[align=center][div style="width: 400px;font-size: 10pt;text-align: justify; font-family: times new roman;"]Losing Littlethorn hurt. A lot. How could it not? In the short time that the tom had been in an important position of her life, he had taught Fallenpaw more than her old mentor had in moons of training. And not just hunting and fighting and whatnot, he taught her more. He was one of the few cats to properly believe in Fallenpaw when others didn't, not treating her like the dirt her mother saw her as. It had been refreshing, a relief. Someone finally believed in her, even when she didn't herself. And what a boost in self-esteem that had been. He had been determined to help her get her warrior name by the time she was twelve moons, an upcoming anniversary.
But now, he couldn't. Because he was dead.
She had spent the rest of the day of the meeting in the marshes of ShadowClan's territory, hiding amongst the roots of one of the few trees that dotted the territory. She knew she had been breaking the rules, but at the time she hadn't exactly cared. Her mentor was dead and her mother of all cats was "chosen by StarClan" to be leader. It was mousedung, she knew. Her mother didn't believe in StarClan, not even a bit. The older molly had explicitly stated this on several occasions. To suddenly believe in them when they elected her leader? A load of dirt, if anything, she thought.
Amongst the roots one of the few trees that took its place in the marshlands, Fallenpaw decided she would have one day of mourning for Littlethorn. The tom deserved far more in her opinion, but she wanted to honor him. She was determined to become a warrior by the day she turned twelve moons. No matter how much training, how much hunting, she would prove her capability. Even Rapidfang wouldn't be able to deny her prowess. Under the blanket of night the dark-furred apprentice had gazed up at the endless expanse of Silverpelt, swearing to the stars and her ancestors and to Littlethorn that she wouldn't disappoint.
The sunrise after, the little molly was back in Carrionplace, ignoring most as she dropped a rather mangled toad in the makeshift pile of fresh-kill. After she had eaten a meager meal--it wasn't as if she needed to eat much to fill herself--the molly had sought out one of the few cats of the clan that she shared a mutual toleration with. Seeking out the tom, the apprentice's yellow eyes--the eyes that stole away her mother's love and gifted her with her clanmates' distrust--glinted with a unique determination. "Stagfoot, would you mind helping me train by the Burnt Sycamore?" she asked, gritting her teeth at being polite. She didn't have the time. She had to work, she had to train. Still, she wanted the tom to accept.
[member=892]honey[/member] [member=5047]stagfoot[/member]
tagged both just so you knew soonest
as part of bearbones, you have been vored
[align=center][div style="width: 440px; height: auto; font-family: work sans, helvetica; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; line-height: 13px; word-spacing: 1px; letter-spacing: 0.5px; color: #333; text-align: justify;"]littlethorn's death had shaken the clan to its core. although stagfoot had never been properly acquainted with littlethorn, he had a feeling littlethorn's death meant more to fallenpaw than to anyone else in the clan. especially at the recent meeting, he had noticed her watery eyes, her shrill cry, her critical and harsh tone that hinted her refusal to accept rapidfang at face value, and the way she walked off—too quickly—soon her outburst was over. a father figure he supposed, but he was never too sure. and now, he would never know, unless he asked her. but it didn't seem like such a prime time, with what a too-suddenly-appointed leader that seemed too new, too inexperienced to properly handle the death of littlethorn.
he had respected how she hadn't been afraid to stand up to the future leader, for he himself found it difficult to defy any sort of authority, no matter how hard the people behind him would push for him to do so. then again, he supposed he wouldn't find himself in such a situation, as of late of course.
he did, however, know what it was like to lose a loved one. his mother, the rogue she had been. his father, to stagfoot's knowledge, had found him on the border of shadowclan; his father had constantly pushed the idea, that his mother had abandoned stagfoot, had never cared about him, and had only been with his father for the drama of it all. he didn't even know if she was from shadowclan or not. he hadn't questioned his father's knowledge of course, because he knew nothing else. however, another loved one was left to heaven, as his father abandoned him at a young age. how old? stagfoot never kept count because the wound was too fresh, the constant reminder that he was unloved and undeserving of such love is now a steady flame. it seemed his father had almost pawned him off to the elders, to the queens, to keep them busy while he left. as far as stagfoot knew, he was dead. it seemed selfish, to him, that he continue this thought process while fallenpaw was currently being affected by littlethorn's death, almost disrespectful of him. despite this being kept to himself, he snapped back to reality.
his brilliant green gold eyes were now full of a cold, dead calm as the redolence of freshkill and herbs woke him to his senses. he had eaten an hour ago; and currently his stomach was full, his energy, low: a pairing he was used to, a routine he was used to. another joined him by the pile: fallenpaw. ah, fallenpaw, he was just reminiscing about dead loved ones. how was he supposed to start? sorry littlethorn died?? that seemed too impersonal, too...almost too belittling. sorry for your loss just sounded like absolute shit. he wasn't about to write a "get well soon" card, because littlethorn couldn't "get better". littlethorn was dead, he reminded himself. fallenpaw said something that retrieved him from his thoughts. "would you mind helping me train by the burnt sycamore?" was what she had asked. "why should i help, you're almost a warrior." he bit back his too-sharp tongue, reminding himself to be useful, to be more careful. she just lost littlethorn when he was soon to make her a warrior and he wasn't about to dig the knife deeper into her back.
"sure, let's go train," was his replying answer. a sigh escaped, a sigh of relief. anything to keep him out of his thoughts.
[align=center][div style="width: 400px;font-size: 10pt;text-align: justify; font-family: times new roman;"]Other than Littlethorn, Fallenpaw knew no father. She knew of the tom who sired her but the RiverClanner that passed his eyes to her was even less so a father than Rapidfang was a mother. She knew of his name. She knew of how he looked. She knew of his other children. Her siblings. But, she did not know them. She had seen her father once. He hadn't noticed her, spotted a familiar pelt on a too-small form with yellow eyes just like his staring at him. He hadn't noticed and Fallenpaw couldn't deny that some part of her had hoped that her father would show her the love her mother didn't. But, he hadn't noticed.
For a moment before the tom replied, she pondered what she knew of him. They had scarcely talked before. Too similar, both too cold. But the few times they had talked, Fallenpaw had found she preferred his company far more than most others of the clan that constantly tried to pity and mother her. She knew a bit about his past, but not much. She knew that similarly to her, he was a half-clanner. However, he was the product of a rogue and a ShadowClanner, right? She wasn't quite sure since she was often too preoccupied trying to escape the noose of rumors tightening around her neck.
When he agreed to accompany, she too breathed a sigh of relief. Good. She didn't want to risk asking any of their other practically intolerable clan-mates. Nor did she want word to get around to her mother that she was doing so much training. She wanted her sudden excellence to be a surprise, a slight towards the leader's pride. If she reached such excellence, of course. The part of her that always questioned her abilities, her as a person. It whispered uncertainties to her, plaguing her with self-doubt.
Distracting herself from such thoughts, the yellow-eyed apprentice turned and walked toward the edge of Carrionplace. Her head was slightly lowered as always, tail nearly dragging on the ground. She managed to softly mumble a short-lived, albeit meaningful, "Thank you." As aforementioned, it was short-lived as the apprentice quickly continued her rather brisk trot, heading toward the direction of the Burnt Sycamore but being wary of any places where the scent of dog might linger.
as part of bearbones, you have been vored
[align=center][div style="width: 440px; height: auto; font-family: work sans, helvetica; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; line-height: 13px; word-spacing: 1px; letter-spacing: 0.5px; color: #555; text-align: justify;"]Fallenpaw had fell silent, most likely stuck in her own turmoils, as he was previously. he didn't want to be such depressing company, but what was there to talk about? and, besides, talking was unnecessary given what she just went through. it was better not to push the subject, or even provide a subject. he knew fallenpaw's thank you was a way of her gratitude for not pitying her as the others did, but he wouldn't mention such a fact. he returned the thank you with a tight nod.
"don't mention it" his reply was rather gruff in tone, surprised by the thank you.
grief. that was a strong motivator, while also a strong depressor. it could motivate someone to shape up their life, achieve whatever that dying person's last wish was; while also battering their emotions, and sometimes instead of building, it could break lives down. it wasn't grief that he and fallenpaw had shared yet, no, they hadn't shared their sadness with each other. it was the same cold exterior, the one that prevented people from tearing down the walls they had so carefully created that would initially attract them together; as if they sensed the need for company that wasn't pity. and if that was what drew them together in the first place, so be it. for the reason to stay together was purely a choice on both parts, a need for companionship, for camaraderie. however, it was impossible to know as of yet. whether she was just using him as a way to unleash her frustrations was fine, he had done the same multiple times.
although she had a head start in heading towards the burnt sycamore, he easily matched her pace, eventually catching up to her. he assumed he would reach the sycamore first, with what his long legs and all. although the sycamore was burned, its branches were still reaching for the sky, as if a glimmer of hope would bring it to life again. it was impossible though, not many things could come back from being burned. the only thing that hinted at life was the small saplings dotted around the area, hinting that the place would eventually flourish with time. one tree burned held the possibility of life for saplings, the young branches reaching towards the now-revealed sun, relishing in the rays. the scent of dog was stale, there was no reason to be wary, yet it is never known what could leap out at the forest. it would be best for stag to maintain a healthy lookout just to be aware.
[align=center][div style="width: 400px;font-size: 10pt;text-align: justify; font-family: times new roman;"]heck this is bad
For a moment, her ears heated in embarrassment that he had noticed and acknowledged her gratitude. She had intended for it to be subtle, almost imperceptible so as to avoid this exact embarrassment. She didn't like being indebted to others and saying "thank you" did just that, as meager as it was. And the way he responded! "Don't mention it." To be honest, she kind of wish she didn't. She would surely take the comment literally, frowning just slightly.
As they walked, she kept quiet. Sometimes, she cast a few anxious glances in the direction of her companion, wary of looking like a weirdo. Stagfoot was one of her more unique clan-mates appearance-wise. With the regular point features combined with the cinnamon-brown color of his features, paired with bright green eyes any she-cat (or tom, for the matter) could get lost in, he was certainly interesting to look at. Fallenpaw totally wouldn't know, though, since she never got distracted by those sorts of things. Not the angle of his features or the gold in his eyes. Those didn't draw the apprentice's eyes at all, especially right before she nearly tripped over a bit grass.
Realizing that she was practically staring by the time they got to the Burnt Sycamore, the little tabby quickly averted her eyes. Dear StarClan, why am I like this? However, now, she really couldn't let herself get distracted. Standing at the base of the Sycamore, the dark-furred she-cat stared up on it before casting a glance back at Stagfoot. She took a deep breath, exhaling gently before fully turning to look at Stagfoot. "Would sparring be alright?" she asked, head tilted. She knew some moves from when Littlethorn had mentored her but had yet to put them into practice. Not to mention, it would be interesting to go up against someone larger and taller and far more trained than she.
as part of bearbones, you have been vored
[align=center][div style="width: 440px; height: auto; font-family: work sans, helvetica; font-size: 10px; text-transform: lowercase; line-height: 13px; word-spacing: 1px; letter-spacing: 0.5px; color: #555; text-align: justify;"]stagfoot's eyes narrowed, just the slightest, at fallenpaw's chagrin. he easily caught the way her eyes, usually the color of honey, were cast down; the way her dark ears flicked almost as if in annoyance or embarrassment. he studied her a second more, wondering if it was something he said. he flicked his ear at the realization that it most likely was, as he generally had a penchant for being oblivious to his own indifference, and quietly scolded himself for seeming inhospitable.
his green gold gaze lingered on her smaller frame, so delicate, on the way her muscles moved under the sheen of her smoky tabby coat; and her eyes, although focused on the path ahead, her eyes, is what caused him to almost stop and stare at her. her eyes, he deemed, were the extraordinary complex gold filigree, were the very essence of beauty itself. the gold, he decided, the color of raw honey. his mind on her eyes, he found it hard to focus on the path ahead. he had noticed her flickering glances, yet decided to say nothing about it, wondering if something was on his coat.
it was only at the clearing was his gaze carefully on her every movement as she made her way to the burnt sycamore. sparring? his ear flicked at the proposition. he didn't want to hurt her, much less, someone with little training. he hesitated, his eyes betraying his internal conflict, his hot breath easily visible in the air as he paused. "very well," he replied, no hint of the reluctance in his polished voice. he had realized that littlethorn was her mentor, again, before...the unfortunate incident. it was most likely the training that littlethorn had given her before his death that she wanted to put to use. and he would let her. sparring was a good outlet for frustration, if she had any, and decided to not use his full force, so that she may get some aggression released.
adskjdf this is so bad
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