Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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11.06.2022 The site has been transformed into an archive. Thank you for all the memories here!
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Wickedpaw sat grooming her moist fur. Snow had left it slightly bedraggled, which was simply unacceptable for the she-cat. Her paw moved rhythmically, almost seeming to perform some sort of subtle dance. She took great pride in her appearance, so this alluring ritual took place often.
Squidking took great pride in his appearance as well; that much was clear by the way the light shone off his smooth black coat. His own coat had been a fright after he'd finished playing in the snow earlier (he could waste time doing such things, since he was a seraph), but he'd brought it to order a long time ago. So lost in his own self-centered musings, the Warrior didn't notice the grooming apprentice until she was nearly at his paws. He hopped aside before he ran into her and ruined all her hard work. "You think you could find a more inconvenient place to groom?" He looked down at her with slight annoyance.
Wickedpaw drew herself up, the coldness from the passerby penetrating her pelt more than the icy breeze. She met Squidking's eyes with her own, allowing her subtly captivating gaze to hold him a moment before responding. "If I had known such handsome toms walked here, I would have groomed here sooner." Playfulness tinged her words, a smile shone in her eyes.
Squidking was used to attention from the fairer sex, so he wasn’t flustered by her flirtation. But he was taken aback by her boldness – most cats wouldn’t be so presumptuous with a Seraph. Who was this cat?
He’d really meant to tell her off, but the longer he looked down at her, the more he was caught in her ensnaring gaze. Then his silver eyes narrowed, not out of anger, but rather acute curiosity. Who did she think she was? “You’re cleverer than you appear,” he admitted after a pause, acknowledging her compliment. “And with fine taste, to be sure. What’s your name?”
It would be true that a cat of her own stature would certainly not be so forward with Seraphs - typically. However, Wickedpaw was headstrong, with slight manipulative tendencies, and held herself on a tall pedestal. She found that most times she acted much higher ranked than she was, but refused to back down nonetheless. Quite frankly, Wickedpaw thought she was THE cat to be had.
A small smirk played across her face, hearing the curiosity in the tom's voice. "I am Wickedpaw," She responded, the words flowing smoothly. Her own curiosity itched her paws, wondering herself who this other cat was. "Now, what might your name be?"
“Wicked indeed,” he laughed, his expression roguish. “The name is fitting.” Luckily for Wickedpaw, Squidking wasn’t the brittle sort of Seraph – he found it amusing when the lower classes were bold as brass, and took no offense to Wickedpaw treating them like equals. It showed spirit. And it made life so much more interesting.
But rather than answering her question, Squidking sat down on his haunches and regarded her, his head cocked dramatically, and lips pursed. “Didn’t your parents ever teach how to address your superiors? I could have points taken from your social record, you know?” He didn’t really care about that caste-system mumbo-jumbo (except for when it was convenient for him), but he was interested to see just how wicked she could be.
Her plume of a tail twitched at his words. Wickedpaw considered her responses briefly; she was well practiced with kneading others into place, but was still embarrassingly (to her) sensitive to her parents, or lack thereof. The young she-cat refused to give a hint to the emotions that rolled in her belly, forcing her chin higher in defiance. "Hmm, a predicament for me. You aren't going to do that though, are you?" The words fell out heavy. Her gaze seemed to peer through him.
Wickedpaw felt the burning sensation of fury pulse through her. Her angst wasn't necessarily a product of the cat in front of her, but perhaps it was agitated by him. Despite everything, the interaction was drawing her interest in. Perhaps it was nice to have an outlet.
“No, I won’t.” Squidking admitted his bluff with neither agitation nor a hint of jest, with only a small smile playing at his lips. He enjoyed kneading cats too – well, not so much kneading, more like tossing their emotions about like a ball of yarn. His amusement was not meant to be shared with Wickedpaw – he wanted to get a rise out of her for his own entertainment.
Still, he didn’t want the ball of yarn to roll away – she was intriguing. He decided to give her a break. “My name’s Squidking.” He dipped his head regally, to emphasize the name, and then shot her a devilish grin. “But you can call me King, since we’re so familiar with one another.”
The she-cat responded to the revealing of his name with a smooth sweep of her tail. A smug look overcame her as she dropped her response into the air, "Who's to say I had any intention of addressing you, anyway?" Wickedpaw released a crisp giggle at the end of her inquiry, feeling her fury flipflop into a bout of mania. Her tail lashed side to side as she reveled in her playtime that Squidking was willing to join in on.
“Who else are you going to address? That’s a Seraph anyway?” Squidking swaggered. His own smile had grown quite wicked indeed.
“I mean, let’s be honest,” his pitch reduced to a whisper, and he leaned forward like he was telling her a saucy secret, “most of the higher-ups around here have the personalities of wooden planks, and they’re half as good-looking. So, you can call me King.”
Wickedpaw knew most cats of her stature would have tucked tail and ran by now - overcome by anxieties or perhaps even fear of what could happen to them. To her, however, the fear was indulgence. She reveled in the risks she was taking by being so forward, especially with this tom. A shiver of excitement ran down her spine as he spoke, and she responded, "Well, I suppose I do have to agree with you on that.." She trailed off and sauntered in a slow half circle before continuing, "Perhaps I will... King."
His face flooded with a new arrogant depth. He could just hear his peer’s mocking him in his mind’s ear. What do you fancy yourself, they jeered, king of the unwashed? Perhaps he was — perhaps he desired to rule over the base, the cheap, the unrefined. The working class was more interesting than his sniveling friends — the lower ranks didn’t take themselves too seriously, they knew how to have FUN. He didn’t see any shame in it. A purr escaped him unintentionally, before he subdued it with a chuckle. “That’s better.”
His tail swept behind him, before curling around his paws regally. He stood tall and regarded her evenly. A king must know his subjects. “So, Wickedpaw, where did we root you out from? Was there a home before Winterclan?” He half-expected a lie, but her imagination might prove to be more interesting than whatever reality landed her on this mountain as a snowy kitty.
