Being Old News [open]

The tom creaked to his paws, sighing a bit from the pain in his joints. He was old now, something he did not want the others to notice. He fought too hard for the Oasis, and then for the Asylum, to let himself fade into antiquity.

Finn muttered a curse as his badger pelt fell off, exposing him to the cold. He snatched it up, draped it over his back, and found a nice ray of sun to bask in.

"These joints ain't the same no more," he grumbled, feeling them twinge before relaxing in the sun.

The standard worried about a lot of things. Was that age getting to him? He wasn't sure.

He took a mouthful of magpie, trying to savor its flavor. Even that seemed to have dulled in his age.

"Darn it."

Finn stretched his gray and white body, his fur short and wispy. He glanced over at another cat, giving them a smile. It felt like eternity since he last spoke to a non-Clan cat.

"Ay! Where ya off to?"

Considering how little headway they’d made with WindClan, Pyrik hadn’t seen any harm in lingering at home a few days longer than usual. At first, relief had drowned out the guilt he should’ve felt. It was so much better to be where he belonged, where he was wanted…where he didn’t have to worry about irate medicine cats threatening him with yew berries. But this vacation had worn on too long. His duty was to Asylum, not his own comfort. Just one more day, he told himself as he dragged his fox pelt to the middle of camp. Enough time to fix the pelt’s most ragged patches and get one good night’s sleep.

Before he could find a place to work, a voice caught his attention. He turned to see a vaguely familiar tom resting in a beam of sunlight, a smile visible beneath the badger’s skin he wore. Another Standard, one of their highest-ranked (aside from Captain Iniko)—probably one of the oldest as well. In his haste to answer, Pyrik dropped the pelt in the sand. “WindClan, actually.” Though he stood at attention, his gaze slid downward. “That’s where I’m supposed to be now, but I had some stuff to do here first. The moor gets really muddy sometimes, you know?” He looked back up at the older tom, muzzle wrinkling briefly as he tried to put a name to his factionmate's face. "Um—your name's Finn, right? I'm Pyrik."

Finn nodded when hearing his name, smiling a little wider. "Pyrik? Good to see ya, boy. I hope the moor trodding flea-brains haven't got ya down too much."

He wiped his face, almost reflexively, realizing that he probably had blood all over his face from lunch.

"I'll tell ya what, though, they've got me with some fish-tailed ilk. Sure, when the water's warm, I bet they can catch a good meal or two. But in the winter? Useless! They'll freeze to death bobbing for fish before doing some real hunting."

"And swimming? Don't get me started! Cats don't swim. We don't have scales or fins. Lot o' mouse-brains, the lot of them."

He gave a creaky, rumbling chuckle. "It's a good thing we showed up to save their pelts. Gallivanting in a river for a snack, in the middle of winter! Stupider than a kit before their scars."

"Have your folks been giving ya trouble?"

Pyrik’s ears drooped at the mention of the “moor-trodding flea-brains” he’d be returning to. Fortunately, Finn went on before he could answer. Fish-tailed ilk. That could only be RiverClan—the Clan Raisha had griped to him about. She’d had the same grievances, too, each of which Pyrik understood less and less with every sunset. He would’ve given his pelt (the fox’s or his own, maybe even both if that was what it took) for WindClan to be that peaceful. But where Raisha could’ve been bragging, Finn meant well. Besides, hearing a respectable cat complain about their assignment made him feel less awful about hating his own.

“They really don’t like us. I-I know we’re supposed to be helping them, but they just won’t let us, half the time. One of them even started waving yew berries at me! Though,” he rushed to add, “I was kind of in her den, I just didn’t know. Most of them don’t actually sleep in dens.” Realizing at once that he’d said more than he meant to, Pyrik snapped his mouth shut. One paw tapped against the fox skin as he searched for a different topic. “Um, have you gotten to try fish, then? WindClan doesn’t have any—except for in that big old ravine, maybe, but…” He allowed himself a shudder as he trailed off. The moor’s residents weren’t the only dangerous part of it.