![Flintpelt [Spideh] Avatar](http://storage.proboards.com/forum/images/defaultavatar.png){kind=avatar}
Post by Flintpelt [Spideh] on Aug 30, 2006 8:30:52 GMT -5
The NightClan camp.
You couldn't really call it an actual camp. There was no particular spot specially picked to hold all of the fresh-kill that an extremely rare and entirely occasional cat [be it a tired NightClan warrior, a bored feline looking for company [something oh-so-stupid in the unspoken code of these felines that it hadn't even happened yet], or even the Leader coming to announce something important ; preferably an oncoming battle, otherwise a discussion about how to beastially murder or massacre some troup of patrolling cats from an enemy Clan [in other words, any of the other Clans] and wreak general havoc and carnage] would bring over [and anyway, even if there was, those particular cats wouldn't stick what they had caught with their efforts and their teeth and claws in a fargging hole where any random cat could pick it up and eat it], no gigantic rock sprouting from the ground on which the Leader or Deputy could leap dramatically upon and yowl a stupid phrase that had been passed down from generation to generation into the usual calm and comforting silence of the clearing the camp had been placed in, the ground still turned to soggy mud everytime it rained instead of just absorbing greedily the water like the hard-packed earth of the Clan camps, the dens seemed to have been made in a quick and inefficient way in whatever material the NightClan cats could find laying around the place, feeling too lazy to do a good job that would keep them out of the rain [which, actually, was probably true, seeing the many holes there were in the inextricable mass of sticks, leaves and brambles that constituted each hut-like thing], and even the plants seemed too poor and dead for it to be an appropriate place for any Clan, be it made of rogues, mice or Clan cats [in that order of importance]. It was simply someplace these vengeful felines had chosen as a stable place to gather in, and nothing more. After moons of walking around these sorry, Clan-infested lands under rain, shine and snow, they were completely used to the vicious elements who took a savage pleasure in making them, the loners, rogues and all Clan-less felines, live through the worst of conditions.
[Hoo-boy, I do love writing from Agony's point of view.]
Or, at least, that was how it all was from a particular feline's point of view. At the time, she was resting in a small lump of thorny bushes, which she had prepared herself against liquid or solid weather with bunches of branches or ferns she would find on her hunting trips. It was more solid than the rest, mainly because she had paid more attention to it, but not by much. A bedding of old dried moss covered the ground, turning brown at the edges, while its middle, brittle and feeble, had been worn down from the many times the she-cat had slept inside the small, uncomfortable shelter, and was now reduced to a simple bowl of green plants going brown in death. She would have to change it soon, but for now, she didn't really care. Otherwise, nothing else [except for the carcass of some old rat in a stage of late decomposition she had eaten a few days ago that she had thrusted outside so that her sleeping space would not be soiled by the flesh going green and the birthing maggots] could be seen inside or near the private den. This was probably because she had chased off, bitten, clawed or maimed any cat that dared approach her tiny home after she had warned them with a low, menacing growl and a sharp - and usually sarcastic - comment, and that she did not like heavily decorating her surroundings with skeletons and huge, droopy ferns. The one animal cadavre laying there like a forgotten toy at the side of the brambles was quite enough for the middle-aged female, even though she would have enjoyed having a slightly more impressing leftover; perhaps an eagle, with part of the feathers still there to prove its species, or a young owl. But all she had found the day she had decided to add a bit to the dreary place she lived in a fourth of her time was a huge rat digging around the sea of grasses nearby, and so she had contented herself with that. Anyway, she had thought to herself that day, a hunting bird would have been too... voluminous. I'll leave that to the show-offs.
Her name, according to her status of Clan-less feline, contained a single word. Though she had been able to choose a two-word name when she had reached the ranks of NightClan, just as Twilightsilver, another cat of this deadly group of ruthless killers they made [though not a comrade nor a friend, no; she had not yet passed the femme's special 'test', and so had not yet been accepted as an equal in her mind], had done, she had decided to keep the name she had given herself since that time once long, when she had found herself sprawled under the sun-speckled canopy of a forest, completely unknowing of who and where she was. It had been a particularly cliché scenario, but these often happened in the real world, even though all think they are stupid and useless. Even though, she had never told anyone of it, and wasn't about to just yet.
