossum snapped with his teeth, nearly grazing him before turning and running into the log.
Through the hollow, and out of the tree, Eggpelt raced down his prey, tracking it through every twist and turn, his paws nimbly turning and gliding over the landscape. Such grace was lacking in battle, but here, it seemed it was all he can do to avoid floating.
It felt this way as he sped up a pine after it, eventually cornering it on a branch some ways up, but not high enough for concern. It was a perfect height for taking a nap, Eggpelt knew, because dismounting was easy. So it would be here as well, as he grabbed the thing and launched himself off the edge of the branch, not letting go until the last moment.
The landing for the blue point was graceful. The opossum's was not.
Eggpelt sniffed and pawed about his prey, and found it only to be pretending to have met it's end from the fall.
"You've got moxie, little guy." His praise of endurance was met with a furious hiss.
Facing the hiss with an unflinching smirk, Eggpelt, simply casted his eyebrows up, and nodded to the left. The marsupial's eyes, filled with anger, added to their wildness a tinge of confusion, and it turned it's head to find behold the muddied, but still impressive for of Sorrelfeather, closing quickly.
The battered opossum turned around to face Eggpelt again, perhaps hoping to find a escape route, but he was met only with the closeness of the ragdoll's soft, sapphric eyes, and his warm voice, this time, uttered an appraisal of fate.
"Now, you're fucked." he thought. He simply winked instead.
Who cares? There's no place safe to hide Nowhere to run, no time to cry
The red-silver warrior sneered at his companion given that little comeback of his own statement from before, watching as he finished up the process of setting up his camouflage. Touché, Eggpelt. He had a feeling he wouldn’t entirely loathe his time with this one. “An opossum? I never took you as a brave one, my friend. Don’t expect me to save your tail if you get bitten.” Nonetheless, he trailed after the stout, bicolour tom, keeping his steps short and allowing his guest to lead the way. If he was game to take on prey that was his size, good for him… Though he’d chosen to put himself at risk. Sorrelfeather had to admit that he’d made decisions like that in the past, and from experience, they rarely had positive outcomes.
He gave the blue and white tom a side glance as they caught onto the soft knocking sound, stifling a chuckle at his explanation. What an embarrassing situation for a possum to find himself in; though luckily that would be the least of his worries. Surprisingly enough, Eggpelt had even taken to embarrassing himself as well, Sorrelfeather glancing at him in confusion as he made that ridiculous noise, though as the knocks crept closer, it became clear that this was a strategy. Quite the cruel one, but clever nonetheless. “You’re just a fox aren’t you, Eggpelt?” he whispered in mock distress, watching intently until their quarry revealed itself.
The cameo tom couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer as the opossum was met with his rather strange suitor, stranded in shock for a moment as it comprehended the situation. Sorrelfeather watched their little song and dance from what he presumed to be a safe distance, peering over the log until the figure darted out and the warrior gave chase. Sorrelfeather raced after the pair as best he could, their combined grace rather unexpected. Agile was yet again something he hadn’t perceived the jolly warrior as, though he was pleasantly surprised to see that even he was falling behind in the slightest.
As they began to scale the low-hanging branches of a pine tree, however, the cameo tom hid himself in the undergrowth nearby, watching wordlessly as Eggpelt grappled with the scrappy opossum. The two fell from the branch, one obviously landing more gracefully than the other. A smile still playing on his face, Sorrelfeather stalked towards an advantageous angle as Eggpelt taunted their prey, knowing they both had the advantage. Did the opossum still know that there were two hunters on the prowl today?
At his signal, the muddy-furred warrior leapt into action, a flurry of fur and claws as he launched into the furiously hissing creature, swiftly biting into its tough neck. Though exhausted, the creature spat and kicked in his grip. This big guy really did have moxie, it seemed. Much like the minks he’d seen hunting in the past, however, Sorrelfeather didn’t allow his hold to weaken. It didn’t take long for that to pay off, however, the creature stopping in its struggle as he corrected his fang-hold.
The muddied tom gave a relieved sigh once the opossum stopped moving, though still gave a good few taps to the creature’s head to make sure it wasn’t acting a ruse. “Not too useless after all, huh? I might even say that I’m impressed.” His sides heaved as he worked to steady his breaths, Sorrelfeather finally raising to his paws with a sigh.
“That’s more than enough breakfast for the both of us… Though with a catch like that, I almost want to keep it as an accomplishment.” He gave an amused huff after those words, regarding the large creature with a semblance of pride. Well… There wasn’t much of a point in keeping it. It already gave off quite the odour as it was, and time wouldn’t do well to improve that. “Well… Maybe a bone. Don’t want loverboy here stinking up the den.”
