Recap: Oakpaw loves PureClan, PureClan doesn't love Oakpaw, v tragic. Oakpaw doesn't know what no means though, so much like the creepy stalker Strong was back in TPATP, he persists. Then two idiot city cats turn up in their territory and Oakpaw finally has a chance to prove his affections for PureClan! With murder.
Hold me down, hold me down
Throw me in the deep end and watch me drown
-Hold Me Down, Halsey
She runs, but it won't get her anywhere. He follows the visceral trail of her fear, keeps her ginger pelt in his line of sight, mere metres from him. Oakpaw doesn't know her name- who she is, where's she from, where she thinks she can flee to. He knows he'll kill her. He will walk back to camp with her blood on his face, her tainted flesh caught upon his claws, and they'll be proud. If he feels like it, he might even bring them back her head.
Cloudpaw had asked him to spar this morning- he was so close to becoming a warrior. His assessments were only days away, and like any PureClan apprentice ever, he had the utmost confidence in himself. However, Cloudpaw wasn't one for sitting and relaxing, and so they kept sparring anyway. They were a fairly even match, unlike the other male apprentices, who watched their tussling and grimaced. Oakpaw nearly always ended up on top, despite his friend's valiant efforts. Out of all of them, he the only one that's really fought before, and now, he will claim the first kill.
Then came the cry of Tainted! Tainted in the territory!, and it was sweet music to his ears, a thrilling proposal. He abandoned the training arena and raced to the riverside. It was Fernpaw, he discovered, tackling a large young tom. Oakpaw didn't particularly care about Fernpaw, and there were enough warriors there to save her skin, so he leapt after the retreating figure. Someone protested- Cloudpaw, perhaps, or some uptight stickler for rules- but he ignored their voice. The anticipation was in his veins, and he could not ignore it.
This is his second time out of the territory, and he's beginning to feel like something of an expert. The strange, tall pine trees are no longer foreign objects, although they still unsettle him. It is dim in the forest, and a little hard to keep her in his sights as she dodges from tree to tree. All the Tainted ever seem to do, Oakpaw thinks to himself, confidently, is run. They've proven it twice now, their own cowardice, the colour of their bellies. They're yellow, craven, weak, and he understands PureClan's collective hatred. Love he can't figure out, but weakness is easy. It's detestable.
His breath is coming a little shorter now. They've been running for a while, and bloodlust is only fuel for so long. Her desperation will outlast his own. Oakpaw refuses to return clean and tired and unblooded. He wants the fleet stranger dead, and he wants the world to know it.
"I'll make it quick if you stop right now!" he calls, over the thunder of their feet on the forest floor. His voice is hoarse and his excitement is palpable. Hunting has never appealed to him so much as it does now.
She takes a moment to reply, and even then, her fear does not abate. "You couldn't even catch me if I were walking!" He merely grins in response. She will not meekly roll over like most of them. Oakpaw senses they will have a real fight, and he will earn himself some battle scars.
He focuses on speeding forwards, ignoring his depleted stamina and burning will perhaps be one of the greatest challenges of his burgeoning career; his assessments, and everything else he deems important, will fall into place neatly. They may even move up his tests, if only he can prove he deserves it. The trees are growing sparser around them, and infuriatingly, his opponent moves as lithely, as easily, as she did when they began this unexpected chase. Reverberating in his ears is the sound of his own breathing, laborious and heavy. She must be close to faltering, he thinks, though it's more akin to a prayer. Screw you, StarClan. They don't seem to be helping.
For a moment the Tainted is nothing but a sandy blur before his eyes. Oakpaw skids to a halt before the tree she has leapt into, pine needles clenched between his claws. "Cheat!" he yowls, though his voice is playful. She hasn't escaped; she has merely trapped herself, in a lonely old oak in the middle of the pine forest. He begins to pace around the bottom; she has disappeared into the low canopy, although he does not dare to climb up with her. After all, he is a foot soldier, not a squirrel. "Come out and fight like a warrior!" he jeers. "I might not even kill you!" This is a lie, a blatant one, though he sugarcoats his words with a good-natured tone. The leaves rustle above him, and he glares into the foliage. His mouth opens; he is ready to spill more insults, spin more lies. He's not given the chance. He doesn't really see her, as she drops from above, just a telltale flash of ginger yowling as it falls. She hits him heavily, and they both go sprawling to the ground, her legs knocking his head into the ground. His own legs crumple at the impact, and he hears a crunch. Good, he thinks, as his head rings shrilly, she's broken something.
