- Nov 13, 2023
- 36
- 9
- 8
*+:｡.｡ TW for mentions of Snowflakekit and cats going hungry <3
Hunting has always been a thrilling sport. Anything that involves the potential of coming out a winner or failing as a loser is fated to get any normal cat's heart pumping.
During the different seasons, the stakes are much lower, making that competitive itch to end every hunt in success more bearable- more like a tickle. During leaf-bare, however, it feels as though Silverbreath's short coat has become infested with biting, blood-sucking fleas. He feels them digging through his skin. Feels them tearing at his flesh and letting the cold seep deeper and deeper, past his uselessly thin fur and straight into his bones where, even then, he feels those fleas take chunks out of his marrow.
Every failure to bring prey home feels like another flea has trespassed on his person. Or like a flea has evolved into a tick, or transformed into a leech, sucking more and more out of his very soul. Every failed hunt means he not only loses a much-needed meal ticket, but a chunk of his strength, another sliver of his dwindling reserves of heat. He's losing patience, especially with the critical growls of an empty stomach following him everywhere he goes. He can feel himself being eaten from the inside out.
In truth, Silverbreath doesn't hate warriors eating last. Still, it's only natural that he can help the saliva pooling into his mouth when he looks at the queens, elders, and kits, wishing to starclan he didn't have to watch his meager hunting be taken from his chattering jaws. Even if the rule was logical. Even so, Silverbreath would rather die than yank a morsel out of the hungry mouths of the clan's most vulnerable... No, Silverbreath would never ask for the rule to be changed...but it hurts more than words can express when it's his mate and child who are left hungry because of it.
Silverbreath is humble enough to admit he's not the most selfless. It took a miracle to get the tom to stay and support his mate and kit instead of hitting the road to avoid his responsibilities, so calling him a saint would be a huge disservice. And while it's not necessarily for his benefit that he debates what he's debating now, he certainly wouldn't call it a selfless one.
I caught something.
The warrior stares, his breath coming out in foggy puffs as he struggles to catch his breath. Beneath his paws, a freshly killed shrew steams lightly into the frozen air. It's deliciously warm, the taste of its blood on his lips makes his stomach snarl with ravenous fury. He wants to eat. It's so warm beneath his paws, it'll surely thaw the ice that's stiffening his bones. It's so meaty, that it'll surely bring him back to a healthy weight instantaneously. It's so full of all the protein and nutrients he's been lacking that he'll surely have enough energy to hunt for eons after he takes that last bite.
Or...it could do all of that and more for Carp-paw.
Silverbreath swallows thickly, lifting his head to look around the quiet, frosted forest. He'd gone out hunting with a patrol but had wandered far enough away that surely no-one would stumble upon him anytime soon. Perhaps...perhaps....he dizzily considers, he could just...hide this measly little shrew in a bush, or deep in a hole, and tell his patrol he found nothing, just like the usual. And perhaps later, under the cover of dusk, he can sneak his daughter - maybe even his mate, Shadepool - and let them share the shrew away from the judgemental eyes of their clanmates. After all, when was the last time either of them had eaten? Surely they deserved something. Surely it couldn't hurt...just this once...?
His paws sting as he begins to dig. The earth is half-frozen but gives anyway to his frantic clawing. If he can just hide it quickly and all the evidence that he'd ever caught anything at all, then it'll be fine. He'll feed his family and the clan will be none the wiser. No one gets hurt.
But as he claws at the earth, he thinks achingly of Snowflakekit...of his little siblings and exhausted mother. Silver's clattering teeth grind with shame, but he can't bring himself to stop digging.
I'm sorry, he thinks, sending a prayer to Starclan and it's most recent, far too-young resident, begging the child and all those who'd perished to the cold before him for forgiveness, but I have to do this.
The hole has been dug. It's too deep to imply he's only going to bury it until the patrol is over. Any cat who sees this would surely guess Silverbreath's intentions. But the tom cat is too focused on the fleas-ticks-leeches- that suck away pieces and chunks of his soul to notice the crunch of snow behind him. He's already picking up the shrew, already ready to hide it from his clanmates, when he's caught red handed -
Hunting has always been a thrilling sport. Anything that involves the potential of coming out a winner or failing as a loser is fated to get any normal cat's heart pumping.
