This World is Cruel

A cold wind rustled the leaves of the pine trees above. The branches intermingled with each other like the roof of the warrior's den, leaving the moon's silver rays unable to penetrate the thick layer. The only thing that guided the scrawny male feline that wandered around the marsh was the rare beam of moonlight that was able to filter through a small gap in the roof of leaves, but they were few and far between.

The night was silent, apart from the whispering of the wind and branches and the occasional chesty coughs that cut through the chilly air in lengthy bouts. Every time the thin tom coughed, his whole body shook and trembled, threatening his ability to stand. Yet he soldiered on through the night, battling the freezing winds and ignoring the muscles in his legs that screamed at him to stop. But why was this under-weight cat doing this? To hunt. He had slept during the day, unwilling to clean is fur, re-arrange his nest or anything. Until hunger took over his mind, and forced him to scavenge for any food he could find.

For many hours the smokey warrior pushed on through the darkness, driven by his will-power to find food. He dragged his paws along at a snail-pace, his tail collecting mud as it trailed behind his boney hips, limp and lifeless. His head bowed low, and he would occasionally snap it up to breath in the wintry air that burnt his lungs in an attempt to catch the faintest trace of a rat or a toad.

But for his whole journey the anorexic tabby gained no luck, and gave in to the aching in his joints, the raging icy winds, the sludge caking his fur, the coughs rattling his bones, the soreness in his lungs, the throbbing in his head and the dryness of his mouth. He gave in, allowing exhaustion to push him to the soggy ground and spit on his pitiful being. It pushed his grey muzzle deep into the wet terrain, clogging his nose and preventing any oxygen from flowing into his lungs, slowly suffocating him.

You have to fight to survive. If you cannot fight, you cannot win. If you cannot win, you lose. If you lose, you die. I cannot fight any longer, therefore I must die. This world is cruel like that. These words whizzed around the old tom's brain as he lay in the dark earthly ooze, and slowly everything turned black.

Scorchclaw, a talented warrior who was defiant and loyal, brave and handsome had died there in his Clan's territory, camouflaged in the muck that ended his life.

Mousepaw slowly padded through the marsh, his tail and ears drooping. He was thin and scrawny, and though he was born a runt and looked more like a kit then an apprentice, he seemed smaller then usual. His legs were bony and his fur seemed to sag off of his body. Suddenly, his paw landed on a lump in the ground. It felt like a cat. Mousepaw hissed, jumping back. He strained his eyes, staring at the ground. He made out a faint shape of a cat who was lifeless and unmoving. "Oh, Starclan," he yelled, eyes wide with terror. "What has happened?" The cat was to dirty to make out who it was. Mousepaw's stomach lurched and he suddenly felt sick at the sight. He felt like he was going to throw up. He somehow managed to flip the cat over and examine the body, noticing who it was when he saw the face. "Scorchclaw," he gasped. Mousepaw backed up, the sight of the suffocated warrior haunting him. The dim moonlight shone on the dead warrior's body which was covered in mud and dirt, causing an eerie feeling to creep upon the apprentice. "S...someone! Help!" He didn't know why he called for help, he was sure the warrior was dead, so nobody could help him. Mousepaw turned away and raced towards camp, calling for someone to follow him so he could show them Scorchclaw.

Darkstrike saw Mousepaw running. "What has happened?" He asked frantically, seeing the terror in the young apprentices eyes. The large dark tom was now skinnier, and not in a good way.

"Quickly! Scorchclaw has died!" Without seeing if Darkstripe would follow, Mousepaw whipped around and raced towards the death scene where the body lay, coated in mud.

Darkstrike gasped. He ran to the scene where Mousepaw led him. "Oh my Starclan..." He sniffed the body, looking for signs of an attack. No scent or sight of blood, just the tang of wet cat and mud. "I think he let himself die. He lived a great life." He said solemnly and picked the foul-smelling tom up by the scruff. He dragged him back to camp where he lay him in the center for his friends and family to mourn for him.

Dawnkit poked her head out of the nursery and her eyes widened. Two of her clanmates were dragging a body back into camp. What..? She rushed out of the nursery and instantly started asking questions. "Who was that? Why's he so muddy? What happened? Where'd you find him? WHAT?"

Excuse me, not to sound rude, but this topic is dead. AKA- no more posting. Just in case you may forget read the rules a bit more, eh?

Not trying to sound rude, sorry if I am..

It's fine I barely read the rules so thanks for the advice