Oakpaw can't stop the groan that passes his lips. His whole body aches, though some small parts of him feel suspiciously numb. The Tainted scrambles off him, reeking of her fear, though her claws are stoutly unsheathed. He can't bring himself to get up, but it's hardly a bad place down here; though the pine needles poke into his fur, it's a comfortable carpet, and it smells nice.
"Get up," the Tainted growls. "I might not even kill you." Oakpaw just buries his face into the needles and inhales. The aching in his head is incessant. She jabs him with a claw, which oddly, comforts him. She won't kill him as he lies helpless, and probably doesn't plan on killing him at all. She doesn't have a ruthless edge, or perhaps her honour won't allow her to kill an opponent on his knees. "You can hear me," she says accusingly. "Get up." Absurdly, he is reminded of Cloudpaw, who is his designated morning alarm. I hope I see that fluffy idiot again. Because he is of PureClan, and nearly a warrior at that, he rises to his paws, although something seems to be wrong with his right foreleg. It hangs in the air, shaking, and tucks itself against his chest. Coward, he thinks, awkward and off-balanced, get out and fight.
He stares his opponent down, and though he is injured and swaying, she is still intimidated. Baring his teeth in a growl, he waits for her to make the first move. It's something he can't afford to make, in his position, although just minutes ago he was planning their battle blow-for-blow as they ran. As he watches, she begins to pace around him in a small, intimate circle. His head whips from side to side to track her movements. "Get on with it," he snaps, hoping perhaps to goad her into a mistake. "Or are you afraid you can't even beat an injured opponent? Should I break my other leg for you too?" Hissing, she moves to his right, and only too late does he realize she's feinting. He topples slowly, cursing his own foolishness, as she darts around and knocks his sound foreleg out from underneath him. For the second time in a span of minutes, he hits the ground heavily. Rolling quickly, he flips onto his back; she is quick to take the bait, and leaps for his stomach- something is finally going his way. He kicks up viciously and sends her flying, although she doesn't hit the tree he was aiming for. Already, he is thinking of how he will get home, and if this will affect his chances of becoming a warrior early. Will he have a permanent limp?
He climbs unsteadily to his paws, feeling blood dripping down his chest. She hasn't risen, though her chest rises and falls fiercely. He hops over to her prone figure, but now it is his own turn to make a mistake; she flings herself forward onto his chest and knocks him back down. She lands with an easy balance, and places her claws at his throat. His pulse pounds against his skin, and he doesn't want to give up, though the weight of her paw on his neck brooks no argument. In sparring, this is where it ends. It stops with an apprentice on their back, claws placed at various important appendages. No one has thought to teach him what comes next. Perhaps he could escape, if he's granted some miracle, but he's not sure what to do at this impasse.
"I've decided not to kill you," she pants, glaring down at him. "In fact you're going to be quite useful. Get up, and don't try anything."
The weight disappears from his throat, though he does not yet trust her. Useful how? He is a defeated enemy, crippled and worthless, his one true skill now disabled. He doesn't even dare to attack her again, because she will only triumph again, and next time she might decide his life is not worth anything at all. Oakpaw gets up, watching her warily. She might trip up; might make a mistake where it will take only the slightest of movements to dispatch her.
"Start walking," she snarls, so he begins limping into the thinning forest. She keeps pace behind him, and this in itself unnerves him. He can't see her, and more importantly, he can't prey on any error she might make. He'll have to rely on his own wits, his senses, and it's not a promising prospect.
"Is this the right way?" he asks scathingly. She tells him it is, but she doesn't sound certain. Oakpaw takes comfort in this; he might not be the only one who doesn't know where the hell they're going. "Where are you taking me?" he questions. He may as well figure a few things now rather than later.
"The city," she replies, vaguely. "They've kind of been waiting for you." Oakpaw has reason to suspect it's not him, specifically, but any kind of Clanner they could get their paws on. Her partner had been targeting Fernpaw, after all, although that was a hapless blunder. He is most certainly dead now, or close to; at least some justice has been dealt today.
"Who's they?" he asks suspiciously. This insinuates some kind of collective body of cats, and he is instantly reminded of Iceface and the city cats he fled with. Perhaps he was escaping to some bigger picture. Maybe there's something more going on, and he's about to come face-to-face with it.
