A FRESH POISON / flintpaw

[SHADEPAW]

Shadepaw's thoughts had been taken up by training for the past month. Getting to leave the camp after two months of waiting, waiting, waiting, was thrilling. It had rekindled ad desire for her to be better, to practice more, even when she wasn't out there on the marsh, listening to the croak of frogs and breathing in the damp air. Lilacfur was busy and Shadepaw was once again confined to the hollow, bhat didn't stop her from practicing her hunting crouch. She held her body low and stiff, as if trying to meld her earth-toned form with the ground. Her gaze followed the path of an imaginary mouse, skittering across camp, late-afternoon sun hitting off its brown fur- no, gray fur, no, the imaginary mouse was gone. It had collided with a clanmate, the one made up of sharp angles cut from rock, chips of ice thrown in to make pale markings. Flintpaw. A fellow apprentice. Shadepaw's mossball-rescuer. Her training was temporarily forgotten.

"Oh, hi!" She chirped, straightening up. "Hi! You're feeling better, huh?" Curiosity pricked her ears, tilted her whiskers forward. No scent of sickness clung to Flintpaw's fur, but the sharp tang of herbs still did. Rocks, ice, herbs. "Hey, is it fun having your mom be the medicine cat? Like, whenever you're sick, you get to hang out with her." Flintpaw's nest in the apprentices' den had been empty for a while, but the past few days she had glimpsed him in it, just on a schedule that didn't invite Shadepaw to pester him easily. This time, she invited herself, trotting closer on light paws.

[ @FLINTPAW ]

​

 

[FLINTWISH]

It's been a while since he'd seen Shadepaw; it's been a while since he'd seen anyone, really, except for Starlingheart and the precious few who wanted to visit him while he was ill. The first time he'd gotten sick, back when he'd had yellowcough, his only visitors had been StarClanners themselves. Pitchstar, he remembers, though he still could never be quite sure whether they'd been dreams or waking realities. The second time he'd gotten sick, no cat had visited him much at all, aside from spared glances from Lilacfur. He gets it, he supposes. He's not exactly the friendliest face Shadowclan has to offer. Maybe he would have taken his isolated leave as evidence of that, and changed his behavior.

Unfortunately he does no such thing. When Shadepaw approaches him, he is reminded of their mossball, caught in the brambles and reluctantly rescued by a deft white paw. Flintpaw's glacial gaze shifts to her before the rest of him does. The grinding of stone is nearly audible in his slow movements.

Her voice is bright, cheery like morning dew; she grins like a grackle. She is absolutely Ferndance's kit. He almost doesn't keep up with her rapid-fire questions, kitlike in cadence, but he manages to catch it all by some miracle. "Starlingheart said I could return to my training," he answers. Feeling better might be an overstatement, though he certainly isn't ill any longer. As for the rest of her query, Flintpaw chews on it, dual-toned gaze crinkling as he thinks. Is it fun having your mom be the medicine cat?

"No," he decides, then quickly corrects, "er— kind of." His mother being a medicine cat has earned him moons of near torture, really. If it weren't for her ability to give him an extra dose of the yellowcough cure, Halfshade might still be alive; Smogmaw might not completely hate his guts. But the medicine den was nice. As a kit, he'd loved hiding out there instead of in the crowded nursery with Screechstorm and Sweetpaw. It's still a nice place for respite when he's in need of time alone. But all in all, being Starlingheart's kit has caused him more misfortune than it has fun.

"It's hard, 'cause she's so busy," he supplies his answer. It's true, but it's not the whole truth. Flintpaw is not keen on divulging the whole truth to Shadepaw, though, especially when they don't know each other well. "Is it fun having a mom who's a warrior?" Ferndance was certainly... unorthodox in many ways, but she was at least a fantastic hunter. Meanwhile, Flintpaw can remember Starlingheart nearly crying over the first time he'd eaten a squirrel.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

​

 

[SHADEPAW]

There was a hesitance to Flintpaw that a cat with more self-awareness might have taken as a sign of disinterest, but Shadepaw figured was just a part of him. For now, the older apprentice was willing to humor her attempts at conversation, and her mind was whirring alive as she took in what Flintpaw said. Each word carefully considered, and then she got an answer; kind of, because Starlingheart was busy. That made sense. Starlingheart had to be busy saving lives or, as of late, mourning them. She nodded, at first knowingly and then enthusiastically at Flintpaw's question. "Oh, yeah! Mama taught me about hunting before I even left the nursery, and I get to go on patrols with her sometimes. So, not if I get sick, but the rest of the time, I guess." The corners of her maw drew themselves up higher.

