development feel the earth move sunward || first catch

[loampelt]

As Loam waits under the tangled branches of a briar, she is stone. Her body moves only in the spaces that it needs to, a flank that is the same steady ebb-flow-ebb-flow of lakebreath, eyes that blink only when they blur. There isn't an errant twitch of her tail, her ear doesn't flick to shake away a persistent midge that tries to find purchase on her skin protected from thick tufts of fur. When Loam focuses, it is absolute.

She shifts forward only when her target, a snipe chick nearly invisible against the dark ground, moves closer. A gradual slide, her shoulder blades made mountains against her back. Loam is just as invisible as the baby snipe — moreso, she thinks, crouched on her namesake. She had seen it only from the dark brown mottling against the black of its feathers. It steps closer still — separated from its mother and, when hiding in place had failed, it now moves in a not-quite search.

Loam pounces in a quick movement, good paw pinning the bird before it could run. She grabs it in her mouth and, knowing her jaw is too weak to hold the prey still for long enough to snap it's neck, tosses is straight into the air and pounces on it once again after it lands, leaving it disoriented. It's only then that she gathers it in her mouth and clenches with the whole of her strength, waiting what feels like an agonizingly long time as its strength wanes.

At last it stills and Loam stands over it. Someone else could have killed it more kindly — faster, so it wouldn't suffer, but what matters to Loam is that she killed it.

"HA!" She barks, "I-eee-uh did it!" ​

tags ∘ shadowclan apprentice ∘ solid black with hazel eyes ∘ curled front foot ∘ 10 moons

 

[smogstar]

Celebratory cries lay waste to his concentration. The ambience of the hunt - the tension, the anticipation, the excitement - now shattered by fault of an apprentice's gravelly voice. Ears swivel rearward, and an archetypal groan rolls in the deputy's throat. No longer do his thoughts fixate on the distant movements he'd been watching so intently, but rather the shrill words which played on repeat in his mind. A successful catch for another, but a failed hunt for him. His bitterness is made manifest in the form of a grating exhale.

Like Loam, Smogmaw had dwelt in the shadows, his form obscured by a rare patch of thicket. Initially, it is only his head that protrudes from the herbaceous veil, and his narrowed eyes longed for whoever'd thrown off his groove. He inevitably steps forth from the undergrowth when he spots Loam, who hovers over something. She better hope, for her own sake, that the fruits of her labour offset his own shortcomings.

On the spur of the moment, however, he has a change of heart. His impending stomp lessens to a step, and the warmth in his throat from an oncoming critcism disappears entirely. For her to celebrate so buoyantly after a catch as meagre as this, it's indicative of something greater. It must be.

"I see that," he meows simply, approaching on prying paws. His neck cranes to obtain a better glimpse at her quarry, and a delighted snort turns traitor to his stoney expression. "Stars, you really did a number on that one, Loam," then musters Smogmaw, alluding to the sheer amount of teething marks on the poor thing. "Did it do something to upset you? Heh, well done." ​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† Crash and clutter– Sharppaw does herself a favor only by keeping that distance; veering away from prying eyes. She is never without stress, when she creeps through the forest. Never does she feel like she has it, that fluidity she cannot name. The ease to prowl and to hunt like others may. He can acknowledge his quiet (–lie to himself) and feel alright for it, for awhile. He can creek along (see nothing, catch nothing). The marsh is damp and dreary, but somehow, even he does not fit as seamlessly as he should.

A cry from the woods has his fur spiking. There's a crick in his neck, now, and he brings himself up and off the ground with tired limbs. He stomps closer to the source, abandoning the prospect of being tired. Nearly, she hisses absurdities. His eyes snap toward the two with the wideness of moons. Half hidden in the brush, she could... She could...

(You're making excuses. Excuses.)

A twig snaps underfoot, and she's jostled by that reminder, all at once. It isn't Loampaw. It isn't. How could she be mad at her? The burden is all himself.

He tries to leave before the muck can pool around his paws and pull him down. It's always harder than it has to be. His tail snags on something. He yelps. Brief horror claws its way to his face, and he slinks away before he can be asked anything.

Back to trying, trying again... Even Loam could be something that he was not.​

 

[✧ Siltcloud.]

WHAT AN EXPENSIVE FAKE
siltpaw | 11 months | female | she/her | physically medium | mentally medium | attack in bold #ddadaf

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When siltpaw looks back upon her own first catch, she realizes it was not under all that different circumstances. Sheer luck had brought a frog right into her paw path, and the stupid thing hadn't even moved when she went to kill it. But that hadn't made the moment any less special. Back then, it'd been poppypaw to cheer her on the loudest - this time, she thinks, she'll cheer from loam. "That's a nice catch," she says softly as she pads over to join the rest of the patrol, her prey for the day a flighty lizard she's bitten clean through, her eyes flitting up from the dirt at her paws to meet his for the briefest of moments, her usual dull expression glimmering with a bit more emotion than usual at the fond memories she recalls. Green gaze is colder when it turns to side eye smogmaw for a heartbeat, frowning when he snorts, not sure if he's making fun of him or not but irritated at the possibility. It's not as though the deputy caught anything himself after all. In her experience, adults never seem to appreciate apprentices efforts. Sharppaw decides to act strange, yelping at nothing, but that doesn't matter to her, so she ignores it. "Wonder if there's any more about," she says, words even and calm.

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[GRANITEPELT]

Granitepaw's concentration is broken, this time by another apprentice yelping and not by a fox streaking from the brush to fight him. The gray tom scowls, rising from his stalking crouch with an irritated twitch of his white-tipped tail. The lizard he'd been eyeing scurries away, and he sighs at the missed opportunity.

He just passes Sharppaw, slinking away with a strange look of shame on his face. He snorts softly. There were so few normal apprentices in ShadowClan. Loampaw certainly isn't one of them, but at least he's finally made himself useful, he supposes. He comes to stand beside Siltpaw, giving Smogmaw a neutral look. "At least a bird is a meal," he agrees tonelessly. "Took you long enough."

He hadn't made his own catch for moons after his training either; admittedly, the slate-pelted apprentice had dealt with stunted skills due to Pitchstar for far too long.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

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