- Dec 18, 2022
- 21
- 0
- 1
// this takes place before the blizzard snows everybody in ... fluid time
. . .
"get up."
he spits into the snow-flecked dirt, face twisted into a snarl — little son of a bitch won't do anything right. all this training, all this painstaking effort and for what ?
"i said get up."
one child a prodigy, come home with head held high, pelt bloodied for windclan's honor — and one a disgrace. it's that kittypet's blood, he knows, running weak and soft through the veins of lynxtooth's own son. perhaps if he'd had the boy from birth. if he'd killed the bitch sooner. perhaps then he could have molded this pathetic kit into a warrior. but he sees his battle in the boy's eyes, sees gentleness that refuses his attempts to claw it out.
they've been training for hours now, in the cold — lynxtooth's long, sleek pelt easily buffeting the wind — and it isn't enough. the boy still crumbles beneath fractions of strength, pitiful and weak, like a kitten mewling for its mother.
the warrior stalks forward, claws unsheathed, and digs them into the fur of slatepaw's scruff — he drags the child up, hoists him into the air with perhaps more violence than necessary — "stand." he barks the word, unforgiving, brutal. "you are a warrior in training. a windclanner, not some fishkisser, not a kittypet."
he thinks of the little riverclan girl — (she'd had long red fur, like his own, a bit rarer in mollies. she'd have to have two ginger parents for that coat, and something in him... wonders.) — and how she'd known slatepaw's name. how slate had known hers.
"though you seem to see no trouble mingling with fishkissers — "
he aims another blow, this one to slatepaw's side, aiming to bowl the child over — he snarls, furious that slatepaw would embarrass him like that in front of clanmates. "look at you, barely able to stand a few hours of sparring. where is your stance? where is your grit? stars above, your brother would be humiliated to see you like this."
"you humiliate this clan. you humiliate me."
@slatepaw
. . . tags.
. . .
"get up."
he spits into the snow-flecked dirt, face twisted into a snarl — little son of a bitch won't do anything right. all this training, all this painstaking effort and for what ?
"i said get up."
one child a prodigy, come home with head held high, pelt bloodied for windclan's honor — and one a disgrace. it's that kittypet's blood, he knows, running weak and soft through the veins of lynxtooth's own son. perhaps if he'd had the boy from birth. if he'd killed the bitch sooner. perhaps then he could have molded this pathetic kit into a warrior. but he sees his battle in the boy's eyes, sees gentleness that refuses his attempts to claw it out.
they've been training for hours now, in the cold — lynxtooth's long, sleek pelt easily buffeting the wind — and it isn't enough. the boy still crumbles beneath fractions of strength, pitiful and weak, like a kitten mewling for its mother.
the warrior stalks forward, claws unsheathed, and digs them into the fur of slatepaw's scruff — he drags the child up, hoists him into the air with perhaps more violence than necessary — "stand." he barks the word, unforgiving, brutal. "you are a warrior in training. a windclanner, not some fishkisser, not a kittypet."
he thinks of the little riverclan girl — (she'd had long red fur, like his own, a bit rarer in mollies. she'd have to have two ginger parents for that coat, and something in him... wonders.) — and how she'd known slatepaw's name. how slate had known hers.
"though you seem to see no trouble mingling with fishkissers — "
he aims another blow, this one to slatepaw's side, aiming to bowl the child over — he snarls, furious that slatepaw would embarrass him like that in front of clanmates. "look at you, barely able to stand a few hours of sparring. where is your stance? where is your grit? stars above, your brother would be humiliated to see you like this."
"you humiliate this clan. you humiliate me."
@slatepaw
. . . tags.