He nodded his head towards the opossum afterwards, sitting by their surprisingly streamlined catch. “Go on… First bite. Hunters’ honour.” It didn’t look particularly appetising… Though it was quite the achievement.
"Not too useless after all, huh? I might even say that I’m impressed"
Eggpelt broke his stride for a moment as he approached his late opossum, the words of Sorrelfeather breaking his focus.
Some of the other similarly-witted cats in the clan eyed Eggpelt with suspicion and sometimes scorn, not because his barbs cut especially deep, or because he could command a meeting simply by walking in. Eggpelt's shell ended up remarkably thick, and he had made a study of how to take just about any lick verbal lick imaginable. While the number was considerably less, he could also take a fair amount of physical ones as well. His gift of speechcraft had become a bit twisted as a result of having to keep up a conversational shield up most of the time, but he was alright with it, as the tradeoff gave him the ability to come back to anything that could be thrown at him. The warrior frequently found himself without a place of safety, and he learned to carry one on his back.
All forms of protections have their cracks, however. Eggpelt's defenses hadn't been attuned for compliments, especially not from Sorrelfeather. The fuzzy blue ears hardly ever got to twitch up for a moment of praise stated in such a way. Base and trivial forms of thanks for similarly statused tasks, were the norm. A direct rebuttal of everything he'd been told by other cats so far hadn't come in a long time, and if he was being honest, he resigned them the annals of history.
He hadn't expected Sorrelfeather to help him in his catch, nor had he expected...this. A part of him in his chest began to warm, as if maybe, someone besides himself actually agreed in the thought.
"Don't get too excited. You know how he gets with people. You know how...Thistleclan works."
Even after his defense mechanism engaged and he pushed out most of the thought, however, he still wanted to believe the words that were sent by Sorrelfeather's trembling and shaking form were true and not meant in emptiness.
"Hey, if you thought that was impressive, you should see me try to lure a raccoon. It goes like this."
Eggpelt couldn't help but notice the recovering form of his fellow hunter. He delivered the killing blow swiftly, but did the little scrap he had with the animal before hand, tire him out? For all the posturing about hunting he did, he thought it was weird that he had stayed behind, while the chubby warrior chased after him like a runaway batch of freight. Like a coyote pup, Sorrelfeather was trying to hide something of himself away, but putting on a brave face. He might have noticed earlier, in his speech about running away if things turned bad, had his attention been tuned to his words instead of the scents of the wild.
"It's cute, in like, a weird way. Still cute." he thought. Indeed, at least, he was beginning to think there might actually be more substance to the tom than he previously thought.
Just then, he was offered the first bite of their conquest. The prompt reminded him of why they had even bothered to make this trek.
"Don't mind if I do! After all, to the victors..."
" ♬ should go the spoils! ♬" he sang. Choosing a decent looking bit near its shoulder, he sang his teeth into it, and ripped out a piece of meat, before passing it.
The energy returned to him as he ate, and he began to feel the extremities of his personality return as the fatigue that beset them fled.
"You know, you weren't too shabby yourself. Swooping just in the nick of time to deliver the final blow. If you want to take a bone, take its skull." he suggested.
"It might serve to remind a cat he's not useless." winking again, this time withiut the threatening aura, and directed at the cameo tom across him.
Who cares? There's no place safe to hide Nowhere to run, no time to cry
Eggpelt’s slight hesitation didn’t escape Sorrelfeather’s notice, gaze flickering by the other without much else to say. Was that… truly taken as a compliment? He hadn’t expected any cat to take his words seriously, come to think of it. He’d half expected some wry comment in return, another trademark Eggy joke about their hunt or his performance, or maybe even about the red-silver tom’s ridiculously high standards. It didn’t seem as though it would be that way for quite some time, however, and after that vague compliment… He wasn’t sure how to take the silence.
He didn’t have to sit through it for long, however. It appeared his assumption was right, the bicolour tom joking about catching a raccoon… Though would that even be a joke? Considering that surprisingly smooth hunt for a target so large, he wouldn’t be too surprised to hear a true story about Eggpelt catching his first raccoon. I might just be jealous, come to think of it. But he wasn’t feeling jealous, was he? Perhaps it was pride? Maybe he’d seen something in that tom he’d pestered in the past that he hadn’t seen before? Regardless, this was a hunt that Sorrelfeather was willing to split the praise on.
The still-muddy tom gave a huff in amusement at Eggpelt’s trill of victory, eyes rolling briefly. It was a relief to see another cat about as jubilant as he, though this was one who’d managed to be a ball of energy without the scathing words that formed the norm of their Clan’s communication. That must have been tiring. “Now now, loverboy… Save your performance for the next possum.” He waved his paw somewhat dismissively, watching as his hunting partner took a bite of their breakfast. Now that even looked like a relief. The scraggly creature they’d caught was certainly looking far more appetising now that someone else had tried a bite… And certainly enjoyed it.
