Not An Elder [OPEN]

Smokefeather limped out of the elder's den, sitting just outside of the entrance. She'd always been an early riser, and retiring hadn't changed that, nor had broken, interrupted sleep. The dawn patrol was just leaving, and Smokefeather couldn't help the flash of bitterness she felt at being unable them. Her ears flicked back as her gaze dropped to her leg. The scars were glaringly obvious to anyone who cared to look, not hidden at all by her long fur. Claws dug into the grass beneath, and Smokefeather wished they'd dug into the throat of the one responsible for her injuries, instead.

Smokefeather's gaze returned to the rest of camp a moment later, a quiet exhale escaping her. The morning air was no longer cold enough for it to cloud in front of her face, and as the days wore on the trees were regaining their leaves. The forest almost looked healthy, and the signs of the fire were almost easy to overlook if one was an optimist.

Smokefeather wasn't an optimist anymore. Each tree had branches burned away or snapped off, branches that were no longer capable of holding a cat's weight when they had been fine last greenleaf. Soot still clung to the bottom of tree trunks and stained the rocky terrain. It was, Smokefeather thought, an accurate reflection of Skyclan as a whole. Though she doubted the clan could put forth as much of a convincing show as the forest did. Least convincing of them all was Skyclan's leadership.

As if hearing her thoughts, Smokefeather caught sight of Beechface across the clearing, stalking from the medicine den with tail twitching and fur ruffled. The obvious irritation meant Bloodstrike was probably up and about, already. Good for him, she supposed. Beechface either didn't see Smokefeather sitting outside the elder's den, or was choosing to ignore her presence. Just as well, because Smokefeather was hardly in a talkative mood.

Blissfully ignorant of the elder's emotional state, a chipper apprentice walked his way to the elder's den. Burrpaw told him that he'd get him the fattest starling he could hunt down, and that the elders always liked to talk, so Cherrypaw was over the moon.

He carried soft grasses in his mouth for their bedding, he guessed old cats like that. He wasn't sure, but hopefully they'd be friendly!

The short dark ginger tom barely came up to Smokefeather's chest, his head a little under her shoulders. "Hullo," the tom rumbled, placing the grasses in a nest. He did not hear any verbal protest, so he turned around and began to jabber, "Isn't it so pretty out? How're you? Hope you're well. You need anything? I can grab it for you! What're you up to? How's your leg? Do you need something from Beechface?"

Smokefeather was so lost in her own thoughts that at first she hardly registered the ginger apprentice speaking to her., discounting his voice as background noise Until the mention of her leg, and Beechface, that was. Her ears twitched back in disgust. She should be finding her own stars-forsaken moss, and she certainly didn't need an apprentice asking if she was okay or if she needed anything.

"I'm fine." She responded tersely. Words clearly a lie, but what else was she supposed to tell the apprentice? Nothing about her situation was his fault, and Smokefeather, as bitterly frustrated as she was, recognized that much. Snapping at the poor apprentice who had probably gotten stuck doing elder duty for something minor wouldn't help anything. His cheerful attitude might've helped her own mood once, but those days were long gone and Smokefeather fought down a number of unnecessarily hostile retorts to his questions.

"Cherrypaw, right?" She asked after a moment. Her tone was as neutral as it was likely to get, but if the poor apprentice was to be in Skyclan, it was probably one of the less offensive actions he'd encounter.

The ginger tom smoothed out the moss and grasses on what he assumed was her nest. His ears swiveled to her voice as she gave him a curt reply. "Great!" Cherrypaw chirped, looking at Smokefeather with wide and innocent copper eyes. "Yep! I'm Cherrypaw. Good to meet you!"

He liked the elders. They seemed willing to talk to him, or at least let him watch while they talked about wars long past and saucy news.

"Do you have any cool stories? What was your favorite thing to do when you were an apprentice?"

A pair of innocent copper eyes stared back at Smokefeather, and she felt guilty for being short with the tom, though it seemed not to have phased him. What Smokefeather wouldn't give to be that carefree, that innocent.

Cherrypaw fired off some more questions, and Smokefeather winced. All of the good memories she had of being an apprentice were tainted now that Bloodstrike had tossed her aside like a piece of crowfood. He'd trained her when her actual mentor had been too much of a coward. She'd been happy with him. And now...

"Helping the medicine cat, Sagelight, collect herbs. I'd never become a medicine cat, but it was... Soothing, almost. And he was always glad to have an extra set of paws around. I preferred helping him than enduring Sunflower's fumbling attempts at battle training and hunting, at least." That much had been true, and Smokefeather had respected the old medicine cat. Talking about that was safer, even if it wasn't the typical answer most would give of what they'd enjoyed about their apprenticeship.