During the different seasons, the stakes are much lower, making that competitive itch to end every hunt in success more bearable- more like a tickle. During leaf-bare, however, it feels as though Silverbreath's short coat has become infested with biting, blood-sucking fleas. He feels them digging through his skin. Feels them tearing at his flesh and letting the cold seep deeper and deeper, past his uselessly thin fur and straight into his bones where, even then, he feels those fleas take chunks out of his marrow.
Every failure to bring prey home feels like another flea has trespassed on his person. Or like a flea has evolved into a tick, or transformed into a leech, sucking more and more out of his very soul. Every failed hunt means he not only loses a much-needed meal ticket, but a chunk of his strength, another sliver of his dwindling reserves of heat. He's losing patience, especially with the critical growls of an empty stomach following him everywhere he goes. He can feel himself being eaten from the inside out.
In truth, Silverbreath doesn't hate warriors eating last. Still, it's only natural that he can help the saliva pooling into his mouth when he looks at the queens, elders, and kits, wishing to starclan he didn't have to watch his meager hunting be taken from his chattering jaws. Even if the rule was logical. Even so, Silverbreath would rather die than yank a morsel out of the hungry mouths of the clan's most vulnerable... No, Silverbreath would never ask for the rule to be changed...but it hurts more than words can express when it's his mate and child who are left hungry because of it.
Silverbreath is humble enough to admit he's not the most selfless. It took a miracle to get the tom to stay and support his mate and kit instead of hitting the road to avoid his responsibilities, so calling him a saint would be a huge disservice. And while it's not necessarily for his benefit that he debates what he's debating now, he certainly wouldn't call it a selfless one.
I caught something.
The warrior stares, his breath coming out in foggy puffs as he struggles to catch his breath. Beneath his paws, a freshly killed shrew steams lightly into the frozen air. It's deliciously warm, the taste of its blood on his lips makes his stomach snarl with ravenous fury. He wants to eat. It's so warm beneath his paws, it'll surely thaw the ice that's stiffening his bones. It's so meaty, that it'll surely bring him back to a healthy weight instantaneously. It's so full of all the protein and nutrients he's been lacking that he'll surely have enough energy to hunt for eons after he takes that last bite.
Or...it could do all of that and more for Carp-paw.
Silverbreath swallows thickly, lifting his head to look around the quiet, frosted forest. He'd gone out hunting with a patrol but had wandered far enough away that surely no-one would stumble upon him anytime soon. Perhaps...perhaps....he dizzily considers, he could just...hide this measly little shrew in a bush, or deep in a hole, and tell his patrol he found nothing, just like the usual. And perhaps later, under the cover of dusk, he can sneak his daughter - maybe even his mate, Shadepool - and let them share the shrew away from the judgemental eyes of their clanmates. After all, when was the last time either of them had eaten? Surely they deserved something. Surely it couldn't hurt...just this once...?
His paws sting as he begins to dig. The earth is half-frozen but gives anyway to his frantic clawing. If he can just hide it quickly and all the evidence that he'd ever caught anything at all, then it'll be fine. He'll feed his family and the clan will be none the wiser. No one gets hurt.
But as he claws at the earth, he thinks achingly of Snowflakekit...of his little siblings and exhausted mother. Silver's clattering teeth grind with shame, but he can't bring himself to stop digging.
I'm sorry, he thinks, sending a prayer to Starclan and it's most recent, far too-young resident, begging the child and all those who'd perished to the cold before him for forgiveness, but I have to do this.
The hole has been dug. It's too deep to imply he's only going to bury it until the patrol is over. Any cat who sees this would surely guess Silverbreath's intentions. But the tom cat is too focused on the fleas-ticks-leeches- that suck away pieces and chunks of his soul to notice the crunch of snow behind him. He's already picking up the shrew, already ready to hide it from his clanmates, when he's caught red handed -
-
-
GENERAL:
☮ Silverbreath
☮ DMAB— He/Him — Bisexual
☮ 35 moons — Ages 1 moon every month real-time
☮ Father to Carp-paw, Mentoring Goldenpaw
☮ Riverclan — Warrior
COMBAT:
☮Physically hard | mentally hard
☮ Attack in bold #7d7d7d
injuries: None currently
Last edited:
