Stagthorn was truly the definition of a neutral tom. 

Not an early bird, nor a night owl, the tom woke up with the sun and slept when the very last of his duties were done. Nothing more, nothing less. So to say, he took pride in waking before and with a few of his warriors, happy to watch the clan start their day. He may not act it, but the deputy took delight in meeting his fellow clanmates in the morning, seeing who was suited for which patrol, and taking in the eager faces of sleep refreshed warriors. The job of a deputy, to most, could seem harrowing, but in his personal opinion, he'd never worked a day in his life.

Two green eyes blinked open in the dim of the warriors den, pupils narrowing to slits in reaction to the watery dawn sunlight blooming through the gaps in the den walls. Stagthorn slowly got to his paws, shaking flaky moss from his thick pelt and slipping through the den entrance, eyes narrowed at the sensation of his tabby pelt snagging on the brambles and thorns. Stagthorn's body had always been built a little differently from the rest of the clan, with thickset bones and muscles, longer, thicker fur, and generally a larger build. Assumptions aplenty had been made against him and his crotchety old mother of him bearing blood from a father of another clan, due to absence of said father and his strange build, but nothing had come of it. No one ever questioned his loyalty, at least, and that was the extent of his worries.

Stagthorn's spine arched in a luxurious stretch, claws gouging out small triangles of the earth as his maw opened in a silent yawn, before the tom straightened with a flick of his tail, highstepping in the direction of the fresh-kill pile.

The pile, in questions, was nothing more of a few feathers and two stale field mice. Newleaf brought the steady growth of prey to the range, and Stagthorn wasn't one to miss out on that opportunity. Rationing up the hunting to border patrols would be a safe bet, he assumed, with the stretch of peace between the clans, nursed by warming weather and full bellies.

The approach of dainty pawsteps alerted him, and Stagthorn swiveled his ears and finally head in the direction of the cat, gaze softening slightly as it fell on Robinstar, Cragclan's current leader, and his most trusted clanmate.

"Robinstar," He rumbled out a greeting. "How may I be of assistance?"