"You'll meet them soon enough," she says. "Better hope they like you."
The trees come to an eventual end, and they find themselves in open fields. To their right he sees the river, distant and silver, and knows innately it must be the one that winds through his own territory. It's a slice of home, a familiar comfort, and it seems like it's a relief to the Tainted too. "That's great," she mutters to herself. "We can just follow that now." The imperious river gives him some amount of confidence, so he stops abruptly and tells her," I need to rest. My head is killing me, my leg hurts, and I feel like I've been run over by a badger." It's not an exaggeration, but he senses it's the only thing that will make her trust him and his battle wounds, that will convince her he's not about to run away.
"Fine," the Tainted snaps. "I think I can smell some mice, anyway. Stay here and don't move."
He flops to his belly. The sun is sinking towards the horizon, and he thinks he can glimpse something there; a grey smudge, a hint of sickly yellow light. It's the city, he realizes, and grins despite himself. This is an exciting adventure indeed. He's too tired to sustain his adrenaline, however, and his head sinks onto his paws. It's hardly the ideal place to sleep- it's open, undefended- considering he's injured and vulnerable. She returns after several minutes, covered in the scent of prey and blood. Though Oakpaw is half asleep, he cracks open one eye. It's barely been five minutes, but she bears two mice in her jaws, and looks immensely proud of herself.
"Here," she mumbles around the fur in her mouth. "Have this." One of the mice drops onto his forepaw, limp and tantalisingly warm. Oakpaw glances up at her in disbelief, though he is quick to snare the dead rodent with his claws.
"First you don't kill me, and now you're feeding me? You're a saint," he mutters, only half-joking. He can't think of any warrior that would show a Tainted such kindness.
"It wasn't hard," she boasts, fluffing up as she settles down to eat her owl meal. "Stupid things built a big nest. I'll go catch some more in the morning." She bites delicately into the mouse, and he doesn't hesitate to rip into his own. He devours it rapidly, and for now, it sates his hunger. He can't help but falling asleep with the bones lying, picked clean, before his nose. Even as he slips away, her eyes linger on his pelt. He thinks perhaps he will be the only one to get some sleep tonight.
When he wakes up, he's wrong. The sun rises gently above the horizon, still soft yellow amid streaks of orange and red. He stretches, momentarily forgetting his leg; the pain comes sharply back, and he glances down at it in disgust. There doesn't appear to be anything glaringly wrong- it's slightly crooked and swollen, but its appearance doesn't merit the amount of pain it has caused. He hisses, and then glances up, to see if she has noticed his moment of weakness. She hasn't noticed anything at all; she's lying stretched on her side, eyes firmly shut, emitting small snores.
Oakpaw tenses, forgetting to breathe. He can't run, he knows that; at best, he can hobble, and she'd always catch up to him. There's nowhere to hide in the pine forest, and he doubts he can spirit himself away through some rabbit hole. Still, she can track him, and can fit through small spaces much more easily than he ever could. That leaves the river. It flows the wrong way, of course, but it can take him far enough away to lose her, and then he can begin the long unstable trek home. One last chance has been offered to him, and with a backwards glance at his captor, he takes it.
Trying to reach the river, he finds an awkward lope that seems to work with his three-leggedness. The river seems to far away, and his desperation is so vast. He never pictured himself as the kind to run from a fight, but this is simply one he cannot win. Oakpaw can hear his own heavy breathing, soft sounds of wildlife, the faint low babble of the river. It's still too far away. Stupid she-cat, stupid tricks, he thinks as he limps. He will forever remember the moment she dropped from the tree, and it will remain an eternal well of embarrassment. It will be a valuable lesson, if only he can escape.
In the dawn light, the river water is clear and crystalline.
"Not thinking of running away, were you?" Her voice is hard, cold as the river, and he is still not ready to fight her. In defeat, he turns to face her. She stands behind him in the wet grass, small and fierce. Oakpaw's heart sinks.
He sneers, "No. Just needed a drink." He meets her glare defiantly. Screw her, he thinks. She'll only ever be a Tainted, and I don't answer to her.
She snorts, and he knows she doesn't believe him. "Go on then. Drink," she snaps. Her eyes, narrow and green, rest on his pelt as he turns and takes the last few steps to the water's edge. Awkwardly, he bends and sips. It's frigid and slightly muddy, but he relishes it all the same. It might be the last fresh drink he ever has, or perhaps, if he thinks morbidly, the last drink he'll ever have at all. He flinches as the Tainted crouches beside him and begins to lap up water with a small pink tongue.
"Not bad," she says nonchalantly. Out of the corner of his eye, he stares at her, and knows he can't escape now. Perhaps it won't be so bad, but he has his suspicions. Whoever they are, they sound ominous and dangerous. If he was being recruited into a cult of rainbows and happiness, he's sure she'd have no qualms telling him about it. And yet the opposite is not true.
"Well?" he demands when they both straighten up. "Are we going or what?" So they leave, and Oakpaw tries not to regret his missed chance.
A full day later, they still haven't reached the city, although it is much more than a smudge on the distant horizon. They don't talk much, because for all her acts of kindness, she's still a Tainted. She's also not much good at conversing, which puts a damper on things. Oakpaw can't forget the fact she's probably dragging him to his doom, too.
"How much further?" he asks, unfailingly bored. The city is visible, a patchwork of grey concrete and bricks and metal. They've already stumbled across their first road, and he narrowly avoided getting hit by the large sleek monster that roared across its surface.
"I don't know," she grumbles. "Last time I did this I wasn't lumped with a crippled idiot." He doesn't bristle at the insult; it's probably true."
"Do you have a name?" he asks, after a pause. He's not sure if the Tainted even bother to name their fallible children. "I'm Oakpaw." He's not sure why it seems necessary to offer his own name in exchange for hers, but he does it anyway, adhering to an old protocol.
"It's Azazel," she tells him gingerly. "Though mostly I shorten it to Az."
Oakpaw frowns. He's never heard such an odd name, one without an apparent suffix. "Does your lot all have such weird names?"
She scoffs at him. "My name isn't weird. Yours is. I mean, is your paw actually oak? No, it isn't. I think I proved that when I fell on it and broke. It's stupid." He glances her at in irritation. She has nerve, to insult his name, when hers doesn't appear to mean anything at all.
"My name won't be Oakpaw for long," he replies loftily, forgetting he'll probably be dead by the end of the week. "It'll probably be something epic, like Oakstorm or Oakstrike." For a minute, he falls into fantasies, dreaming of the moment Morningstar grudgingly gives him his warrior name. It's the epitome of his only desires, all he's wanted since he learned of it- he wants it more than he wants his own mother back. He'd probably sell his own sister to become a warrior, but she's done nothing to garner his affections, so that point is moot.
"It's still stupid," Az mutters under her breath. Louder, she says," My brother's name is Beelzebub. It's so much weirder than mine."
"Who named you?" he laughs. "They need to have their privileges revoked." He stops his laughter after a moment. He's still talking to a Tainted, after all.
"Don't know," she says petulantly. "It was probably my mother." He doesn't press it further, for the tone of her voice is dismal. Maybe her kithood was also less than satisfactory. Oakpaw focuses on the scenery and the looming city. Its acrid smell carries to him on the wind. If he hadn't been so stupid, he'd be walking into the city with a swagger, surrounded by his Clanmates, swelling with confidence. Now, he's early, crippled and defeated, fraternizing with the enemy. He swallows his guilt and his shame. It's too late to change anything now- but if he'd just moved out of the way, if she hadn't broken his leg… It's an easy equation. She'd be dead.
On the edge of the city, she hesitates. Az turns and scrutinizes the dark streets, almost as if she can't quite remember the way. The reek here is far stronger; he sees more strange monsters and odd two-legged beasts. It's a hostile place, and he'd gladly run back to the forest and his own breed of monsters. They tolerate him, if not accept him, and he thinks this place won't do the same. He sticks close to Az's side as she sets off determinedly. They twist down several dark alleys and barren streets; dilapidation lingers in the air and clings to the buildings, a bitter taste to swallow. "Do you know where we're going?" he asks in a hushed voice.
"Of course," she replies flippantly, but he can't trust her confidence. She trots quickly across the pavement, something in the skyline in her sights. He follows awkwardly, cursing the fact he's likely going to die debilitated. It's going to be a quick fight with only three working paws. After several minutes the pair turn onto a narrow street; the river is a soft melody in the background. Oakpaw is relieved for this small measure of comfort. The centerpiece of this avenue is a large jaded building. Its windows are dark and dusty, its facade crumbling with a slow and steady kind of determination. Some cat sits at its mouth, staring at its surroundings with bored hostility.
