Mischievous (closed)

Rowanpaw

After a long day spent refining his fighting capabilities, Rowanpaw was tired. He was bouncing as he returned to camp, but the creeping soreness that would be worse in the morning had started to settle into his muscles, and his skipping step was slowed by the early stages of hazy sleepiness. He was looking forward to returning to his nest more than anything; his energy sufficiently burnt, and the leaf-fall cold starting to strengthen as the day grew later, a soft and warm nap sounded like the perfect thing. It would be a short one, but it would get him through the evening, and Rowanpaw wasted no time heading for the apprentice’s den.

Only heartbeats after he’d entered the den, he came ripping back out with a yowl, hissing and spitting curses. Little prickly thorns had found their way into his nest somehow, and now they were clinging to his flank, biting at him like little teeth. When he went wheeling to a halt long enough to twist himself around, they were easy enough to pull out, but each one came with an additional spit and an increasingly more hostile curse. When he reached the last one, he kept that one held carefully between his teeth. Whoever had done this, he would stick it right into their nose. They had earned it, after all.

Scanning the camp, the first cat he laid eyes on was Blossomkit. She was tumbling around outside the nursery, bowling a moss ball and looking quite entertained with herself. If anyone was privy to the camp happenings while the warriors and apprentices were gone, it was kits– not that it was likely they paid that sort of attention to it all. And if anyone was going to put thorns in his nest, it would have been that mischievous little brat. He’d given none of his fellow apprentices any reason to hold grudge against him, and Sprucebark would have spent the day wringing his paws over whether it was allowed. Target set and mind made up, whether it had been her or not, Rowanpaw marched right over to the nursery, placing a paw firmly over the moss ball to stop it where it rolled. Spitting the thorn out at her paws, ”You have not seen any particularly suspicious cats lurking near the apprentice den, have you? I am sure RiverClan is not suddenly plagued by fish who have learned how to walk and carry thorns in their fins aimed for unsuspecting apprentices.”