forging my own path

The moor was calm, today. Just across the Thunderpath from Highstones stood a young russet molly, swaying in the wind that rippled across the heath, eyes closed and drinking in the last of the leaf-fall sun. Her calm was deceptive, for a storm brewed in her heart, all angry hissing and frothing irritation. She’d barely made it to Highstones. Apprentices scarce more than kits had out-paced her. In the hunting competition, she’d failed. It was that simple. She hadn’t been able to bring down the hare in time. Claws dug into the dirt, ears flicking back in anger. She wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough to provide for her Clan. She was an enigma among her family, all tall, lanky cats, where she stood a good ear-width beneath her fellow apprentices. It made hunting harder, those bursts of speed cost more with each stride.

But- it didn’t make it impossible.

Russetpaw was out on the moor not to wallow in despair. Russetpaw was out on the moor to practice. Alone. If she could brave the moor, with traps and Twolegs lurking in wait, then she could brave anything. She would practice her running, until she could keep up with Silverwing without being out of breath. She would practice her hunting, until she could claim a record near as spotless as her mentor’s. She would practice her fighting, the only thing she was really good at, until she could take down anyone who challenged her.

Russetpaw’s eyes snapped open.

Over the moor she flew, paws pounding the earth as she pushed herself to the limit. Soon- far too soon- she was gasping for breath, paws weighed down by invisible rocks- but she was grinning, fiercely, as at last her legs gave out from under her and she flopped into the moor grass, letting her heartbeat return to normal. It felt good- and she could’ve sworn it was easier than last time, that it had taken longer for her paws to tremble with exhaustion.

The russet-pelted apprentice lay on her side for a moment, side heaving, until she finally rose to her paws again, shaking out her pelt. There was still a slight tremble in her paws, but the ache in her limbs from her long run had faded. Now- to hunt. Russetpaw stood still, letting the moor-grass dance around her, and listened.

The distant pound of the Thunderpath. The rustle of the grass. And, not far off, the familiar thrumming of hare-paws against the earth.

She could not see her target, but she could hear it, and scent it, and that was all she needed. It was upwind from her, and through the moor-grass she danced, fierce hunter’s spirit igniting within her as her paws silently navigated the moor. The hare was deep in the grasses, prey others might’ve missed- but Russetpaw was hunting by scent and sound and instinct, not the sharp sight of her fellows which she rather lacked. She’d watched a weasel stalk its prey, entranced by the grace with which it had woven through the moor-grass, tracking its prey without so much as glimpsing it until it was already in mid-air, navigating by scent and sound and instinct.

It was scent and sound and instinct that sent her forwards in an uncanny leap, but it was long hours of training that sent her fangs sinking into its neck. It died without a sound, without a struggle- and Russetpaw felt triumph rise up within her. She had caught it- not the way that Silverwing had taught her, with an explosive rush and a leap and a kill- but in her own, careful way, slinking among the moor-grass that came up to her neck and relying on senses that had not yet failed her.

Yet some other predator was lurking in the grasses.

Beady eyes glinted from the shade the long moor-grass provided, a long sinuous body circling the apprentice and fallen hare. She hissed, and it hissed back, and her ears flicked back with apprehension. She thought herself a good fighter… but she’d only sparred before. Could she take on a predator, and win?

The weasel decided for her, darting in and sinking sharp fangs into her shoulder. Russetpaw’s eyes narrowed to electric blue slits as she rolled, lashing out at the predator clinging to her pelt. Its bite sent sharp sparks of stinging pain through her body, yet the exhilaration of her first true fight kept her going, landing blow after blow on the brown, sleek shape.

Weasel used Gripping Bite, dealing 7 damage and costing 15 stamina. Russetpaw used Front Paw Strike and Swift Strike, dealing 11 damage and costing 17 stamina.

Weasel
9/20 HP (-11)
120/135 SP (-15)

Russetpaw
13/20 HP (-7)
23/40 HP (-17) (reduced Russet’s SP to account for her run+hunt)

The stinging sensation only worsened as the weasel dug its fangs deeper into her shoulder, scoring sharp little claws up and down her leg as it did so. Russetpaw hissed, in pain and fury, and bit down on the weasel, managing to get it off her (with another surge of pain that sent blood pouring from her shoulder but she couldn’t, wouldn’t look at it). Before it could run off, she leapt at it, slashing wildly with more and more anger as each movement brought more pain to her shoulder- ignorable for now- keeping the panicked thoughts underground-

With a final effort she pinned it, rolling the creature over and sinking sharp fangs into its throat, tasting metallic, tangy blood. Its struggles weakened, then finally stopped altogether, yet Russetpaw still held on, and on, and on, until the young molly was finally convinced that she had, indeed, killed it.

She’d killed it.

Russetpaw dropped the weasel and stepped back, eyes alight with glory and triumph- then her shoulder stung, then sparked with pain as if the creature was still digging into it. Scarlet liquid trailed down her pelt, deeper and darker than her fur. Her mood changed in an instant, from triumph to panicked worry. Slowly, carefully, with tremors of terror, Russetpaw turned her head to look at the wound- then exhaled. It had felt worse than it looked- just two somewhat deep scratches, not the mess she had worried her shoulder had turned into. The red-pelted apprentice hesitantly licked at the wound, testing the limb. It stung with every movement, but she could move it, and it held her weight, albeit with lightning pain that raced up and down her leg.

Alright. It- better head back now, at a careful pace, not at the reckless charge she had been running at. Russetpaw picked up the hare in her jaws, shining the weasel across her back. Neither was exactly the biggest specimen of their kind she’d ever seen, but together they should be mighty impressive. With a slight limp, the apprentice headed towards Highstones, taking her time crossing the moor, heart lightened by her success. She would work on her running, as soon as Batsong cleared her to run again (which shouldn’t be long, she felt sure), and on her fighting, but she rather thought she’d found something that worked, today. Maybe she should watch more weasels. Their way of hunting played to her strengths (her hearing, her sharp nose, her compact strength) rather than to those of many of her Clanmates (their speed and keen eyesight).

Despite her wound, there was a spring in Russetpaw’s step. At the very least, she’d proved to herself that she could defeat a weasel. Maybe Silverwing and Sleepypaw could help her with her speed, or spar with her- and maybe defeating the one weasel was a step towards defeating the other. In a spar. Of course. She was looking forwards to that.

Weasel used Gripping Bite, dealing 7 damage and costing 15 stamina. Russetpaw used Front Paw Strike and Swift Strike, dealing 11 damage and costing 17 stamina.

Weasel
0/20 HP (-11)
105/135 SP (-15)

Russetpaw
6/20 HP (-7)
6/40 HP (-17)