- Sep 2, 2023
- 193
- 57
- 28
šš¼ CW for injury, blood, and death throughout this thread!!
Each day passes by just like the one before it, repetitive and mind-numbing. If Falconheart were any younger, still an apprentice, heād complain about it. Why do I have to hunt when itās so hot? He wouldnāt even dream of uttering a complaint now, after heās watched clanmates haul his father back into camp after a patrol gone terribly wrong. Not after heād watched the influx of new kits drive the prey pile to scarcity, and aided Raccoonstripe in stealing from their neighbors. Heās grown to appreciate somewhat the monotony of his daily life. And today, the monotony has brought him on a solo hunting patrol, all the way out past the snakerocks. Heās cautious not to stray too close for fear of encountering the rock pileās namesake. If heād been assigned an apprentice at the meeting, he would at least have someone to talk to. Someone to teach. Something to occupy his mind so all the nagging voices will just shut up. But after everything, maybe itās just too much to hope that heād be assigned to train one of his own siblings. Itās proof, straight from Howlingstar, that he isnāt like Freckleflame or Sparkwingāhe isnāt capable of mentoring one of his siblings. Maybeā¦ he isnāt capable of mentoring anyone at all.
Thatās a heart-wrenching train of thought. Thereās got to be a better way of thinking about it, surely.
Heās alone, so he has no patrol mate to talk to. Nothing to distract him from the faint crunch of dirt below a set of paws. Nothing to keep him from pinpointing the direction the noise had come from, and turning to stareā¦ directly into the glowing yellow eyes of a cat slinking through the underbrush. Cast in shadow, their fur looks inky black, and their body is covered in scars. "I know youāre there," he calls out to the strangerāa warning. This is how Flycatcher had died, wasnāt it? An ambush. Exceptā¦ except heās spotted the enemy first, so at least heās got the advantage now. The other cat freezes, seemingly caught off guard by being spotted. But they donāt respond, donāt apologize for being hereā¦ they only turn to him and growl. The sound is low, nearly inaudible, but still it shakes Falconheart to his core.
Heās terrified, he acknowledges. Training under Burnstorm granted him some battle training, but he still isnāt good by any means. He can defend himself decently, but he isnāt like his father or Batwing. Heās not strong or fast or smart. Heās nothing special, just a warrior. But heās still exactly thatāa warrior. "This is ThunderClan territory. Leave now, or Iāll be forced to make you leave." The threat falls flat, even to his own ears; the trembling of his voice is a shard of glass lodged in the soft pawpad of his attempt at intimidation. He hears an audible snort of laughter, and itās clear that the intruder doesnāt take him seriously. But they havenāt struck yet, havenāt lashed out in a desperate attack. Could he fend them off if they did?
He doesnāt have time to consider it. The other cat breaks from the brush, charging at him with claws outstretched. Cream paws shift, and he hops backwardāclaws slash into thick fur and get caught for a moment, tugging a few strands free when the other cat draws their paw back. He isnāt prepared for the next swing, and a heavy paw slams into the side of his face. He doesnāt feel the sting of claws digging into his skin, but there must be because the taste of fresh blood fills his mouth, coats his tongue. It slides down his throat, and he coughs.
"Shit-" he spits out, barely dodging the swipe of claws for his throat and then taking a blow to the ribs instead. The ferocity of it knocks him off balance, forcing him to steady himself for a heartbeat on all four paws. He breathes heavily, flanks heaving, but he hasnāt even done much. Blood wells up from freshly-opened wounds, and when he glances down he can see the trailing drip, drop, drips of crimson across the forest floor. He can taste it. Heās losing. And when his eyes lift to meet the other catās advance once more, he knows what he has to do. Itās what heās always done, and it may not be bold or brave or strong but itās survival, isnāt it? Itās better to return to his mother a coward than to not return at all. From the beating heās already taken, it will take a miracle to live through this encounter even if he flees. But itās his only shot.
Falconheart runs.
Rushing toward the nearest tree, he hears the rogue give chase. Theyāre stronger, but heās the tiniest bit faster, and he leaps the last few feet to the tree. His paws meet bark, and with what strength he can muster he pulls himself up its trunk. He doesnāt make it very far, thoughāclaws score across his back, raking through flesh until finally they slip free at his haunches with a spray of blood. Then theyāre back, digging in once again, but this time they mean to drag him down to his enemy.
Falconheart has tried his best to be a good warrior, or a strong warrior, or at least someone worth having in ThunderClan. Heās endured a lot of pain and hurt in his life, from the fire, to the dogs, to the rogues, to the wolves, to the death of his father. Heās lost a lot of good clanmates, role models, cats he admired, to forces outside his control. He should be tough now, shouldnāt he? He should turn around and use what skills he has to fend off his attacker before they kill him.
But Falconheart isnāt a strong, capable warrior. Heās hardly a warrior at all. Hardly his fatherās son, hardly anyoneās friend, hardly a good role model for his younger siblings. So as his grip falters and his claws are ripped from the tree, he screams.