Not too long after, Sorrelfeather joined him. He started with a tentative bite, though soon ate with renewed vigour, glad to have a more than filling meal to start off the day. His ear flicked absently at the tom’s comment, however, and he raised a brow at him as he finished off his chewing before responding. “No easy blow, mind you! That’s why I never hunt possums.” He gave a shrug of his shoulders after those words, rethinking them. “Until now.” Maybe. He was starting to learn just how easy hunting could be with the right… Not totally useless, partner.
His suggestion wasn’t so bad, however. A skull would be memorable, if nothing else. He’d probably throw out any other bone simply due to forgetting what it came from. He gave a smirk in response to that following comment, however. Not being blatantly rude didn’t seem to dull any senses, either. “Well, we’ve known each other long enough for me to start collecting things to remember you by… Maybe next time you’ll sprinkle in some catmint for me?” He nudged the tom’s shoulder with a semi-amused purr, digging in for what would be the rest of his breakfast.
Despite the effort, however, it was practically impossible to use up the whole possum. If he weren’t so prideful, he would’ve suggested any other animal to hunt… Though nothing was wrong with a little extra food. The skull would be a nice little souvenir for their troubles, anywho. With a satisfied sigh, he looked at what was left of their catch, licking off his paws. “You know, it’s a shame, but…” He let his words trail off on purpose, glancing back in the direction of their camp. “That fresh-kill pile won’t keep us going for long… We might even have to hunt again, later.” That was about as much of an invitation as he could give in any serious manner, at least.
At least there was someone who wouldn’t totally hate hunting with during this ridiculous curfew.
There was the grittiness he expected from Sorrelfeather in the first place, with a slight swish of his tail blowing away any chance for Eggpelt to pry his way any closer to him, at least today. Still, his voice in the past, he thought, sounded more a lot hostile and derisive than it did now. This outing for breakfast had been a far cry from the hunts they shared in the past while they had trained or been stuck with each other on.
Eggpelt preferred to rip whatever he was going to intake in one go when sharing his food. It was a little thing, but it meant less work in passing a former animal around, blooding his paws and muzzle more than what was necessary. Such a liquid sometimes could be hard to wash away. As well, it meant that Sorrelfeather could do the same, and he himself would be absolved of the responsibility of cleanup.
As pair ate, Eggpelt heard his partners complain about the struggle against the possum right at the end.
"You were fine, ya big kit." he chided mentally.
Aside from the one he organized himself, Eggpelt had only attended the funeral of one other, and it was not that of Sorrelfeather's late brother. Even without having gone, however, the sad tale had been echoed through the clan when it happened, some using it to highlight the need to stay underground in the tunnels. He knew that then, the remaining two siblings had their own issues to deal with because of it. Sorrelfeather seemed to return to his sour old self, but then, it would make sense for someone as prideful at the cinnamon stranded tom to hide away such inhibition.
He wondered then, if he was looking at an inverted image of himself. Perhaps the experiences that caused him to shy away from the beasts of the wild, were the same ones that drove Eggpelt towards them.
"Its a shame...hunt again later."
"I think, you may be right. Thistleclan'd be lost without us, huh?"
He led them back on the way toward their home, and on the way, caught the inspiration to hum a jubilant tune on the way back.
After the duo had parted ways for the day, he caught himself thinking back on the encounter, and his success. He'd taken a victory over the possum, but more and more, it was seeming that there was another to be had here.
To Eggpelt, a cat could sink his teeth into a thousand other cats, but he felt the ways of antagonism were best kept in ones back pocket for the most dire situations, situations that meant one should have spent more time sharpening their diplomatic skills. To turn an enemy into a true friend was a victory, an actual victory.
A complete victory, in which no higher level of supremacy over the opponent could be achieved.
It was to that end, a few days after the possum had been claimed as his trophy, that Eggpelt engaged in some light espionage, discerning the time of Sorrelfeather's next patrol. Wiggling through his den to the skull, he deposited the stalks of the requested herb, resting them under the skull. No need to wait until next time. A gift received out of the sight of the gifter, he knew, could serve to get the social ball rolling very efficiently.
He turned around and looked at the skull, situated atop the leaves. He though, that it was good for him to have something to remind himself of an actual moment of real pride. It was something the whole clan needed.
He couldn't help but feel that Sorrelfeather might become a more regular occurrence in the life of the bicolor, and felt that thankfully, it might not mean the same thing as it did moons ago.
Slinking out of the den, Eggpelt returned to his own, and threw himself into his nest, wanting to sleep away the time until his own duties needed attending.
