H A W K F I R E ~
Many cats are horrified by my appearance – my horrendous scars, my torn ears, the lines cutting through my pelt, the slashes across my face. My personality frightens them, as well. The way I snarl when I speak, the way I glare when spoken to, how I am quick to unsheathe my claws when angered.
You think I was born this way? With these twitchy reflexes? With this harsh nature?
They can't even begin to imagine the kind of world of pain and suffering I had to live in to acquire those scars, to become that kind of cat.
I've had to do and endure things that I hope no other cat has to experience in their lives. But me? I'll be imprinted with these scars, these reminders of what I did until the day I join StarClan – but with the deeds I've done, maybe I'm headed for Dark Forest.
Pray for me, my friend, as you read this, as you learn of my story and hard journey.
Maybe I'll pray for you. We could all use a little bit of luck.
P R O L O G U E - H I G H • E X P E C T A T I O N S
It's a warm, newleaf day, the camp of DuskClan bustling with activity, cats heading this way and that. Unsurprisingly, most are heading to the training hollow to fight each other, to harden their fighting skills. It's what DuskClan was all about, after all.
A dark brown tom paces outside the nursery – Mudstar, the leader of this Clan. His kits are soon going to be born, inside, where the medicine cat sits with his mate. He's restless, impatient. The time for waiting is over!
And then the soft mews of the newborn kittens are heard, and he heads in without hesitation, eager to see his kits, his legacies.
His dark eyes pass over the three kits – one is dead, already. What a shame. His loss will not be mourned – no, DuskClan has more important things to attend to then a kit that was born dead. Business to attend to.
The second is small. It has hopes of surviving, but Mudstar can't help but shake his head in disgust. This thing is his kit? His flesh and blood? He thinks otherwise.
The third is a strong, healthy tom.
His eyes flare with approval at the sight of his third kit. He runs his tongue over his head, and the kit nuzzles into his mother's, Lionbreeze's, side.
"Hawkkit," Mudstar says, his eyes glowing. The name would fit the cat well. He was sure to be strong and quick, just like a hawk. Just as merciless as well.
"What about our other son?" Lionbreeze asks quietly, looking at the smaller kit curled against his brother's side. She nudges him with her muzzle. Her eyes show known of the disgust or disapproval that her mate's eyes had. No, nothing but the warm glow of a mother's love.
"Smallkit," he says simply, obviously not concerned about the kit.
Lionbreeze stares at him. He can't be serious! Smallkit?
But the leader is serious, and she doesn't dare question her mate's word. What the leader said was final, after all. She sighs heavily, closing her eyes.
Without another word, Mudstar runs his tongue over Hawkkit's head again and stalks out of the nursery, the sun shining on his dark pelt.
His son will make a fine warrior, that, he's sure of. Already.
