WEIßER DRACHE | RTA / pestering birds

[BURNETPAW]

Burnetpaw hadn't wandered far from the gorse's maw or the clearing's stomach, and the great beast of the camp had allowed her out this time. As a kitten, those jaws of heather's claws were enough to deter her away from the moors. Her mother told many times before that the outside world was one steeped in danger. So she had remained within the gut of the Windclan camp, content within the warmth of the shrub-coated walls. She had dreamed of the outside, but the outside seemed to only exist there. Now, the molly stepped foot into what once was only folly woven into fantasy. Deadleap would have accompanied her, but the elderly tom had complained of a searing joint pain, of which the sprightly she-cat could not understand. Surely, it couldn't be that bad. She had gotten hurt before, when a spine had lodged itself into a soft paw pad. It hurt, but she was brave about it. (Were adults not always brave? That was impossible, to her, that even the titans faltered in their wake.) The tigrine-coated molly just wanted to know what the light blusters brushing against her felt like - she figured it was like a gentle tongue grooming her coat, like her mother's gracile touch.

Though, something more curious caught the sparking curiosity of golden eyes, and she blinked with owlish fervor. She couldn't put a name to that scent, but it smelled of the prey in the fresh-kill pile. This trail was diluted, as if it had been trampled or broken apart. The small she-cat trotted over to the sun-baked corpse of a lizard, with its belly exposed and mouth ajar, as though it had been exposed to all the cruel ardor of the sun's radiance. She would have mistaken it as sunbathing if not for how the skin sagged and pinched. A few ravens battered it with brutal pecks, like beasts fully succumbed to wolfish desire, and gluttonous things picking at the scraps of meager meat. Still, most of the lizard was intact... at least it looked that way. Hmm... Maybe I could bring this back to camp! Just because I didn't kill it doesn't mean I didn't catch it...

She dove at the corvids with thistle-sharp claws unsheathed, lunging with a great war-cry, as though a herald of oncoming disaster. Well, whatever catastrophe she had foretold, it seemed the ravens refused to listen. The birds retreated only to tightly circle back, beady eyes fixated upon what they had claimed as theirs first. She wouldn't let mere prey best her. She had eaten them before, for Starclan's sake! Burnetpaw chased the dark-plumed ravens around, in roundabout circles as if that would do anything more. "Why aren't you scared of me? I'm a Windclan apprentice! And I have teeth to bite you with!" She snapped at one, though caught only upon a fleeting feather. A series of chuffs escaped from carved bills, like they were mocking her. No wonder they laughed at her - she was hardly bigger than them! Curse this tiny body! I wish Starclan would make me bigger already!
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[TIGERFROST]

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Bah. He's tired. The sun was beating down. It was hot. Every part of him ached. Damnit. Eyes open, head lifts, the soreness ripples beneath his skin. What was all that noise? It's bright, and he wonders how long he had been asleep. Slacking off, he curses to himself. A huff escapes his maw, puffs a cloud of dust from his fanged muzzle. Herbal scent still clung to his wounded, battered form. Finally, finally, he pushes himself to his paws. Thirsty, he realizes. A dryness to his throat. His belly growled it's demand for food. Ugh. The taste of blood in his mouth, but it's only a memory, a remnant of a nightmare he can't quite remember, he thinks. Time to get up.

He pushes himself to his paws, the heat of the day beating upon his lacerated shoulders. Every effort shot fire through his veins. Damn RiverClanners, but it didn't matter. He would heal. WindClan had won that fight, even if Hyacinthbreath still lived. One day, they'd get her. They just needed to stay patient, and vigilant, to make sure she couldn't kill again. There it was again, that sound. His ears are pricked, twitching. What the hell was it? It was giving him a headache, or perhaps that was the thirst. Need to get water, Tigerfrost figures with a sigh. To the sun-warmed pool, then. He could make the journey. He's done it before, even as injured as he is now. Croaking, cawing, the beating of feathers through the air. As he approaches the clearing exit, he thinks he can recognize all the noise he's hearing. Annoying as it is. Was it ravens? Crows? Something of the sort.

