- Feb 17, 2023
- 49
- 3
- 8
She’s to become a warrior soon. If she’s lucky.
Sparrowpaw has been working hard. Clawtail seems less disappointed in her progress every day, for the most part. Her speed excels - the freedom of windswept fur while running the moors filling her free time with every chance she gets. Her battle training too is nearly perfected now. Most days, she can beat her mentor in a spar, or at least, come close to it. No longer does she feel as behind as she once did. No longer does she worry as much on her progress.
Except for in one area of her training, among the most important: hunting. Still, Sparrowpaw is yet to make a successful catch. Still, she sees a flicker of discontent in her mentor’s eyes when she returns to him with empty paws, not even the smallest of mice to throw onto the fresh-kill pile.
And it’s embarrassing, truly. Sparrowpaw sees those younger than her - those barely apprentices for a moon, even - bringing back their own catches, chests puffed out in pride as they set their trophies upon the kill-pile. At nine moons old, the brown and white tabby has yet to hit that milestone, has yet to feel that same satisfaction. No rabbits to celebrate, no mice or birds.
If she thinks back far enough - searches her mind past her current home, past clashing teeth and crimson-tinged escapes - Sparrowpaw can remember her Ma. She can remember the dark-furred molly teaching her and Kestrel how to crouch down on wobbly limbs, how to wait for mice to come out of the hay piles that littered their home. She was too young then, to make a catch, but what’s her excuse now?
Part of her wonders if she would’ve captured a mouse or two by now, if tragedy hadn’t struck her home - if StarClan hadn’t led her down a different path. She might’ve lost count by now of what she’s caught if the life of a barn cat had been her destiny, if she’d remained just Sparrow.
Maybe it was the moor’s vastness that tripped her up. It would be much easier to corner prey in the depths of the barn she was born into than what it is on WindClan’s territory. Even so, she can run. She can chase after prey until it finds its way underground.
So what is it then? Poor timing? An urge to seek out a perfect catch? Poor luck in general?
Sparrowpaw isn’t sure, but time is running out, and if she doesn’t catch anything soon, will she ever become a warrior?
“We’ll split off here,” she hears Clawtail say. Slowing to a stop, Sparrowpaw looks up to meet the pointed look the dusty tom gives her, a silent plea shared between the two of them. Please catch something this time. “Good luck. The brown tabby nods her head, before turning to head in the opposite direction of her mentor.
Sparrowpaw takes a deep breath, makes an attempt to calm rising nerves as she pads onward. She can do this.
It isn’t long before she catches the scent trail of a rabbit. Paws stop, her heart pounding as amber eyes scan the moors around her. There. It sits just up ahead, grazing on grass without any knowledge of her presence. The apprentice’s paws shift, and she crouches down, hides within long stalks.
Downwind, she remembers Clawtail teaching her. Stay downwind. Sparrowpaw double-checks her surroundings - double-checks that the rabbit is still in front of her. And when she’s sure that her scent is carried away from her potential catch, when she sees the grays of its fur - she creeps forward. Shifting paws steady as she nears the rabbit, though her heart feels like it’s about to leap out of her chest. She can do this.
She’s close to the rabbit now. Close enough to pounce, to make her first catch a success. Sparrowpaw crouches down further in preparation to leap forward and —
The rabbit pauses in eating its meal. Long ears twitch, a small head lifts up in Sparrowpaw’s direction. Dark eyes bore into her for a mere second - but it feels like hours as Sparrowpaw tries to stay frozen, tries to camouflage into her surroundings.
It runs.
No! Brown limbs rush forward, a sprint breaking out as she chases her failed catch. She’s supposed to catch this one - she’s supposed to become a warrior! Sparrowpaw can’t let it get away, she can’t!
She pushes herself forward, soon trailing mere paw-lengths away from the prey. Her target is bound to find a hiding place soon - it’s now or never.
Sparrowpaw leaps, claws unsheathed as she surges forward, sinking into the rabbit’s flanks and stopping it in its tracks. A golden gaze widens as she delivers a swift bite to the mammal’s neck - the final, killing blow. She’s done it. Finally, she’s done it.
Sides heaving, her head lifts, pointing towards the sky as relief rolls over her. “Thank you, StarClan,” she whispers, her words breathless. She hopes her Ma and Pa are proud of her, wherever they are up there. Her gaze soon returns to her kill, and she moves to pick it up, to carry it back to her mentor.
