private proud as an eagle’s scream [hunting patrol]

[GRAVELSNAP]

Gravelsnap is all too aware of how little time they have left with Thriftpaw as their apprentice. The small yellow-striped scrap of fur that they’d been handed the responsibility for at too young an age, the apprentice who they’d once seen as more a burden than anything, has grown into a skilled warrior who stands even taller than themself. Despite everything, Gravelsnap finds themself dreading the moment when Thriftpaw will receive his warrior name. What will they do without a shadow trailing them around the moorland? They’d once thought loneliness a gift, but they’ve grown used to the company.

Their hunting takes the patrol past outlook rock, and though prey is not necessarily plentiful, Gravelsnap has caught a generous-sized vole. Their attention is caught by something other than prey, however, as they make to approach the massive boulder. There, in the shadow of outlook rock, lies a sea of scattered gray-barred feathers, and in the middle of it a body. A goshawk, from the looks of it, and it isn’t moving. "I’ll check whether it’s alive," they say, stalking closer to the fallen bird. The others are all warriors, and they’re certain that they could hold their own against a hawk, especially as a patrol rather than just one cat, but they don’t wish to take chances. Not when their clanmates’ lives and wellbeing may hang in the balance—besides, winter is approaching fast, and the fewer patients that Wolfsong needs to treat, the better. The warrior reaches out with a black-blotched paw, striking at the bird’s wing. It shifts beneath their touch, but no more after that.

They wait a moment, then two. The bird doesn’t move. "Dead," they confirm with a pointed flick of their tail, turning back to face the patrol. The bird itself might not be any good to eat, depending on how long it’s been sitting out here, but it can be useful in other ways. With the cold settling in, the clan could always use more feathers—an entirely selfless choice, they think, and not at all the beginning of another collection of theirs. "Should we take some feathers for the nursery’s nests? I don’t know if we should take the whole thing back." They glance to each of their companions in turn, hoping for them to lend their own opinions.

// @sparkspirit @quailbreeze @Thriftpaw​

[ you put the fun into dysfunction ]​

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[Thriftfeather]

Even in death, surrounded by an uneven ring of feathers like shed leaves to a tree, the goshawk looks undeniably majestic. Big as it was, it could once fly faster than Thriftpaw or any cat could hope to run, or hover in place on some invisible wind like a hummingbird. Now, slumped to the ground, its wings should look ungainly. It should finally look its weight. Despite it, Thriftpaw imagines it could flap its wings once more and return to the sky—a raindrop melting back into clouds.

It isn’t anything but usable parts now; Gravelsnap reminds Thriftpaw of that. Meals in places the maggots haven’t found, feathers to line a nest.

“It wouldn’t be any trouble to bring some feathers back,” The largest of the feathers, the last few that outstretch from the very ends of the goshawk’s wings, are nearly the same length of Thriftpaw’s tail fully extended. Further down the wing the feathers shrink in size. Thriftpaw has never paid attention before—not so closely as to notice the strange symmetry to how each one lays. “These ones here—these ones here on the middle of the wing look like the right size.”

He looks to Gravelsnap as he speaks—searching for either approval of his assessment or denial.​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ GOLDEN TABBY TOM ✦ 9 MOONS ✦ TAGS​