Recap: Oakpaw is apprenticed off to a practical nobody and as a result becomes jealous of Emberpaw, whose mentor is the wonderful godly Morningstar. He discovers his pseudo-father hates him, because logically, Sablefrost's death is his ENTIRE fault. Oakpaw also sees his first deaths, inspiring a few morbid thoughts. Otherwise, he has a pretty boring life.
I must be tough
I must behave, I must keep fighting
-Desire, Years and Years
Oakpaw watches as Waterstripe bleeds out, as the dirt turns to mud and brown turns to red. Damn, he thinks, wishing he were older, wishing he were seasoned, wishing this was his chance to secure the deputy position as his. That chance might never be his, but he knows little of his predecessor, nor his murder, so he wants it with a passion. The last Oakstar was not a lucky tom- why should the next be any different?
Morningstar stares grimly down at the twitching elder, resolution in her eyes, a light behind her smile. The crowd is silent- this spectacle in alien. None of them remember such a large, personal execution, where he who was sentenced to die was their mentor, their elder, the least suspecting cat in the Clan.
"Is there anything else I should know?" Morningstar says, voice saccharine, though blood still stains her muzzle and chest. The Clan remains silent, and Oakpaw exchanges a glance with Cloudpaw. The tom is looking a little deflated today, considering his own mentor is the defector. Cloudpaw gives him a what can you do expression, and shrugs.
"Tornear, Cloudpaw, Gorsespots, Jayflight, Oakpaw, come with me. Don't look at me like that Peppermask- fine, you can come too. We'll be following the coward's tracks. It may take us a day or two. The rest of you, life is as normal. Meadowmist, you will be the interim deputy."
Meadowmist looks pleased- or rather, her facial expressions does not resemble a badger's as much as it usually does. The named cats are gathering loosely beside Waterstripe's body. They spare him no glances; they know what death looks like. Oakpaw joins them, standing behind his friend. He hadn't expected to be picked for anything, but now that he has, he is excited. He imagines going on a raid must be similar.
"No time to lose," Morningstar snaps. "Oh, and Emberpaw…take Waterstripe to the river." Her apprentice looks horrified, but Oakpaw smirks at her misfortune.
Morningstar sets off immediately at a brisk trot, expertly weaving through the undergrowth. Oakpaw falls in line behind Cloudpaw, and the journey is silent. They're focused on the task ahead; catching their traitor, and stringing him up for the world to see. There's no doubt; Iceface will bleed. The many-headed snake will turn its venom inwards. Oakpaw, not normally one for gormless spectating, thinks he will enjoy the show.
There's also the chance he will fight something, teeth and claws, inhibitions stripped away, for the first time. This excites him even more. Sure Cloudpaw or Burrpaw aren't bad for a brawl, but they've never tried to kill each other- as far as he's aware. He has bleed, but it is without passion, desperation, and it's a taste he longs for.
They reach the river in good time; the deputy's scent is still fresh, and his tracks in the mud are visible even from the opposite bank. Morningstar is the first to slip into the river, unflinching. Tornear and Peppermask follow her, a little gingerly. The other warriors are far more reluctant, but the wraith of their leader is effective motivation. Oakpaw and Cloudpaw exchange a glance; neither of them have swum before, and they're not sure it's an achievable feat. Cloudpaw has nothing to worry about, Oakpaw thinks. Look at all that fur, it'll be buoyant. The other tom just shrugs and steps into the water, although his movements are slow and wary; he wears a pained expression on his face. He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, but by this time Morningstar has nearly completed the crossing. Oakpaw makes the bold decision to jump straight in, and river water goes everywhere; in his eyes, his nose, and all over an indignant Cloudpaw. The tabby tom resurfaces, spluttering, flailing his legs in a motion that somehow propels him forwards.
