- Feb 6, 2024
- 72
- 9
- 8
Six moons ago, Sneezepaw had followed Sharpshadow out of camp for the first time. Nervous, sure, but there was an undeniable excitement that came with exploration. Six moons ago, he had failed his first hunt; along the way, he had received lecture after lecture, never quite grasping his job as a warrior. Somewhere on that road, he had set his eyes on Starlingheart, if only for a brief moment - the idea that respite lay within the medicine cat's den had graced his mind, admittedly, more than once.
But six moons later, he is still here. Under Sharpshadow's wing, he had gone from a scared little kitten to a somewhat desensitized man. His legs had sprouted tall, making him lanky, gangly thing - more akin to that of a WindClanner than a swamp-born cat, unfortunately. So too had he finally grown into the kitten fluff that covered his eyes to no avail, once - it now rested atop his head in graceful, symmetrical wisps, draping delicately between his golden eyes and lining his ears.
As for his personality? It had been shaped more by terrible experience than age, one may be afraid. The kind in empathetic shell he once inhabited had been cracked and worn by the abuse that reality presents. Hardened, barely - but Sneezepaw had shouldered enough to become content with being mostly unbothered.
Six moons had passed, and Sneezepaw trails after his mentor, whose above-average height had been met by his not-so-little-anymore apprentice. What is there left to learn? What lessons of this brutal world may yet be passed onto him by his anxious liege? Perhaps some light should be shed onto Smogstar's disappearance now, just as it had Chilledstar's. He had learned then that death happens to the strongest, and he must be strong to combat it. Should he learn now that he must not let his sights off his loved ones, lest they vanish into the night like their sickly lord?
The bitterness of Sneezepaw's thoughts hang heavy in his eyes as he passes a sideways glance to his mentor. Ahead of them, a frog rests in all its dumb, lazy glory, and Sneezepaw makes a swift end to its existence - where he had failed time after time for moons, he now prevails. He lifts his head with the pitiful creature in his jaws, looking to Sharpshadow with a gaze searching for approval; not for his hunt, like he'd done pleadingly as just a boy, but for something much greater and much more permanent.
"My siblings and I are twelve moons," he states casually as he meets his mentor again, after burying his catch to pick up at the end of their outing. They move onto their next victim, whichever choice of rodent StarClan blesses them with, and he feels comfortable enough now to taste the air between the sentences he speaks. "Mirepurr will want to make us warriors when they return. Do you think I'm ready?"
But six moons later, he is still here. Under Sharpshadow's wing, he had gone from a scared little kitten to a somewhat desensitized man. His legs had sprouted tall, making him lanky, gangly thing - more akin to that of a WindClanner than a swamp-born cat, unfortunately. So too had he finally grown into the kitten fluff that covered his eyes to no avail, once - it now rested atop his head in graceful, symmetrical wisps, draping delicately between his golden eyes and lining his ears.
As for his personality? It had been shaped more by terrible experience than age, one may be afraid. The kind in empathetic shell he once inhabited had been cracked and worn by the abuse that reality presents. Hardened, barely - but Sneezepaw had shouldered enough to become content with being mostly unbothered.
Six moons had passed, and Sneezepaw trails after his mentor, whose above-average height had been met by his not-so-little-anymore apprentice. What is there left to learn? What lessons of this brutal world may yet be passed onto him by his anxious liege? Perhaps some light should be shed onto Smogstar's disappearance now, just as it had Chilledstar's. He had learned then that death happens to the strongest, and he must be strong to combat it. Should he learn now that he must not let his sights off his loved ones, lest they vanish into the night like their sickly lord?
The bitterness of Sneezepaw's thoughts hang heavy in his eyes as he passes a sideways glance to his mentor. Ahead of them, a frog rests in all its dumb, lazy glory, and Sneezepaw makes a swift end to its existence - where he had failed time after time for moons, he now prevails. He lifts his head with the pitiful creature in his jaws, looking to Sharpshadow with a gaze searching for approval; not for his hunt, like he'd done pleadingly as just a boy, but for something much greater and much more permanent.
"My siblings and I are twelve moons," he states casually as he meets his mentor again, after burying his catch to pick up at the end of their outing. They move onto their next victim, whichever choice of rodent StarClan blesses them with, and he feels comfortable enough now to taste the air between the sentences he speaks. "Mirepurr will want to make us warriors when they return. Do you think I'm ready?"
