He/Him
23 Moons
ShadowClan Warrior & Thief
PENNED BY Sheogorath
It's a bitter day. A gentle rain falls from overcast skies, and a cold wind sweeps across muddied ground. Nettlefrost sees only darkness, though he moves with relative confidence through the chilled pools and damp earth. He can hear the breath of his companion nearby, and his thoughts churn briefly in regards to what they might be thinking. Mothbite had been around for moons. Since ShadowClan's earliest days. But Nettlefrost had always been a loner. In the same clan, sure, but solitary in a way that might indicate distrust. With cats like Wolfpack in the same group, who could blame him? It was only recently that Nettlefrost began to see the value or working with others. Desperation made for desperate decisions, after all.
He leads the hunt into the darkness of short, thick trees, feeling the grit crunch beneath his paws with every step. The sound of a crow cuts through the song of the cold wind, and Nettlefrost pauses, one paw hovering above the mud as he scents the surrounding air. Perhaps they could track the bird down and make a kill? The gnawing pain in his stomach drives him to try, at the very least. The Thief moves toward the sound, brushes past thick undergrowth and slinks into chilled shadow. Though his eyes were empty and sightless, his nose and ears worked in overtime. Feathers ruffled. A beak clacked. Talons coiled against splintered old bark which sounded hollow. A fallen tree? Now soggy and rotting. The smell of it hits him before the scent of the bird, but Nettlefrost recognizes the location quickly enough.
He moves into position, a place where he thinks his presence will be hidden enough. And then? A paw presses against a fallen twig, knocked free by the wind. Nettlefrost couldn't have noticed it, but he feels it. He shifts his weight, but it's not fast enough. The twig snaps. The sound pierces the quiet. The crow flees. And Nettlefrost? He drowns in frustration. In the hunger that swallows his soul. His tail lashes and he spits a curse toward the earth.
"Sorry." The Thief offers the low voiced apology toward Mothbite. "Should have let you take the lead on that." Nettlefrost swallows thickly, as if trying to drown the taste of his own mistake. How could he have predicted that the wind and rain would knock that twig right into his path? Any other cat would have seen it. But he couldn't. He could only adapt. The tom kicks the twig away with a sweep of his striped paw, and blows out a sigh that feels heavy, like a weight in his throat. He felt as if the whole clan was watching him now. He wonders if Mothbite will tell everyone. The story of Nettlefrost, the failed hunter. I'm just trying to survive! Like everyone else. And yet there were many who would judge him for it.
"We'll find something else." He decides. We have to.
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