Restlessness [C]

Larchpaw felt satisfied with himself, just a little bit more than usual. On his most recent patrol, he'd seen something poking out of the snow by the border. He'd dug it up and found a feather. It looked a bit bedraggled and gray, but once it dried it would be the perfect soft addition to his nest. Who else in WindClan could say they found feathers for their nest in the middle of leaf-bare? So he'd debated for a few minutes what angle looked best when he tucked it in, and then stared for a few minutes more at his perfection. By the time he became a warrior, his nest might be too heavy to move with all the nice things that cats would give him as tokens of respect and admiration. Dreams of his future warriorhood constructed themselves easily in his mind as he exited the den, a vacant smile sitting upon his face.

A voice across camp, calling to him. He blinked hard, golden eyes whirling around, until he saw a brown blur rushing at him from the other end of the hollow. It was one of the older apprentices--Oatpaw or something like that. He couldn't recall whether they'd spoken much before, but the tom looked friendly. The energy vibrating from his paws was one that Larchpaw liked, and so he reciprocated with a wide grin. "It's Oatpaw, right? I'd be happy to go out. Sounds much better than sitting around in camp, for sure." He shook out his flame-orange calico tabby fur, flicking his tail in response. "We wouldn't want your paws to freeze, would we? How about... the last one to the flower field is a lame rabbit!" Without any further warning, he turned smoothly on the snowy ground and leapt into a run, streaking like a jet of fire out of the camp entrance. Wind whipped around his face, and he closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the feeling. Surely Oatpaw would follow. And he'd been right--getting out of camp was far better than anything else, no matter how proud he'd been of the feather in his nest.

This was why WindClan was the superior Clan. Larchpaw, as always, couldn't keep away a grin when he started to run. The seemingly endless moor stretching out before him, the soft dirt beneath his paws and the breeze in his fur, the brilliantly blue sky. Running like this was what he lived for. And, it seemed that Oatpaw felt similarly. He saw a brown blur in the corner of his vision, nearly catching up to him. His smile grew wider. He slowed his pace just slightly, so that the other apprentice could catch up--but then he sped back up, so that they were running nearly in sync. Running with another cat didn't require any words. It was pure communication--heart to heart, soul to soul. Both reveling in the sensation of their feet hitting the ground, of the world flying under them. It was cold outside, but Larchpaw hardly noticed the temperature behind the thrill of speed. He was just enjoying this moment. If life were only this moment, that would be all he needed.

But there, ahead--he saw the flower field. The bright purple shine of early-newleaf crocuses beginning to pop up against the dried brown leaf-bare grasses was easy to spot. The flame-orange calico tabby put on an extra burst of speed, feeling the rush of wind beneath him as he leapt even further. His body was built for this kind of activity; not so much for jumping or strength in fighting, but for pure swiftness. Just another second till he got there--just one more--and then Larchpaw stopped, digging his claws into the soft peaty soil in order to stop himself. His chest heaved, breaths heavy, but he'd never felt more alive. Oatpaw was no slouch, though. They'd reached the field at nearly the same time. "Too close to call," he said warmly between deep breaths. Sparkling golden eyes met the other tom's gaze. "I guess neither of us are lame. You're pretty good. Not freezing anymore, are you?"