beneath the same sun [closed]

The sleepless nights started as a natural consequence of making his nest somewhere new. Pyrik had gone through it before, when he’d moved to the Standards’ den. He’d needed time to adjust, and that move had happened within a camp he knew as well as his pelt, rather than a territory so different it might as well be on the other side of the world. Had unfamiliarity been the only problem, he might have found it in himself to relax—but that would’ve been too simple. First, there had been the takeover itself. Now, after letting a Clan cat slip right through his paws and sitting through the thorough (but shockingly fair) scolding, courtesy of Theron, that followed, he really wasn’t sleeping well.

Much of his job (jobs, really) required steady paws and a careful stride, things a half-conscious cat lacked. Therefore, Pyrik needed to be more than half-conscious. Easier said than done. The distinctly WindClan-scented nests scattered across most of the camp made finding an open spot all but impossible. At last, his attention drifted toward one of the dens, safely removed from the clusters of nests. Sleeping in the den itself was too great a risk, but maybe the spaces nearby would be quiet. Pyrik nestled closer to the gorse wall until he could faintly feel the thorns pressing against his fox pelt. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to pull any of them out later… Tugging the pelt over as much of himself as he could to block out the sun, he curled up and closed his eyes.

"You're a big mean ol' fox." The low growl was light, playful, as it rumbled through the chest of the young tom. Fawnkit staggered around on his long, Windclan legs as he sized up the new opponent. A devilish grin crossed his features as he approached Pyrik. Admittedly, even with being stuck in the camp, there was plenty to do. Sure, the kit desired to run the moors and become the strongest and most skilled fighter in Windclan; however, for now, he was contented to harass the lounging Asylum cat. He'd heard the strange and pelted creatures were abominations but it changed little for the tom. They seemed to be nothing more than extra paws that helped around camp and wore warm pelts. They were just as good for play as any cat too. He finally wriggled his rump and then pounced, landing squarly on Pyrik's head, "Aha! I got you! No fox will break into the camp of Fawnstar and live!" His forepaws rested on the tom's head and he puffed out his chest triumphantly.