sensitive topics maximum overkill — "training"

[spiderpaw ✧]

tw: mentions of blood, injury, semi-selfharm (?) stay safe tabbytalians!

She doesn't know exactly where between the start of her fighting practice and now she suddenly lost the ability to breathe, but she obviously lost it somewhere. Spiderpaw pauses for a second, head low with thick black bangs hanging in her eyes, to suck in air. It's sour in her rasping lungs and her breaths are ragged, stitches ripping up her sides in white-hot bolts of pain. The apprentice's forelegs are shaky from her repeated strikes, muscles burning in her shoulders, but she readies herself again. Because the fish weighs heavy today indeed. The smoky apprentice had dragged herself out of camp, doggedly avoiding any questions or looks; from the moment she woke up, she knew today was going to be bad. Really bad.

Spiderpaw had to avoid everyone today, she knows, which is why she pulled herself to this remote crevice of the territory, squared off against a hardened fallen tree-trunk, half-buried in long-dried mud. How apt, she thinks, feeling the strange strong winds of today whipping about her splinter-coated pelt. She can't stay in camp; she doesn't think she can even talk to Pigeonsong, for fear of what words might erupt unbidden from her mouth. She'd been wandering aimlessly for a bit, lost, until she snapped out of her own head somewhere around here. The tree had given her the idea; Spiderpaw could use some training, considering she's barely had any over a few moons of apprenticeship, but there was no way she'd get any hunting done with this horrendous breeze on top of her already-poor skills. This is the right thing to do, clearly, because it doesn't involve hurting any other cats. And it's training. It will help her be a better warrior.

Somehow, just beating the shit out of this tree has made her feel a lot better, somehow. She takes a last acrid breath into exhausted lungs and launches herself at it again; perhaps thinking about her circumstances has only made her angrier, because Spiderpaw's hits are more furious than ever. They show the promise of skill, perhaps, sloppy with emotion and lack of refined training; the smoke throws herself at the dusty trunk again and again. Faintly, she's aware of a pain in her paws and the feeling of something warm oozing over them, but she just continues striking. Should an observer arrive, however, they will be able to clearly see the apprentice's scratched and bloodied paws, lacerations zig-zagging up them and claws sore from repeated hits.
​

 

[SMOKEFANG]

.people say that —————————

————————— i am heartless.

▵ ———————— ◮ ———————— ▵

IT WAS THE COPPER TANG OF BLOOD THAT ALERTED HIM, SLITHERING through the undergrowth to spot Spiderpaw. His disappointment was evident against the marred flesh of his maw, his frown deepening. Foxdung. And here he thought he’d catch something. Disappointing. His tail flickered high above him until it drooped low, grazing the hardened surface.

One of those days, eh? He thought, staring at the scratched and bloodied paws with a wrinkle of his nose. Feels like eons ago. He moved forward in relative silence, staring thickly at the other. “You wanna become a warrior, don’t you? Screwing up those paws of yours will send you straight to the elder's den.” He rumbled.

He’d never been one to offer comfort or kind words, preferring the harshness of his words over rotten sweetness. There wasn’t a time for it nor was there a need. He was a cold-hearted brute. A no-good monster that bathed in the sorrows of his enemies. “Your aim sucks.” He drawled out. “You wanna fight better? Suggest you work on your physical strength and not fuckin’ up your paws.” He pointed at the other with his tail, grinning mockingly. And some herbs. He thought with a raised brow.

thoughts speech​

​

​

 

[eveningsun]

the tang of blood had eveningpaw pricking her ears. she was sent out to collect moss, but surely nobody would get on her for abandoning the task. not if she explained that blood, cat blood had been the reason. it was different than the sweet scent of prey, and there were only a few times she could remember it. the first, she was only a kit. caged safely in the nursery from windclan's raid, however the scent lingered for days to follow. the second was more recent, more jarring. the death of a deadly rogue. the torties face was pulled down into a solemn expression with the memory, but despite it she pushed onwards to find the source.