Then her expression dropped slightly, brow furrowed. "Wait, didn't you- your other mom- didn't- um. No." A sputtering of confused words, before Shadepaw abruptly answered a question for Flintpaw that he had not even been asked. Flintpaw had not had a warrior as his other mother, wouldn't know the experience of that, because he hadn't had one. The other parent had been "big bad Granitepelt," as the late Nettlepaw had put it.

It was almost funny, looking back and realizing just how much Shadepaw had missed when he was a kit, when the clan only told ShadowClan's horror stories when he was sleeping. It was hard to find a reason to do so after the string of Siltcloud attacks that couldn't go unaddressed. Flintpaw must have gotten the mossball-fetching, the gently-spoken words, from Starlingheart. Not that Shadepaw had any room to talk about parentage, not lately. He missed a beat, brow furrowing further. Then he continued, voice slowed carefully, like Flintpaw's, but marred by a half-giggle, "Are you gonna be a warrior soon, then?"​

 

[FLINTWISH]

There is a small animal of jealousy that claws at his ribs when Shadepaw elaborates on Ferndance's mothering. It's just another point of comparison. It's not that Flintpaw grew up without a warrior in his life, but Granitepelt had never been the tender sort; never spent time with his kits for the sake of it. He'd had love for them, but he hadn't loved them — or so Flintpaw has been told. He can recall the sparse few times Granitepelt would approach him for training (one such instance landed him with the scar on his shoulder), the times that his father entered the medicine den to scowl at his ailing son for not keeping pace with his siblings, the times that Granitepelt pitted them all against each other not for play but for judgment, betting on racehorses. And perhaps what is most cruel is that Flintpaw isn't even angry. Or, he doesn't think he is. That had been his kithood, and that apparently wasn't normal, but what else was there?

The what else is hunting before leaving the nursery; is going on patrols; is laughing and loving and being close to one another. Flintpaw grimaces. The animal pulses.

When Shadepaw stumbles over herself, Flintpaw's tall ears perk and his expression sharpens severely. "What?" he prompts, bladed. His voice sounds like the crossing of swords. Other mom? She must mean Granitepelt, but what would she want to know about him? In the stumbling beat between them, Flintpaw feels... fear. Granitepelt's exile still feels so fresh in his mind despite the moons that have passed. Shadepaw probably doesn't even know the full extent of his crimes — and though Flintpaw knows them, he struggles to grasp them. Does Shadepaw want to know the gory history? He won't be getting it out of Flintpaw, that's for sure. Would he take that knowledge to measure Flintpaw against it, just like the rest of ShadowClan had? His father had killed many ShadowClanners, but Flintpaw isn't innocent, either; he still sees Halfshade in Ashenfall's face, on Halfpaw's pelt. Taking the extra dose of cure had not been his decision, but the sin still weighs heavy on his soul.

Whatever Shadepaw's intentions were with his question, the prompting has succeeded in making Flintpaw visibly hostile. He regards the other apprentice with a steel glint in his mismatched eyes. Maybe he'd gotten that from his father. They giggle, and they ask another question, and Flintpaw's grimace snaps into a full-blown snarl. "No, wait," he insists, ferocious, "what was that? About my other mom?"

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

​

 

[SHADEPAW]

It was easy for Shadepaw to brush past the snap in Flintpaw's first question, but not so much the second. It wasn't just ice making up Flintpaw's markings, anymore, it was in his voice, his eyes, in the wrinkle of his muzzle. They almost backed up to avoid being cut, but instead their paws stayed rooted to the muddy ground, even as their tufted ears flattened.

At first, they were unsure of what to do or, really, what they were being asked. Flintpaw's words hung in the air, a bramble barrier between them, spoken with a fury so unexpected that they didn't know how to respond. Their mistake had been thrown back in their face, sharpened like the thorns that lined the camp. Heat prickled under Shadepaw's fur. If the marsh had risen up and swallowed them, they would have thanked it. It wasn't a simple mistake- that was the problem- it was a bad one. It wasn't hard to imagine why Flintpaw had pounced on it, ready to go in for the kill, but now Shadepaw had the job of picking his claws off of it before he could deliver a final blow.

Not that he had any idea how to do that, still. He didn't know what to do with anger, having witnessed it so little. Betonyfrost came to mind, spitting at Lilacfur's kits. If Flintpaw needed another mother, she would be a perfect fit, with their matching sneering expressions. A jagged breath in, and- "I was going to ask-" He paused. He doubled back in the conversation. "I was going to ask if your other mom was a warrior, too. I forgot you didn't have another one, 'cause I've got two." Shadepaw's gaze finally broke away from Flintpaw, idling somewhere behind them, at the edge of camp. "That's all. So." Flintpaw could fill in the rest, infer that the mention of another mother had been because they forgot about Granitepelt's existence, not out of a desire to address it. ​

 

[FLINTWISH]

It twists Flintpaw's stomach to realize that she finds satisfaction in Shadepaw's flinch. She watches their fur prickle, their eyes blow wide, their gaping maw twist into a more settled frown, and she is glad to see it, somehow. Whatever pleasure is derived from this exercise in cruelty is quickly followed by shame, though. Shame follows many of the things Flintpaw does — for each pawstep she takes, shame pools in the tracks left behind; for each meal enjoyed, shame follows it down her esophagus. What she is ashamed of she doesn't know, at least not most of the time. Now she thinks she must feel guilty for being cruel, or maybe she is scared to be too much like Granitepelt, as if the mere implication of him was enough of a full moon to begin her own lycanthropic transformation.

If what Shadepaw says is true, if it really was just a mix-up, then Flintpaw supposes she owes him an apology. Still, her own pelt prickles at the idea of Shadepaw's suspicion; the idea of someone seeking a comparison of her to her father. They look away from her. Her dual-toned gaze drills into their pelt for a moment longer before she gives it up.

"Sorry," Flintpaw mews, gruff, not exactly kind. His ears angle backwards, though not for the sake of his guilt; rather, his anger dissipates through his extremities. Flattening ears, a lashing tail, paws that can't leave the dirt beneath them alone. At least his chest no longer feels like a furnace. Still, he can't let the question lie, so he picks it up again, as if it were a mouse half-dead between his claws.

"My dad was a warrior. We didn't hunt together 'cause I was sick a lot of the time, but we did spar when I wasn't sick." The scar on his shoulder pulses at the memory; he can still taste the copper tang of blood from where he'd bitten his tongue. A deft blow to the forehead had locked his jaws together a long time ago. "He wasn't —" and here is where Flintpaw catches himself. He wasn't all bad. But how could he say that, when cats had died at his paws? If he told Shadepaw his real thoughts, then maybe they'd grow wary of him — maybe they'd try to cast him out of ShadowClan, too, too afraid that he'd turn out like Granitepelt to take the risk of letting him stay.

"... He wasn't a bad hunter." Flintpaw tries to amend his folly quickly. "But he never taught me about that. Just Applejaw."

White-tufted tail shakes like a snake's rattle. He waits for Shadepaw's reply, whatever it may be.

𝐌𝐘 𝐒𝐎𝐔𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐀 𝐇𝐀𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 ✧ 𝐈 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

• 

• 
  
  — flintkit . flintpaw
  — he / they / she ; apprentice of shadowclan
  — short-haired solid blue tom with low white and blue/green heterochromatic eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — chibi by sixbane, signature by dreamydoggo
  — penned by meghan

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