[ tw: violence, mild blood ] The noise rang in his ears. It rang and rang until the noise was no longer distinguishable between a sound and a memory It rang and rang until the tom began to lose his footing, somehow both dumbfounded and frustrated by the repeated clanking of his eardrums. It continued to ring until he no longer knew why it was ringing, and he questioned what the sound even was in the first place. The question then swirled in his mind along with the sound until it, too, became a constant clink that reverberated besides the clank. He did not know the answer, and that maddened him. Fortunately, fate, mercifully, answered for him. More clearly, more recognizably, a sharp, high-pitched bark again echoed throughout the sandy hills of Riverclan, beckoning Russetcrown to investigate. The ginger warrior promptly grinned and got back on his feet. At this second trial, he decided that the sound was, after all, from a dog. He congratulated himself on being so clever before beginning to go on his merry way: towards where the baying had originated. Quite frankly, Russetcrown had never seen a dog before and was the slightest bit curious as to what one looked like, and, of course, who was he to deny destiny what had been so clearly laid out in front of him? Russetcrown charged into the expanse. Typically, the tom was insouciant about all aspects of life, but this time called for an exception. A sense of adventure coursed through his veins—one that had not been present since a time lost long ago—and it was exciting, if not exhilarating, to go and try to find something unknown. He felt it as if nothing could stop him, and he could go on forever as long as the wind was underneath his paws and his eyes were widened with anticipation. Soon, however, it did all inevitably come to a sudden halt. Quite literally, actually, as the warrior found himself stopping in front of a large, wispy oak tree as another ear-splitting growl echoed through his head. Russetcrown furrowed his eyebrows. It was right there. The dog was in front of him—it had to be. Now, at this moment, Russetcrown wasn't exactly sure how to proceed. How did one approach defeating a mutt? He was positive there was a certain way, perhaps one his late mentor, Astersky, explained to him, but what exactly that method was escaped him. No luck. If the ginger warrior wanted to find the solution, obviously he would have to list out the pros and cons of each possible scenario in order to find the one his mentor might have taught him. Russetcrown huffed. Inconcievable. He had better things to do, like actually beating up the damn dog. No, planning the circumstances out wouldn't do. He would have to charge. And charge he did. With all the zeal and foolhardiness of Sparta's mightiest soldiers, Russetcrown bolted headfirst into the clearing behind the towering oak as blaring howls declared his opponent ready to fight. At this, the ginger warrior abruptly slowed down, his paws dragging behind him, in a hasty decision to get a good look at his enemy before proceeding. It was nothing more than a stall, but as stalls go, it certainly wasn't folly. Russetcrown had no idea what to expect from a canine, and at least a careful examination would prepare him somewhat. Dogs, to be sure, looked nothing like what the Riverclan tom had imagined. The hound was about the same size as him, for one, and its curly fur and floppy ears made it look a rather pathetic creature. Its mouth was foaming, and saliva constantly spooled around its baring teeth. It was hilarious. What kind of beast was Russetcrown fighting if it couldn't even stop its pitiful drooling? The old cat chuckled. The terror of dogs was nothing more than an old queens' tale. Oh, this fight would be kit's play alright, especially for a warrior as skilled as him. He began to imagine his trouncing at that moment and how everyone would cheer. He would probably just brush it off but, of course, in a way that still acknowledged his grand achievement. If anything, performing his victory speech would be far more arduous than anything that happened in battle against such a feeble foe. But it was at that moment Russetcrown was brought to the ground by a powerful lunge. Claws ripped at his shoulders, and the tom had no choice but to endure the painful mixing of bloodthirsty saliva and his open wound. He cried out in agonizing pain, helpless to do anything about the attack. Russetcrown, however, had no choice but to swallow the suffering. With all the strength and adrenaline he could muster, the seasoned warrior turned himself over from under the mutt's grip in a desperate attempt to break free. It worked, but all that came from it was another dive and tumble from his adversary. Russetcrown grimaced as serrated teeth dragged down his bloody back. [ continued below ]
There was no escape. He tried kicking, but even when he hit the dreadful monster in the shin, the beast merely kept going. The classic tabby managed to barely dodge the next attack, but he knew he couldn't keep it up. The dog was mocking him, he could feel it, and it was obvious that had been outmatched—outclassed even—by this pathetic pooch. Russetcrown wanted to cry. How had he failed in this tremendous way? He, one of the greatest warriors of all time, defeated by a dumb dog that couldn't stop drooling. Fighting seemed pointless at this point, and all Russetcrown wished for was to get it over with quickly. Nonetheless, no matter how much he wanted to just give up, the morsel of dignity left in his soul knew he couldn't just take the beating like a lesser being. He had to stand up for himself. Stand up for Riverclan. So he ran. The seasoned warrior quickly struggled out from underneath the miniature dog as he scampered off into the distance. Blessed by the stars, he reached a clearing out of the poodle's sight, but not before his bleeding wounds became too much to bear. Blood spooling down his throat, the ginger tom fell to the ground, utterly defeated by the unfairness of life in battle. He took in a deep breath, but no thoughts occupied his mind other than unintelligible shrieks of agonizing pain. And so Russetcrown's world began to fade to black as the sounds of a beast at bay crescendoed through his ear once again. . . [ End of rp; 1098 words, 6219 characters ] "So what does this rp even mean?" -at least one of you No, Russetcrown is not dead. I wouldn't end my boy's cruelly ironic life that easily /j He simply fainted because of blood loss and is probably lying unconscious on the floor somewhere like the legend he is As for what the significance of this srp is, the poodle that so readily won against my old man was rabid! Foaming at the mouth, ey ey? Russetcrown will, ofc, contract rabies bc of this, leading to his death in a few months. I've already recieved perm for this [ see: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/720124306/ ], and I'm super excited! (If someone is planning a character death in 1 or 2 months, lmk,, maybe Rooster could take them out :eyes:) His wounds recieved were a gash in his shoulder, a large scar down his back, various minor scratches, and, obvi, the destruction of his self-esteem /lh His wound given was a slight kick to the shin of a toy poodle My man through and through :sunglasses:
