Thread:CrazyNeonWolfx/@comment-34764491-20180727121845/@comment-34764491-20190216123759

The most exciting things to ever happen to Wolfstreak occurred within only a few days of each other. He was sure after trudging home that the battle, his first battle as a fresh warrior, would be the biggest thing in his life, something he could look back on when he was a senior warrior or elder as he told eager young cats. The young warrior was already bursting with the urge to recount every detail- the way the fur on his back rose without him even knowing, the way his feet never seemed to hit the ground after the jumping, the way he was so overcome with everything at once, and yet the world seemed perfectly clear. It was like he finally got what being a warrior was about- fighting and fighting only.

He did recount everything- to the caretakers. His mother had asked him again and again what it was like, and seemed to tell him just how proud and nervous and thrilled every moment they were together. He overheard her telling the other caretakers and elders how much her “little son” was growing, how she couldn’t wait for him to defend his clan more. What he didn’t tell her, or anybody else, not even Woodfleck, was that he had his doubts. Sure, being a warrior was amazing, and it meant he could truly get closure on his short life, but, well, he almost didn’t want closure. Knowing that this was going to be his life forever felt disappointing. As an apprentice and kit, he always had something to look forward to, some destination on his path. Now that he reached the destination, it felt wrong. Maybe the world made sense in the heat of the sacred battle, but in day to day life? Was he really going to be another warrior, like everybody else, doing the same thing all the time?

It was hard for him to imagine. He was so young, his life so short. But in a way, he could explain it through what he did know- being a kit, being an apprentice. Those moons of being young, of looking forward to the next big thing, of training or playing with others or relaxing or drinking milk…. it was his entire life. His life had consisted of being a kit, being one of the youngest cats in the clan, up until that moment. And now that he was not just a warrior, but a warrior who had seen battle, that life was gone. It was completely destroyed. Never again would he experience anything like snuggling with his mother as the sun rose, or tossing balls of shredded moss up and down after groaning about being an apprentice and having to do chores, or learning a new battle move. It was hard to believe that with one ceremony, his whole life up until a few weeks ago was gone. He wasn’t sure he was ready to leave the safety of that world and start flying high with the warriors. But he had no choice- he saw battle. He was no longer an innocent, beloved kit, or a mischievous apprentice. He was a real warrior, and everything would be more complicated from now on.

But maybe he could rest. Maybe things would go back to normal. After all, how different really was the life of a warrior? He still had to hunt and go on patrols and fix the roof of the Ice Ridge if the caretakers needed him. Not much would change.

He missed training more than anything else. There was something to constantly satisfying to him about learning something new, be it a fighting move or history fact or information about animals.

You couldn’t live like that as a warrior. Warriors were supposed to know everything they needed- they couldn’t pester their mentors with questions. He had to settle. He had to get over it.

Things were quiet. No more dramatic battles against anybody, but no thrilling classes as an apprentice. No wars, but no famines. A simple, repetitive life. Wolfstreak could life with that.

Until she came.

“Where do you think she’s from?”

“Obviously EmberClan, silly.”

“But why? We just fought them.”

“Perhaps they want an alliance, or resources, or—“

“We all know Emberstar would never reach out to us like that.

Not anymore. Maybe Claystar, but not her.” Wolfstreak busied himself with patching up the skylight in the empty elder’s den, as the residents of the cave were up and out of their usual nests, deep in their conversation. He recognized the last voice to speak as his mother’s. She spat at the word “ember,” the disgust in her tone no less obvious than a crocus in snow.

He tried to stay out of it. He tried to convince himself the visitor to FrostClan was none of his business, that everything was being handled perfectly. That was the responsible, warrior-like thing to do, wasn’t it?

The caretakers had no interest in being responsible warriors, it seemed. It was only a few hours since whatever happened happened, but gossip and theories and rumors and drama had struck the Ice Ridge, practically the entire territory, and there was no escaping the news. Wolfstreak had spent most of the day in the Ice Ridge, partially to station himself near the caretakers, and partially so he wouldn’t succumb to the temptation to eavesdrop on the news. Curiosity was always after him, nipping him on the tail. Warriors weren’t supposed to be nosy. Warriors were supposed to stay and hunt, or fight predators, or do something.

Only the caretakers were into the clan gossip, everybody knew that. And Wolfstreak wasn’t a stupid caretaker. He heard everything said about them from the short weeks sent in the warriors den, every complaint and joke about the job. He wanted to be a warrior. He didn’t want to be a caretaker.

“There’s news.”

Wolfstreak jumped at the sound of clambering pawsteps and sudden hushed whispers, poking his head in the main cavern. He had been avoiding the other caretakers for the past hour ever since it was announced, but always stayed in the next room over. Dropstar’s clan meeting was not long ago, but a lot may have changed since then. Everybody was anxious for the news, but the leader and Creamwing stayed huddled down in the medic’s den. Only Needletoe was left in charge, but he too, seemed to be stuck pacing around like all the rest.

“What’s going on?” Grassbird whispered as Wolfstreak sheepishly joined the group, clinging to the branch covered walls of the icy cave. He sheltered behind the bushy tail and round belly of a queen and refused to meet the others’ eyes.

“They’ve identified her as an EmberClan cat, about a year old, probably an apprentice.” It was Shrubfoot, speaking, his creamy voice lowered and soft. His white paws brought the bright scent of herbs into the caves, as he worked with Creamwing often. Flecks of dust and plant bits glistened in the morning light through the sky-hole.

“Why would an apprentice from EmberClan come so soon after the battle?” Hailnose frowned. “Poor thing, must be so cold here.” She seemed entirely focused for once- normally, Wolfstreak knew the caretakers were practically flinging around the camp every second they got, their attention on a hungry elder, a bloated queen, a crying kit, a fussy apprentice, a leak in the ceiling, a cold draft, and a million more things. But a strange calm came over the entire Ridge as all congregated together in the main cavern. “Wait,” Wolfstreak spoke up, cringing as everybody’s gaze landed on him. He shifted awkwardly as he hugged the wall.

“What is it, dear?” Grassbird questioned, raising an eyebrow. It was clear she now knew exactly what her son had overheard.

“Do you think the EmberClanner could have been sent, to, uh…” He shifted his paws. “Do you think she meant to hurt Dropstar?” He smiled, but immediately stopped. It was a terrible thing. An upsetting idea. He shouldn’t be making claims like assassination, not when--

“That does make sense,” Shrubfoot murmured thoughtfully, much to Wolfstreak’s surprise. “The apprentice had long claws and must have been training for a while to hunt.” He clenched his square jaw. “And although she was small, she may have just been a young warrior. But it wouldn’t be beyond EmberClan to send a poor young little apprentice to do something so horrible.”

There it was again- if she was a warrior, she was consenting in an assassination attempt. But an apprentice was a poor little kit.

Wolfstreak shivered. “Maybe if someone recognizes her from the battle, we could tell--”

“No, no, no.” Grassbird hurried to the side of her soon, flicking her tail as she spoke. “You are not going anywhere near this dangerous girl. This isn't your business.” “But I’m a warrior!” trying to stand up taller, he flexed his white and grey. “You’re j-just caretakers- I’m the one supposed to defend my clan!”

As soon as the words escaped his mouth he regretted them. His own mother was a caretaker- he was practically raised by all of them together, the cats before him watching the tom’s steps on his journey. And nobody should be poking their snouts in the situation except for Dropstar, Creamwing, and whoever else they wanted.

But the warrior Wolfstreak was, or rather, the warrior he was supposed to be, fought back. Don’t feel sorry. The other warriors are tough. They assert themselves and don’t follow the advice of caretakers.

“Wolfstreak, if you’re such a warrior, how about you hunt instead of working on the Ice Ridge with us?” Shrubfoot said it hastily, but there was a glimmer in his eye, a sort of warning. “I think a young warrior like you doesn’t need to be hearing this conversation.”

Wolfstreak sighed, his cold breath clouding the view of the caretakers, but he nodded and hurried outside. Despite the commotion going on, the camp was rather quiet. Most of the warriors were out hunting, or perhaps patrolling the ends of their territory. The air was shockingly cold, the bright, painful kind that blows at you from every way and threatens to chip off your ears. Maybe that was the other reason he spent the morning in the Ice Ridge- to prevent his own ears from frosting off.

He padded over to the pile of rocks, slick with snow and hail but with small pawprints of apprentices still stuck into them. Although it was meant for training, most of the warriors used the rocks and the logs for fighting moves and sharpening their claws. It made him feel oddly grown up, dragging his claws along the well worn logs and branches. The Vigil Branch was nearby, tallies of claw marks sketching its sides, but the piece of ceremony felt foreign. He was sure he shouldn’t be there- he should be in the common spaces, where everybody else was.

He tore his lingering gaze from the fallen, frosted over log, towards the trees stretching to the sky and blocking the camp with a wall of wood. Supposedly, in historical days, the patch of land they called the camp was once a dense forest, pines lined needle-to-needle, but the blizzard, the Blizzard, ripped their trunks from the ground and formed a flat stretch of dirt. The clearing was too ingrained in his mental maps, though, to be the result of a natural disaster rather than simply a part of the world, the place for cats like him. He turned towards the trees on the other side of the log, wanting to avoid running through the camp again. He nearly had one foot out the clearing, one foot into the world of the wild and free hunt, when he heard it. A scream.