- Aug 4, 2024
- 73
- 15
- 8
Howlpaw sits alone at the edge of the camp, his amber eyes fixed on a distant point far beyond the treeline. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a golden glow that softens the sharp lines of the bramble walls. To anyone passing by, he looks calm, even serene, but his claws knead the dirt beneath him, betraying the storm swirling in his chest. He's trying not to think, not to feel, but the thoughts come anyway, creeping in like shadows at dusk. He doesn't belong here. The whispers of the other apprentices, the wary glances from his clanmates, the biting remarks he pretends not to hear—each one cuts deeper than he lets on. They don't understand him, and they don't want to. He's the outsider, the feral kit dragged in from the wilds, more trouble than he's worth. Even now, he can feel the weight of unseen eyes on him, watching, judging.
He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to stay still, to not make a spectacle of himself. If he doesn't move, if he doesn't speak, maybe they'll forget he's here. But he can't forget. Not the ache in his chest that never fully goes away, not the sting of his sister's happiness when his own feels so far out of reach. Doepath has everything—a home, a mate, a future. Howlpaw has his claws, his teeth, and a propensity to bite at the slightest provocation. The soft rustle of pawsteps behind him pulls him from his thoughts, and his ears swivel back instinctively. Someone's approaching. He doesn't turn right away, doesn't acknowledge them. Maybe they'll think he didn't notice. Maybe they'll leave him alone. But the pawsteps grow closer, and a scent brushes against his nose, one he can't ignore as it draws closer.
His claws dig deeper into the dirt. For a moment, he considers running—just darting off into the forest where no one can follow. But he's not a kit anymore, and survivors don't run from fights thy know they can win. So he stays, his posture stiff and uninviting, his eyes still trained on the horizon. His voice, when it comes, is low and edged, carrying the weight of everything he doesn't say. "What do you want?" The words hang heavy in the air, laced with a challenge. He doesn't care if they're here to talk or scold or offer some meaningless pleasantry. He's not in the mood for any of it. But still, he doesn't move. Something—pride, defiance, or maybe just exhaustion—roots him to the spot.
@sunshinespot
He clenches his jaw, forcing himself to stay still, to not make a spectacle of himself. If he doesn't move, if he doesn't speak, maybe they'll forget he's here. But he can't forget. Not the ache in his chest that never fully goes away, not the sting of his sister's happiness when his own feels so far out of reach. Doepath has everything—a home, a mate, a future. Howlpaw has his claws, his teeth, and a propensity to bite at the slightest provocation. The soft rustle of pawsteps behind him pulls him from his thoughts, and his ears swivel back instinctively. Someone's approaching. He doesn't turn right away, doesn't acknowledge them. Maybe they'll think he didn't notice. Maybe they'll leave him alone. But the pawsteps grow closer, and a scent brushes against his nose, one he can't ignore as it draws closer.
His claws dig deeper into the dirt. For a moment, he considers running—just darting off into the forest where no one can follow. But he's not a kit anymore, and survivors don't run from fights thy know they can win. So he stays, his posture stiff and uninviting, his eyes still trained on the horizon. His voice, when it comes, is low and edged, carrying the weight of everything he doesn't say. "What do you want?" The words hang heavy in the air, laced with a challenge. He doesn't care if they're here to talk or scold or offer some meaningless pleasantry. He's not in the mood for any of it. But still, he doesn't move. Something—pride, defiance, or maybe just exhaustion—roots him to the spot.
@sunshinespot