she arrived not long after smokefang, there just long enough to hear his chill laced words. pale blue eyes blinked at the scene as she took it all in. spiderpaw, stationed before a tree. strike after strike is launched, the redness as result of her actions did little to slow the movement. confusion clouded her mind. was this some sort of training regimen pigeonsong had bestowed her with? it surely wasn't safe. wasn't beneficial. eveningpaw knew little about the other outside of the fact that she was close with briarpaw. she felt a small sense of duty for that alone. it was enough for her to conclude that this needed to stop, before she seriously got hurt.

eveningpaw's head is whipped in the direction of the warrior, his insults and taunting smile seemed to kickstart to brain into action. a once incredulous gaze turned narrowed, slanted in on the older cat. "did she ask for your input, smokefang?" the tortie huffed, not caring about the deviation from her low rank. she never had, the daughter of a former deputy and current lead warrior. the girl had been raised under authority, even more so when placed under orangeblossom for training. it was only natural that she picked up on some of this behavior, even if it was rarely expressed.

returning to spiderpaw her gaze softened slightly, but showed no signs of pity. she doubted the shadowy apprentice would react well to it anyways. "there's a stream nearby if you need to wash your paws, i can show you." the apprentice opted to offer a solution, rather than badger the other for an answer as to why. even if her curiosity was captured by the image, she didn't want spiderpaw to feel as if she were cornered into answering her questions. not if she didn't want to. ​

 

[FIGFEATHER]

FIGFEATHER ♀​ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥​

Figfeather experiences intense dejavu, she’s locked in her steps for several moments as her mind searches. It then hits her, moons ago Chysalispaw had taken his anger out on a tree too, she had thought it was idiotic… but she felt a strange sense of pity for the bully in that moment. Smokefang is faster on his paws than she is to respond to the situation, if you want to improve… he goes to explain. A flash of blue and orange, a scathing remark. Figfeather is bewildered by Eveningpaw’s… audacity! To speak to a warrior like that was most foul, but Spiderpaw and Eveningpaw were far from prime, well-behaved apprentices weren’t they? She had shared a den with them for some time, never has the red tabby gotten along with either of the apprentices. Even in her warriorhood, when they meet they were bumping heads. ”Eveningpaw, quit it!” Figfeather scolds, knowing now as a warrior it was her place too to scold out of line apprentices. She flashes an apologetic look at the much older warrior, respect visible in her eyes before she turns again to the troublesome she-cats. ”I’ll show Spiderpaw the stream if she wants. I heard you were sent out here for moss. I don’t see any with you.” Figfeather retorts back, pointing her nose into the forest in a signal for Eveningpaw to return to what she was suppose to be doing. //DID some improv “backwritting” but please feel free to correct / ask me to change.

 

[spiderpaw ✧]

The apprentice finally quits mauling the tree—and her paws—at the sound of a voice, head down and chest heaving. She levels a pale and anger-seared gaze at Smokefang; his pelt is smattered with scars showing some kind of battle experience, but his words are harsh. Lush tail curled about her hind-paws, blue eyes caught like an angry deer in headlights, levelled defensively at the scarred beast; Spiderpaw can practically taste the ash-tang of bitter words barely held barbed on her tongue.

A pale-splotched pelt interrupts her venomous thoughts, crimson-oiled paws turning as the cat caught her attention. Eveningpaw; her heavy-lidded eyes crinkle for a moment, thinking, their acerbic glint dilute with memory—Briarpaw's littermate. Tall ears tilt back slightly, defiance still glittering in her gaze but lessened slightly. A stream to wash her paws, the other apprentice offers; the smoke's mood is soured by the presence of another, sure that this will be the latest gossip topic for the rest of the Clan, but she prepares to accept the offer.

That is, until Figfeather arrives. Spiderpaw's muzzle curls in a caricature of disgust, unable to be controlled even if she wanted to (which she does not). Stars, does Figfeather always have to be bossing everybody around? Who does she think she is? She just became a warrior and she's already doing all this bullshit. But ... she does want to clean her sticky and copper-drenched paws (which are really starting to hurt now), so the smoky apprentice bows her head darkly and mews in a tone clotted with irritation, "Fine. I can go to the stream with ... Figfeather."
​