Morningstar watches him from the nearby bank, and he can't tell, as he attempts to keep from drowning, if she's amused or impatient. He passes Jayflight, who is apparently a slow swimmer. The water is cold, but it is nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He reaches the other side well before his friend. Mud coats his paws, and his pelt is clogged (with what must be half of the contents of the river).
"Hurry up," Morningstar barks at Cloudpaw. "We haven't got all day for a leisurely swim, you tiny air-head." The white tom slips out of the river a few moments later, ears flat against his head. The leader tastes the air and scans the tracks left behind; Oakpaw notices a foreign scent in the air, thick and bitter. His exhilaration begins anew.
The group picks up the pace again, faster now, with the taste of their quarry on their tongues. They wonder if they've wasted too much time, if Waterstripe's death was more theatrical than necessary - if his immediate execution was even required at all. Morningstar has been washed clean by now, but even she may be regretting her bloodlust. No one will say it to her face.
Cloudpaw, still drenched, is not having a great time. His paws are muddy, and tiny twigs and burs catch in his fur. Oakpaw decides not to mention the small collection of leaves and sticks building on his tail. His day's been bad enough already- although, Oakpaw thinks, if his own mentor were to disappear, he would not be disappointed at all. He still remembers Morningstar's sneer when he, the son of everything PureClan sought to destroy, dared to ask for something, anything. All that PureClan had to offer was too good for him. He's honoured that he was even picked for this task at all- he guesses his fighting speaks for itself, and not his own merits. Still, this could be proof that Morningstar doesn't hate him completely.
The forest begins to change, slowly. The undergrowth disappears, and soon they are walking on pine needles. Conifers tower above them, and the lighting is poor. The tracks disappear, but Morningstar presses on, dim gold in the gloom. Oakpaw is sick of running, and hopes the fighting is not far away. The sharp stink of pine is all he can smell, and he thinks that this is not the adventure he was promised. He strikes up a conversation with Cloudpaw; it's all he can do. Oakpaw has never been one who enjoys his own thoughts, or the quiet of their absence.
"So," the tabby says, ignoring as the warriors flick their ears in irritation; this is an expedition, a hunt, and silence is almost mandated. "Who do you think will be your mentor now?"
"I don't know," Cloudpaw says, looking unbothered. "Doesn't matter, I'm nearly a warrior anyway."
"Lucky," Oakpaw says, the subject of circumstance of birth lingering in his head, for a moment. "I bet you'll do well."
His friend looks smug at the praise. "I reckon," he says, batting at the air as they run in some mock battle manoeuvre. His father Gorsespots glances back at the pair, distinctly unimpressed. "If I can beat you once or twice, what's a mangy little Tainted to me?"
"I wish I was that close to being a warrior," he says wistfully. The vacant deputy position calls to him, but he's a youth, and while some pin their hopes on the shoulders of the young, PureClan will not. They won't break tradition, ancient vows or archaic laws. PureClan is an old beast, and its habits are rotting, fermenting.
"It goes pretty quick," Cloudpaw says. "Don't worry about it."
They begin to chat, about fighting, about hunting- Oakpaw is not its biggest advocate- about warrior names, about assessments and how they will both breeze through them. Oakpaw likes Cloudpaw better than Mallowpaw or Burrpaw, his oldest friends, who have become a bore; their friendship was never a choice, when they were raised together. They were practically littermates.
Morningstar freezes ahead of them, and they shut their mouths; in an instant, they see what she sees; a small group of cats ahead of them, a cosy half dozen, moving at a languid pace. They have their backs to them, and have no clue the Clanners are metres behind them. Iceface's pale pelt is a beacon. This will be a tricky ambush; the pine forest provides no cover; there is no undergrowth here, and even the lowest branches tower above them.
Morningstar turns to them, eyes calm; her grin, however, is wide and infectious. They had not expected to catch up so quickly. "We will have to rush them. Hide behind trees until you are close enough to run. If any of you screw this up, I will kill you instead. I hope that's clear enough."