Maybe she will become a warrior, after all.
Sparrowpaw has been working hard. Clawtail seems less disappointed in her progress every day, for the most part. Her speed excels - the freedom of windswept fur while running the moors filling her free time with every chance she gets. Her battle training too is nearly perfected now. Most days, she can beat her mentor in a spar, or at least, come close to it. No longer does she feel as behind as she once did. No longer does she worry as much on her progress.
Except for in one area of her training, among the most important: hunting. Still, Sparrowpaw is yet to make a successful catch. Still, she sees a flicker of discontent in her mentor’s eyes when she returns to him with empty paws, not even the smallest of mice to throw onto the fresh-kill pile.
And it’s embarrassing, truly. Sparrowpaw sees those younger than her - those barely apprentices for a moon, even - bringing back their own catches, chests puffed out in pride as they set their trophies upon the kill-pile. At nine moons old, the brown and white tabby has yet to hit that milestone, has yet to feel that same satisfaction. No rabbits to celebrate, no mice or birds.
If she thinks back far enough - searches her mind past her current home, past clashing teeth and crimson-tinged escapes - Sparrowpaw can remember her Ma. She can remember the dark-furred molly teaching her and Kestrel how to crouch down on wobbly limbs, how to wait for mice to come out of the hay piles that littered their home. She was too young then, to make a catch, but what’s her excuse now?
Part of her wonders if she would’ve captured a mouse or two by now, if tragedy hadn’t struck her home - if StarClan hadn’t led her down a different path. She might’ve lost count by now of what she’s caught if the life of a barn cat had been her destiny, if she’d remained just Sparrow.
Maybe it was the moor’s vastness that tripped her up. It would be much easier to corner prey in the depths of the barn she was born into than what it is on WindClan’s territory. Even so, she can run. She can chase after prey until it finds its way underground.
So what is it then? Poor timing? An urge to seek out a perfect catch? Poor luck in general?
Sparrowpaw isn’t sure, but time is running out, and if she doesn’t catch anything soon, will she ever become a warrior?
“We’ll split off here,” she hears Clawtail say. Slowing to a stop, Sparrowpaw looks up to meet the pointed look the dusty tom gives her, a silent plea shared between the two of them. Please catch something this time. “Good luck. The brown tabby nods her head, before turning to head in the opposite direction of her mentor.
Sparrowpaw takes a deep breath, makes an attempt to calm rising nerves as she pads onward. She can do this.
It isn’t long before she catches the scent trail of a rabbit. Paws stop, her heart pounding as amber eyes scan the moors around her. There. It sits just up ahead, grazing on grass without any knowledge of her presence. The apprentice’s paws shift, and she crouches down, hides within long stalks.
Downwind, she remembers Clawtail teaching her. Stay downwind. Sparrowpaw double-checks her surroundings - double-checks that the rabbit is still in front of her. And when she’s sure that her scent is carried away from her potential catch, when she sees the grays of its fur - she creeps forward. Shifting paws steady as she nears the rabbit, though her heart feels like it’s about to leap out of her chest. She can do this.
She’s close to the rabbit now. Close enough to pounce, to make her first catch a success. Sparrowpaw crouches down further in preparation to leap forward and —
The rabbit pauses in eating its meal. Long ears twitch, a small head lifts up in Sparrowpaw’s direction. Dark eyes bore into her for a mere second - but it feels like hours as Sparrowpaw tries to stay frozen, tries to camouflage into her surroundings.
It runs.
No! Brown limbs rush forward, a sprint breaking out as she chases her failed catch. She’s supposed to catch this one - she’s supposed to become a warrior! Sparrowpaw can’t let it get away, she can’t!
She pushes herself forward, soon trailing mere paw-lengths away from the prey. Her target is bound to find a hiding place soon - it’s now or never.
Sparrowpaw leaps, claws unsheathed as she surges forward, sinking into the rabbit’s flanks and stopping it in its tracks. A golden gaze widens as she delivers a swift bite to the mammal’s neck - the final, killing blow. She’s done it. Finally, she’s done it.
Sides heaving, her head lifts, pointing towards the sky as relief rolls over her. “Thank you, StarClan,” she whispers, her words breathless. She hopes her Ma and Pa are proud of her, wherever they are up there. Her gaze soon returns to her kill, and she moves to pick it up, to carry it back to her mentor.
Maybe she will become a warrior, after all.