"The warehouse," Az breathes. His mood plummets. He hadn't realized they'd get here so quickly, that he was so close to facing her mysterious they. Az quickly scrambles towards the building, and he supposes she thought she'd never come back. He follows at a slower, resigned pace, inwardly reassuring himself that his death is not in fact imminent. He knows it's hollow comfort, because what city cat wouldn't love to sink their claws into an injured Clanner? Azazel bounds up the the guard, heedless of his fear.
"I'm back," she announces, like this tom has any clue who she is. "I was on the mission," she adds, as an afterthought," with Cariad." Realization dawns on the tom's face, and he nods. Without a word he turns and goes inside. Az looks back at him, expression demanding, and he can't help but notice her claws are unsheathed. She doesn't care if she has to bully him into this warehouse, or drag him by the scruff of his neck. She's going to prove she's not a failure, that she's got more mettle than her dead partner. Glaring at her, he proceeds to follow her into the warehouse, picturing all of the glorious ways he could escape if he were whole and unbroken. Inside, it's dark and gloomy, and smells of a hundred unwashed pelts. There's a pile of boxes in the corner, and some secluded second storey protrudes from the wall. Stairs descend into the ground; this is where the reek is strongest. More importantly, it's filled with cats, and many of them appear to be his own age. They stare at him apprehensively as they enter, and a few have the audacity to growl at him. He snarls right back, and it seems to work as appropriate attitude adjustment.
The guard makes his way cautiously up the stairs. Aazel sits and waits, ignoring the tentative crowd that forms. There are some distraught faces swimming in the mix, but he ignores them. He gets it; he's here, and someone else isn't. Because his kind killed them.
"Azazel," one hisses- it's a pretty sorrel she-cat, and she looks dismayed. "Where's Cariad? Why isn't he with you?" Az begins to look uncomfortable. It's because she ditched him and left him to die, he thinks darkly, but it's no less true. Before she can explain, the guard clambers down the stairs again, an assortment of cats at his heels. Leading them is a tall black tom, wiry and scared, and behind him is a sleek tabby. A disfigured grey she-cat steps down gracefully, and he senses, flanked as she is, she must be important. His attention, however, is commanded by the grey tom on her right. His perpetual frown is remarkably familiar.
"Iceface," he exclaims. The grey tom glares at him. "You wouldn't believe how mad Morningstar was when you up and left." He grins at the memory, although it's not a great one. The leader was fuming, and the subject was still a touchy one.
"Oakpaw," the tom replies acerbically, as the group reach the ground. "I'm not entirely surprised to see you here."
"I'm not surprised to see you here, either," he counters, for now ignoring the other. This is a small piece of normalcy, and he's earned it. He only hopes Iceface won't let him die; he might be holding his breath, because Iceface doesn't overtly care for anything at all, and they're only mere acquaintances, tied to the fact they've traded one hell for another.
"Azazel," the scarred she-cat interrupts. Oakpaw turns his attention to her, her mutilation. She could be pretty, yet the pink puckered skin on her face begs to differ. "You've returned, and you've been successful, might I add." She doesn't mention Cariad, content to gloss over that small failure. Her gaze turns to him, and she smiles warmly. Oakpaw is immediately suspicious of her genial grin, her soft maternal eyes and the intent she has yet to announce. She might still kill him, smiling all the while.
"Yes," Az says, throwing him a cursory glance. "It was easy." He shoots her a glare- it wasn't easy for him.
"I'm glad," the grey queen says, still beaming. "Where are my manners? My name is Miss." She gestures to the tabby tom and the scrawny black one in turn. "This is Emory, and this is Achilleus. Evidently you already know Ice." Finishing her introduction, she peers at him expectantly.
"I'm Oakpaw," he says, "but Iceface already said that."
"Lovely!" she exclaims, and her levels of enthusiasm begin to grate at him. "Why don't you come upstairs, Oakpaw, and we can have a chat. You can stay here, Azazel, and catch up with all your friends." Miss backs up, and beckons him forwards. Oakpaw glances up at the daunting stares, which would be a challenge even with four able paws. He knows this isn't a choice, and it will be a relief to escape all of these prying eyes, so he follows Miss and her entourage upstairs, sparing Az a final parting glance. Nice knowing you, he mouths, but she only grins.