I couldn't screw this up if I tried. He's so excited he barely breathes. And he knows, just knows, that he will be brilliant. What else could he be?
The group silently disbands, slinking away to take up positions behind trees, smoke across the ground. It's easy to be this quiet when the carpet of needles smother any noise his paws could make. He can now hear exchanges between cats in the group, although he's too far to pick out individual words. Their ignorance is thrilling. Their surprise will be his ambrosia, the sudden fear and shock on their faces glorious. Oakpaw is a willing weapon, and he enjoys it.
He darts from tree to tree; Tornear is ahead of him, Jayflight keeping pace on his left. No hunt has ever enticed him so. He sees Morningstar, flat and sleek against the ground, and when she breaks into a sprint, he does the same, stretching into the wind, claws already unsheathed. He's no match for Jayflight's speed as she dashes ahead; in fact, she is the first to reach the city cats. They turn with surprised, feral cries. Iceface pivots and is silent, although there is fear in his eyes. He flees from Morningstar as he spots her approach. Some follow, but others are not so fast. Jayflight locks herself in an embrace with a stocky black tom, and Oakpaw throws himself onto a lean grey tabby. She seems surprised at his onslaught- he's clawing away chunks of fur before she starts to fight back. Already, Oakpaw knows he's stronger than her. He is simply better.
Morningstar catches a ginger tom and knocks his head into a tree. He moans and slumps to the forest floor, blood trickling from scratches on his muzzle. The others are fighting a black she-cat and a golden tom. The black she-cat breaks away from them and stumbles into Jayflight, who has pinned the tom to the ground, preparing to break his spine in two. The two stare at each other for the briefest moment, and for once in her life, Jayflight is too slow. The black cat lashes out, and flinches as her claws pass through the warrior's throat, as her blood splashes her face.
The Clan cats falter. Even Morningstar pauses, as Jayflight falls. The last of the city cats pound away, desperation in their gasps and the strain of their muscles. They've be given a reprieve, as someone lies dying. Oakpaw's she-cat worms away, and it takes him a moment to realize he should give chase. He runs after her, and some other warriors follow him, but it's clear the enemy has the lead, and he won't catch them in these strange woods.
He returns to Morningstar with a strange confliction inside him; the fight thrilled him, fulfilled his violent dreams, yes, but one of his own is choking on her own blood, and he isn't sure what she did to deserve that. Maybe, he guesses, it's the best way to die, fighting, taking, spilling, scrapping. Like his mother, but no, he doesn't think about that. Morningstar stares down as Jayflight twitches; they stare at each other, but perhaps the grey she-cat sees nothing at all.
That the hunt for her father would end in her death seemed inconceivable.
"We'll have to leave her here," Morningstar says, as the last part of Jayflight dies. One fly has already answered the call of carrion; it crawls across her cloudy eyes, bluer in death than he ever noticed in life. It seems almost wrong to leave her slumped, empty and bare, in a forest far from home. He's not going to volunteer to drag her body back, in a two hour trip. He doesn't care that much- and neither, evidently, does anyone else.
Morningstar turns to the one city cat who remains, unable to flee. It's the sandy ginger one, unconscious, his head stained a dulling shade of red. "At least we have him," she sighs, then kicks him in the ribs. He grunts, and opens his eyes, blinking rapidly. It only takes him a moment to recall where he is, but there is stern resignation on his face, as though he hopes to hide his fear. That mask will be stripped from him, and Jayflight's death will only increase the harshness of the process.
PureClan is a team, a perfected one, and though there is no love, they want revenge, vengeance, when one of their own is felled. Oakpaw wants it too, now. He wants to slot neatly into that team, that large loveless family. He will.
jeeze oak you egomaniac
i know the timelines seem a bit wacky but by the time we reach cariad's chapter again they should all be on the same page. who know's, i'm winging this, just like i winged tpatp
reviews are muffins, read my a drabble a day thing for behind-the-scenes, fluff, extras and whatevers, have a good day
