blood like the river (rc/skc border clash)

[attr="class","ww3"] As words are exchanged and tossed and thrown back and forth between the rival Clan cats, Whitewolf fixes his golden irises curiously on the bracken tabby known as Stagstrider. He knows they are close in age, the alabaster tom having seen him at several gatherings before to attest to this.

“Hey, I’m afraid!” It comes out in an awkward, crackling way, like he can feel the situation slipping away into dangerous territory. Whitewolf can feel it too, the atmosphere around the two parties thickening with the multiplying tension. Comparatively to the majority of the SkyClan patrol, Stagstrider’s attempt at diffusion does not go unnoticed. What in the name of all the celestial ancestors above them could be causing all the blantant disrespect from the vastly insolent warriors of SkyClan? Not only are they being incredibly forthright in their hostile intent, but they are also being extremely idiotic. Fishbrains, all of them, Whitewolf thinks with a growing sneer, unsheathed claws at the ready.

Other than being outnumbered with their apprentices having fled (and likely out-skilled, upon further observation of the stock before him), they are completely out of their element, Whitewolf pointedly switching focus onto a dripping wet doppelgänger that had swam across the river just to throw himself into needless battle.

Forgetting momentarily about Stagstrider, he sizes up the younger white warrior who had the audacity to challenge him in no longer than it takes him to blink. Whitewhisker obviously lacks not only his level of experience but also common sense. He’d be slowed from water-logged, his form notably more sloppy. Then again, perhaps Whitewhisker also just paled in comparison to the RiverClanner in terms of skill.

As pink paw pads reared above his head with translucent claws attempting to bear down on him, Whitewolf took the opportunity to throw himself backwards and safely out of Whitewhisker’s reach, giving the younger tom the disappointment that would be talons-meet-dirt. He is readying for a successful counter-attack, preferably one that would involve tearing Whitewhisker down to the ground so he could satisfyingly rake his back claws all over his soggy belly, when out of his peripheral comes the very pacifistic Stagstrider who lives up to his name to reach them in a miraculously short series of bounds.

With a growl, he allows the fellow senior warrior to come between he and his nearly identical foe. “Out of the way, Stagstrider.” Whitewolf warns deeply, lashing a flowing, milk-white tail. “Unless you want to help me put down this insolent twit of a warrior.”