Each day passes by just like the one before it, repetitive and mind-numbing. If Falconheart were any younger, still an apprentice, heād complain about it. Why do I have to hunt when itās so hot? He wouldnāt even dream of uttering a complaint now, after heās watched clanmates haul his father back into camp after a patrol gone terribly wrong. Not after heād watched the influx of new kits drive the prey pile to scarcity, and aided Raccoonstripe in stealing from their neighbors. Heās grown to appreciate somewhat the monotony of his daily life. And today, the monotony has brought him on a solo hunting patrol, all the way out past the snakerocks. Heās cautious not to stray too close for fear of encountering the rock pileās namesake. If heād been assigned an apprentice at the meeting, he would at least have someone to talk to. Someone to teach. Something to occupy his mind so all the nagging voices will just shut up. But after everything, maybe itās just too much to hope that heād be assigned to train one of his own siblings. Itās proof, straight from Howlingstar, that he isnāt like Freckleflame or Sparkwingāhe isnāt capable of mentoring one of his siblings. Maybeā¦ he isnāt capable of mentoring anyone at all.
Thatās a heart-wrenching train of thought. Thereās got to be a better way of thinking about it, surely.
Heās alone, so he has no patrol mate to talk to. Nothing to distract him from the faint crunch of dirt below a set of paws. Nothing to keep him from pinpointing the direction the noise had come from, and turning to stareā¦ directly into the glowing yellow eyes of a cat slinking through the underbrush. Cast in shadow, their fur looks inky black, and their body is covered in scars. "I know youāre there," he calls out to the strangerāa warning. This is how Flycatcher had died, wasnāt it? An ambush. Exceptā¦ except heās spotted the enemy first, so at least heās got the advantage now. The other cat freezes, seemingly caught off guard by being spotted. But they donāt respond, donāt apologize for being hereā¦ they only turn to him and growl. The sound is low, nearly inaudible, but still it shakes Falconheart to his core.
Heās terrified, he acknowledges. Training under Burnstorm granted him some battle training, but he still isnāt good by any means. He can defend himself decently, but he isnāt like his father or Batwing. Heās not strong or fast or smart. Heās nothing special, just a warrior. But heās still exactly thatāa warrior. "This is ThunderClan territory. Leave now, or Iāll be forced to make you leave." The threat falls flat, even to his own ears; the trembling of his voice is a shard of glass lodged in the soft pawpad of his attempt at intimidation. He hears an audible snort of laughter, and itās clear that the intruder doesnāt take him seriously. But they havenāt struck yet, havenāt lashed out in a desperate attack. Could he fend them off if they did?
He doesnāt have time to consider it. The other cat breaks from the brush, charging at him with claws outstretched. Cream paws shift, and he hops backwardāclaws slash into thick fur and get caught for a moment, tugging a few strands free when the other cat draws their paw back. He isnāt prepared for the next swing, and a heavy paw slams into the side of his face. He doesnāt feel the sting of claws digging into his skin, but there must be because the taste of fresh blood fills his mouth, coats his tongue. It slides down his throat, and he coughs.
"Shit-" he spits out, barely dodging the swipe of claws for his throat and then taking a blow to the ribs instead. The ferocity of it knocks him off balance, forcing him to steady himself for a heartbeat on all four paws. He breathes heavily, flanks heaving, but he hasnāt even done much. Blood wells up from freshly-opened wounds, and when he glances down he can see the trailing drip, drop, drips of crimson across the forest floor. He can taste it. Heās losing. And when his eyes lift to meet the other catās advance once more, he knows what he has to do. Itās what heās always done, and it may not be bold or brave or strong but itās survival, isnāt it? Itās better to return to his mother a coward than to not return at all. From the beating heās already taken, it will take a miracle to live through this encounter even if he flees. But itās his only shot.
Falconheart runs.
Rushing toward the nearest tree, he hears the rogue give chase. Theyāre stronger, but heās the tiniest bit faster, and he leaps the last few feet to the tree. His paws meet bark, and with what strength he can muster he pulls himself up its trunk. He doesnāt make it very far, thoughāclaws score across his back, raking through flesh until finally they slip free at his haunches with a spray of blood. Then theyāre back, digging in once again, but this time they mean to drag him down to his enemy.
Falconheart has tried his best to be a good warrior, or a strong warrior, or at least someone worth having in ThunderClan. Heās endured a lot of pain and hurt in his life, from the fire, to the dogs, to the rogues, to the wolves, to the death of his father. Heās lost a lot of good clanmates, role models, cats he admired, to forces outside his control. He should be tough now, shouldnāt he? He should turn around and use what skills he has to fend off his attacker before they kill him.
But Falconheart isnāt a strong, capable warrior. Heās hardly a warrior at all. Hardly his fatherās son, hardly anyoneās friend, hardly a good role model for his younger siblings. So as his grip falters and his claws are ripped from the tree, he screams.
- ooc: ā
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FALCONHEART āÆāÆ he/him, thunderclan warrior
ā shorter than average cream tabby with white spotting. seems gloomy and has few friends, but is a hard worker and never neglects his duties.
ā son of flamewhisker andflycatcher; brother to stormfeather, scorchedkit, bugkit, sunkit, squirrelkit, sparrowpaw
ā peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
ā penned by foxlore