Up the slope, out of the tunnel. Pained muscles push him onward. Through flaming eyes, he sees it in the distance, some little apprentice chasing around a bunch of black-feathered birds, their sleek plumage shining brilliantly in the sunlight. Damn things are nearly as big as me, he thinks bitterly. Ravens were such massive birds, and he wonders if they'll carry the little runt off with them. Why such a frenzy, anyways? They were toying with the apprentice. Perhaps he could benefit from Burnetpaw's little distraction. He knows he shouldn't, knows he'll probably get an ear full. They're right there, Tigerfrost reasons, it won't even take much effort. How could I let such an opportunity slip through my claws?

They're right there...

Creeping through tall grass, the dusty tabby struggles with his crouch. Still, the ravens, beady eyes locked upon her, oblivious to the monster nearby. Fangs bared, claws out, eyes narrowed with deadly intent. Closer, closer. Now. He flings himself from the grass, lets his front paws catch upon the body of one of the birds, tears them from the sky. They hit the ground beneath his grip, croaking, screeching, snapping it's beak. Too late, too bad. Teeth close around the raven's neck. It's finally silent, still against the dry, hot soil. The other ravens grow louder, furious in their flaps and squawks, but they gain altitude, fly out of reach. They're smart enough to realize a threat when they see one. Corvids were too cunning for their own good, some times. But... they're still just birds.

Molten eyes shift up toward Burnetpaw, "You make good bait." It's not spoken as an insult, rather a dry humored joke. The effort has reminded Tigerfrost of his healing wounds, though. They burn like magma. His throat still dry. He's thirsty, but he's victorious again. He always is, isn't he? A warlord who does not know the taste of defeat. "This will feed two or three cats." The Lead Warrior comments. Ravens were certainly big enough to provide a large meal for several. Tigerfrost isn't so certain about the taste, though. He'll always prefer hare and rabbit to any bird, and he knows some in WindClan feel the same. Regardless, food was food. Someone was bound to enjoy it.​

 

[BURNETPAW]

In a moment of a gentle thrum, an eagle's shadow had descended upon her prey, as though a dusky thundercloud had overtaken the pillow-plumed day. Eyes widened quickly, as something foreign had entered the wingbeats of her heart, a frantic and vivace tempo. She cowered for moments more, for that was all that she could do. The ravens screeched and squabbled and scrambled into the cloud-torn sky, indignant tones clear upon curled beaks and scorned countenances. Even as they left, their caw-caws still held that mocking laugh. I'll get you next time, I swear. The bird of prey - no, feline - stood before his doing now. He was a taller tom, with oaken hue marred by alabaster masks and streaks of scars that ran down like rivers. She was tempted to tell him off and say that it was her bird to catch, but she knew that prey was prey, no matter who caught it. Still, the little spitfire could not be tamed so easily. As long as she still had her wit about her, she would still burn.

"Hey! I'm not bait!" She mewed in indignant cadence, hackles rising not in a display of malice but in intimidation. Though, nothing could be done about her stature, a delicate statue of tempered glass and tied twine. No matter what, she would always stand below her peers. Still, she met Tigerfrost's molten gaze with her own yellow-hued fire, for the sun contained themselves within golden pools of ambrosia, and flowed with that intrepidly naive spirit she held so dear. But even that act faded quickly, being replaced by a glowing admiration. "How'd you do that, though? That was pretty cool. It was like you weren't there one second, and then - bam! You got the bird!" She mimicked Tigerfrost's calculated movements in her own crude manner. She was never good at charades, she found.
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[TIGERFROST]

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Not bait? Tigerfrost snorts. He's not sure what else they were doing, asides from getting mobbed by the birds. They had clearly not seen her as much of a threat at all. At least the apprentice had some spirit. She inquires about how he had managed it, makes her amusing little mockery of his own motions through the grass. Tunnelers weren't exactly trained to hunt above ground, were they? They excelled in chasing the rabbits while they were lurking in their burrows, something Tigerfrost would never really be capable of doing for himself.

"The bird was so focused on you it never noticed me creeping through the grass behind it." The tabby tom responds simply. It wasn't really a big deal, he thinks to himself. It was just what he was trained to do, what he was expected to do as a Moor Runner. "Always take an opportunity when you see it." Simple enough advice, but if prey is clearly distracted by something else, why not take full advantage of it? More food was never a bad thing, especially when there was an entire clan to feed.​