- Nov 7, 2023
- 32
- 9
- 8
𓆝 . ° ✦ Weedpaw is pretty sure he is the only cat his own age that has not yet had a successful catch. He hides it well- often lingering at the back of hunting patrols and self-punishing by being among the last of SkyClan to eat- but Weedpaw knows he is behind the curve. He isn't close with many of his peers. His own fault, too, he guesses. But Weedpaw is secure in his few and tight connections, even if it means they act as an echo chamber of reassurances for his failures. Thought they don't mean it Weedpaw is irritated by the coddling. His own mentor, perhaps, does not coddle him. But his siblings and mother- no matter how well-meaning- do not criticize or seem to hold him to any standard other than being a good cat whatsoever.
Weedpaw does not often tell others when he leaves camp. He doesn't stray far (he swears), and always ensures that he has completed all his tasks and chores before slipping away. Sure, he doesn't always check in with the older warriors and his mentor, but they're usually too busy to notice anyway. And though he is by no means neglected, he is more shadow than cat in the apprentices' den. His peers chatter, gossip, and shirk. He observes, bemused. Weedpaw does yearn to be part of them, but he lacks to drive to join them. Instead choosing to stick to what he knows and wander in solitude.
It's one such day. The autumn sky is dappled with easygoing clouds, and the sun which hangs high overhead beams down through the dancing leaves onto the littered forest floor below. Weedpaw moves with purpose. He is close to the location of that dreaded embarrassment of a day; when he'd basically almost killed himself falling flat on his back trying to awkwardly kill a squirrel. For whatever reason, a fire has been lit under his ass. Weedpaw recalls everything he has ever learned or observed. His steps are quick and full of purpose, yet quiet and calculated.
He scents it and hears it before he actually sees it. A squirrel chatters by the roots of a great oak, unsuspecting of the stalking feline nearby. Weedpaw makes sure he has a clear view and clear path as he crouches. He remembers everything he's been taught, recalling the memories to both his brains and his muscles. Briefly, he thinks 'How embarrassing. The size of a warrior and lacking all of the skill.' The thought is almost enough to shake him, but Weedpaw instead sets his jaw and takes steady aim. He stalks one length closer... two lengths...
The bicolor digs his back paws into moist earth and roots, pouncing forward. By some combination of hard practice and sheer luck, the squirrel barely registers the siege and hardly makes it an inch into its flee before Weedpaw lands hard on it. He dispatches it quickly, feeling the little bones in its neck snap easily and tasting a flash of blood. Weedpaw stands in astonishment over his kill. His kill. A rare smile finds its way onto his face, splitting his mouth wide. "Thank you, StarClan," he mutters half-heartedly, and picks up his kill to carry it home. He laughs incredulously into its fur as he tastes its blood once again.
Weedpaw does not often tell others when he leaves camp. He doesn't stray far (he swears), and always ensures that he has completed all his tasks and chores before slipping away. Sure, he doesn't always check in with the older warriors and his mentor, but they're usually too busy to notice anyway. And though he is by no means neglected, he is more shadow than cat in the apprentices' den. His peers chatter, gossip, and shirk. He observes, bemused. Weedpaw does yearn to be part of them, but he lacks to drive to join them. Instead choosing to stick to what he knows and wander in solitude.
It's one such day. The autumn sky is dappled with easygoing clouds, and the sun which hangs high overhead beams down through the dancing leaves onto the littered forest floor below. Weedpaw moves with purpose. He is close to the location of that dreaded embarrassment of a day; when he'd basically almost killed himself falling flat on his back trying to awkwardly kill a squirrel. For whatever reason, a fire has been lit under his ass. Weedpaw recalls everything he has ever learned or observed. His steps are quick and full of purpose, yet quiet and calculated.
He scents it and hears it before he actually sees it. A squirrel chatters by the roots of a great oak, unsuspecting of the stalking feline nearby. Weedpaw makes sure he has a clear view and clear path as he crouches. He remembers everything he's been taught, recalling the memories to both his brains and his muscles. Briefly, he thinks 'How embarrassing. The size of a warrior and lacking all of the skill.' The thought is almost enough to shake him, but Weedpaw instead sets his jaw and takes steady aim. He stalks one length closer... two lengths...
The bicolor digs his back paws into moist earth and roots, pouncing forward. By some combination of hard practice and sheer luck, the squirrel barely registers the siege and hardly makes it an inch into its flee before Weedpaw lands hard on it. He dispatches it quickly, feeling the little bones in its neck snap easily and tasting a flash of blood. Weedpaw stands in astonishment over his kill. His kill. A rare smile finds its way onto his face, splitting his mouth wide. "Thank you, StarClan," he mutters half-heartedly, and picks up his kill to carry it home. He laughs incredulously into its fur as he tastes its blood once again.
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- ooc: —
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longhaired black tomcat with low white spotting. born 11/9/23 and ages realistically 1 week every Thursday. Follow along with his growth here!
