private BEWARE OF DEER ; sandpaw

[CICADAFLIGHT]

The creamy-toned pelt laid out before him is almost painfully familiar, bringing back memories of aching lungs and slashing claws. Cicadapaw has faced off against Sandpaw many a time, though he's far from the quivering, clumsy kitten he'd been in their first fight. Iciclefang's training and bracing river dives have just begun to lend a glossiness to his black curls, a lean, wolfish muscle to his gangly limbs—precursors of beauty to come. In the present, however, Cicadapaw remains as bug-eyed and unsightly as ever, oversized ears dangling tangles of magpie-black fur as he paces a fighter's circle around the other apprentice.

Dark lips curl back from long white fangs, heterochromatic eyes appearing in glimpses between tufts of unkempt black fur. Though they're tucked in a secluded part of camp, bordering the weapon of the river, the two of them haven't garnered an audience this time. It's just him, Sandpaw, and the freezing river beckoning to him. He wants to watch the water caress silken cream-colored fur, streams of bubbles escape the other tom's softly rounded nose, a departure from Cicadapaw's inheritedly Roman profile.

He likely will get his wish. Sandpaw hasn't won a single spar or competition since that first childhood fight, and, oh, there have been many. Cicadapaw can't quite explain what pulls him to the other apprentice as a default sparring partner—is is the guarantee that he'll win? That age-old ache of the soothing normalcy of Sandpaw's kithood, of his parents, that Cicadapaw had never enjoyed the luxury of? The indulgence of bedtime stories instead of talks of the future, shared nightmares?

Whatever the reason, he breaks his pacing and throws himself abruptly at Sandpaw, aiming to tackle the other apprentice and drive both of them closer to the water's edge.

// @SANDPAW !!

"speech"

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[SANDPELT]

ꕀꕀ A predator. That’s what Cicadapaw reminds him of now, looming over Sandpaw like some razor-toothed beast. He’s always been like this—a shadowed wisp, a curl of smoke, untouchable. An unstoppable force, a winner in every sense. The son of two great leaders of RiverClan, star-touched, blessed.

The thought brings a fresh bitter taste to the back of Sandpaw’s throat, threatening to choke him if he dwells on it too long. But today—though no one is here to observe it, today will be the day that he beats Cicadapaw. He may be resigned to a simple, unextraordinary life, but if he can claw just one moment of glory out from under the other apprentice, then maybe it will be worth it at last. Because this, throwing himself against an uncrumbling wall of black and white, can only last so long. He can’t just keep losing forever, can he? For every bit that Cicadapaw has improved, Sandpaw has matched him. He has to win eventually, and he will bruise every inch of his body before he gives this up. Honey-gold eyes narrow as he observes the other tom’s pacing; if he can just hone in on when Cicadapaw will strike…

There is no warning. No careful placement of paws, no swiping of a tail, no flicker of mismatched eyes in the intended direction of attack. There is only a rush of alarm that lights his mind as Cicadapaw moves suddenly, lunging for him, and Sandpaw can’t move quickly enough.

His back hits the ground with a bruising impact, knocking precious air from his lungs. "Hey-" he gasps, expression twisting into something of rage—. Frigid water laps at the edges of his fur, whispers slipping along his ears. If he had landed a whisker closer, the water would surely grip him by the scruff like an unruly kitten, dragging him into its ice-sharp grasp. He bares his teeth, aiming a clumsy kick at Cicadapaw, hoping to knock the other away. "Get off me!"​

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