Now back to her name. She called herself Agony, mainly because the situation seemed to fit this particular dubbance, but also because a small voice, faint and nearly inexistent, whispered it to her mind. Agony. Agony. She had loved the sound of it from the first time she had heard the word, and had kept it for her own.
Agony was not a particularly strange cat - or at least not in appearance. Her simple pelt was based on the stormy, bruised gray of clouds heavy with a new delivery of cold, wet rain, striped over with an ashen color that neared the black of soot and a dark, earthy brown, like the one dirt obtained after having had a full bucketful of liquid sloshed straight into its face. Tabby colors, giving her a seemingly normal and in-the-ordinary feline. However, if anyone, sane or not, would look into her orbs, twin pools of fetid, long-stagnant water, they would see that she was much more than this far from complicated picture that she painted of herself. Add a maniacal grin of evil malice [one showing every single bit of her sharp, gleaming fangs locked together in a lethal embrace, the corners twisted upwards, giving her a half-sour, half insanely joyful look; or, in other words, something you wouldn't like to see right in front of you if you were right in your mind] to that demential glint inside two pale green oculars on which lids have fallen halfway to give an impression that the particular feline is enjoying a pleasent dream [or nightmare, depending on your point of view], and the sarcastic curve of her eyebrows high on her forehead, and you've got a cat that looks ready to leap at you and rip your throat out with not a shred of remorse.
However, at this particular moment, Agony wasn't really feeling in the mood of going off on a little cat-hunting trip. She felt morose and bored, something that happened often these days [I wish we could go off an' massacre something. The NightClan cats are sitting on their bums, twiddling their farggin' thumbs. See? That's how uneventful this life is. I'm even starting to rhyme.], and it didn't make her particularly happy. A slightly pouting expression now replaced the savage look of insanity that was pasted on her features half of the time, and she sent a wild glare in the direction of the camp entrance. Still no one. For once, she desired to have someone close by to go on a hunting trip or to go and maul a poor old loner. It was better than doing it all alone. This was just... bland. And where was Zeik, anyway? And Masked? And Atya? What the farg, where was everyone? It was as if they had disappeared from the surface of this world.
You couldn't really call it an actual camp. There was no particular spot specially picked to hold all of the fresh-kill that an extremely rare and entirely occasional cat [be it a tired NightClan warrior, a bored feline looking for company [something oh-so-stupid in the unspoken code of these felines that it hadn't even happened yet], or even the Leader coming to announce something important ; preferably an oncoming battle, otherwise a discussion about how to beastially murder or massacre some troup of patrolling cats from an enemy Clan [in other words, any of the other Clans] and wreak general havoc and carnage] would bring over [and anyway, even if there was, those particular cats wouldn't stick what they had caught with their efforts and their teeth and claws in a fargging hole where any random cat could pick it up and eat it], no gigantic rock sprouting from the ground on which the Leader or Deputy could leap dramatically upon and yowl a stupid phrase that had been passed down from generation to generation into the usual calm and comforting silence of the clearing the camp had been placed in, the ground still turned to soggy mud everytime it rained instead of just absorbing greedily the water like the hard-packed earth of the Clan camps, the dens seemed to have been made in a quick and inefficient way in whatever material the NightClan cats could find laying around the place, feeling too lazy to do a good job that would keep them out of the rain [which, actually, was probably true, seeing the many holes there were in the inextricable mass of sticks, leaves and brambles that constituted each hut-like thing], and even the plants seemed too poor and dead for it to be an appropriate place for any Clan, be it made of rogues, mice or Clan cats [in that order of importance]. It was simply someplace these vengeful felines had chosen as a stable place to gather in, and nothing more. After moons of walking around these sorry, Clan-infested lands under rain, shine and snow, they were completely used to the vicious elements who took a savage pleasure in making them, the loners, rogues and all Clan-less felines, live through the worst of conditions.
[Hoo-boy, I do love writing from Agony's point of view.]