It is a long ascent, coupled with his clumsy attempts to not trip over. He pants with exertion, although none of the others are out of breath.
"What happened to your leg, dear?" Miss asks, though it seems blindingly obvious.
"A tree," he says gruffly, reluctant to spill further details of his defeat. It's not a lie, at least, although he doesn't owe these city cats anything less. The others just hum in acknowledgement, unsure how to reply.
They reach the top after several agonising minutes. It's not too expansive up here, but there's an unrivalled view of the warehouse floor below. There's a small nest of sacks and newspaper in the middle, but he highly doubts that's their destination. Miss leads them to a corner, although Achilleus remains stationed on the stairs. Here, a small gourmet meal awaits them; a sooty black crow and a dusty puddle. Miss nods in assent and Oakpaw tears into it, ignoring the strange bitter taste. He's famished, although Azazel provided plenty of field mice for his breakfast. He attributes the crow's biting flavour to the fact he's never had such a bird before, and is not used to the flavour. The other three watch him, occasionally swatting black feathers out of their faces.
"So, Oakpaw," Miss says tentatively when he's close to finished. "I hope you know why we brought you here."
He stares at her blankly. "I don't," he mumbles through a mouthful of crow. "No one's exactly told me." She stares at him sadly, and he can't be imagining the disappointment in her eyes.
"You've been rescued, Oakpaw. From a horrible place, before they can corrupt you. Force you to wicked things. Make you kill for sport. It's such a bleak life, Oakpaw, and we're only sorry we can't take more of you."
"I mean...I don't mind…" Oakpaw stutters. He kind of enjoys it, really.
"PureClan is a hideous creation," Miss mutters darkly. Emory and Iceface seem content to nod. "It must be destroyed."
Oakpaw can only gape at her. There is no way to destroy PureClan, no possible end in sight. "What's going on?" he asks, although everything is starting to make sense. This warehouse, the assembly of cats, Iceface's defection...the only thing he can't place is himself. They don't want to save him from the unsightly horrors of PureClan, they need him, they require him, for something. He is only alive so long as he's useful. But to serve what purpose? They've already lured one warrior into their midst. "What do you want with me?"
"You can relax now, Oakpaw," Emory says. He has a silken voice. "You're finally safe."
"But we do need your help, you see," Miss continues. "We don't have eyes in PureClan. We don't know what they're thinking, or how they plan to crush us. We don't have a voice in their ranks, one to tell them how beastly their philosophy is. We can try to fight them all we like, Oakpaw, but the key to killing their code is to choke it from the inside. Young minds like yours can be persuaded. It's better than the alternative."
He laughs derisively. "PureClan can't die. If you cut off a head two more grow back." His Clan is strong and disciplined, vicious, merciless. There's no opponent it can't savage, murder, or erase. To think otherwise is a fallacy. Miss is clearly insane, and the others only follow her because, if placed in the right lighting- very, very dim lighting- she's almost pretty. "You're all going to die."
"That might be so. But there's a bigger picture, Oakpaw. I'm sure you'll come around." She nods at Iceface, dismissively, and Oakpaw doesn't catch its meaning until the grey tom stands and grasps his scruff firmly between his teeth, although he's far too large to be carried like a kit. He thrashes in protest, but the seasoned tom is stronger than he is.
"I'm sure our young guest is tired. Show him his accommodation." There's a certain note of finality in her voice, and he struggles harder, convinced Iceface is going to toss him from the gallery. Iceface grunts at his efforts. Instead of throwing him to his death, Iceface carries him towards the back of the warehouse, where there is a dark yawning hole in the wall. Unceremoniously, Iceface deposits him inside, ignoring his hiss of pain.
"It's just Ice now," the tom informs him. "Night." He leaves, and a little more light streams into his new prison. It's not very wide, but he can't reach the exit- at least, not with his broken leg. Escape would be an easy achievement if it weren't for that irritating detail. Oakpaw sits, despondent, and notices the floor has been lined with newspaper and feathers.
"Damn," he mutters to himself. "I guess they'll be postponing my warrior ceremony." And, not that he knows it, they do.
what is it about sable's children and doing stupid things.
i wrote this instead of my four assessments, you're welcome. thanks for the love.