Or, at least, that was how it all was from a particular feline's point of view. At the time, she was resting in a small lump of thorny bushes, which she had prepared herself against liquid or solid weather with bunches of branches or ferns she would find on her hunting trips. It was more solid than the rest, mainly because she had paid more attention to it, but not by much. A bedding of old dried moss covered the ground, turning brown at the edges, while its middle, brittle and feeble, had been worn down from the many times the she-cat had slept inside the small, uncomfortable shelter, and was now reduced to a simple bowl of green plants going brown in death. She would have to change it soon, but for now, she didn't really care. Otherwise, nothing else [except for the carcass of some old rat in a stage of late decomposition she had eaten a few days ago that she had thrusted outside so that her sleeping space would not be soiled by the flesh going green and the birthing maggots] could be seen inside or near the private den. This was probably because she had chased off, bitten, clawed or maimed any cat that dared approach her tiny home after she had warned them with a low, menacing growl and a sharp - and usually sarcastic - comment, and that she did not like heavily decorating her surroundings with skeletons and huge, droopy ferns. The one animal cadavre laying there like a forgotten toy at the side of the brambles was quite enough for the middle-aged female, even though she would have enjoyed having a slightly more impressing leftover; perhaps an eagle, with part of the feathers still there to prove its species, or a young owl. But all she had found the day she had decided to add a bit to the dreary place she lived in a fourth of her time was a huge rat digging around the sea of grasses nearby, and so she had contented herself with that. Anyway, she had thought to herself that day, a hunting bird would have been too... voluminous. I'll leave that to the show-offs.
Her name, according to her status of Clan-less feline, contained a single word. Though she had been able to choose a two-word name when she had reached the ranks of NightClan, just as Twilightsilver, another cat of this deadly group of ruthless killers they made [though not a comrade nor a friend, no; she had not yet passed the femme's special 'test', and so had not yet been accepted as an equal in her mind], had done, she had decided to keep the name she had given herself since that time once long, when she had found herself sprawled under the sun-speckled canopy of a forest, completely unknowing of who and where she was. It had been a particularly cliché scenario, but these often happened in the real world, even though all think they are stupid and useless. Even though, she had never told anyone of it, and wasn't about to just yet.
Now back to her name. She called herself Agony, mainly because the situation seemed to fit this particular dubbance, but also because a small voice, faint and nearly inexistent, whispered it to her mind. Agony. Agony. She had loved the sound of it from the first time she had heard the word, and had kept it for her own.
Agony was not a particularly strange cat - or at least not in appearance. Her simple pelt was based on the stormy, bruised gray of clouds heavy with a new delivery of cold, wet rain, striped over with an ashen color that neared the black of soot and a dark, earthy brown, like the one dirt obtained after having had a full bucketful of liquid sloshed straight into its face. Tabby colors, giving her a seemingly normal and in-the-ordinary feline. However, if anyone, sane or not, would look into her orbs, twin pools of fetid, long-stagnant water, they would see that she was much more than this far from complicated picture that she painted of herself. Add a maniacal grin of evil malice [one showing every single bit of her sharp, gleaming fangs locked together in a lethal embrace, the corners twisted upwards, giving her a half-sour, half insanely joyful look; or, in other words, something you wouldn't like to see right in front of you if you were right in your mind] to that demential glint inside two pale green oculars on which lids have fallen halfway to give an impression that the particular feline is enjoying a pleasent dream [or nightmare, depending on your point of view], and the sarcastic curve of her eyebrows high on her forehead, and you've got a cat that looks ready to leap at you and rip your throat out with not a shred of remorse.
However, at this particular moment, Agony wasn't really feeling in the mood of going off on a little cat-hunting trip. She felt morose and bored, something that happened often these days [I wish we could go off an' massacre something. The NightClan cats are sitting on their bums, twiddling their farggin' thumbs. See? That's how uneventful this life is. I'm even starting to rhyme.], and it didn't make her particularly happy. A slightly pouting expression now replaced the savage look of insanity that was pasted on her features half of the time, and she sent a wild glare in the direction of the camp entrance. Still no one. For once, she desired to have someone close by to go on a hunting trip or to go and maul a poor old loner. It was better than doing it all alone. This was just... bland. And where was Zeik, anyway? And Masked? And Atya? What the farg, where was everyone? It was as if they had disappeared from the surface of this world.
