At First Glance [Lynxchaser]

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Leafbare was a harsh time for the Clans. Their numbers naturally dwindled slightly, starvation and disease the usual culprits, with exposure tagging along at times. This time, the Clans' populations had been thinned by the war that had raged between Clans. Frostheart's own Clan had suffered from war on the borders and in their own camp, the leadership of ShadowClan wrestled from Hawkstar by Bramblestrike and his staunch supporters. She had kept out of the civil strife as much as possible, keeping to the front lines and fighting with those of her fellows who put the safety of the Clan ahead of its leadership.

The ThunderClan border in particular suffered for a while, the numbers guarding it sacrificed for greater security at the more active WindClan border. To make up for the lower number of cats present, skilled fighters were stationed near the thunderpath. Apprentices were also sent to the line, and Frostheart and her apprentice Ternpaw had been stationed on the ThunderClan border one night. They were alone, as most attacks occurred during daylight hours, when the moon and silverpelt were not hanging from the sky as witnesses to the acts of war the living waged.

Hawkstar had meant for them to be sentries more than actual guards or fighters that night. The moon had crawled across the sky without incident, but just after it passed its zenith, a patrol of ThunderClan warriors had erupted from the bushes on their side of the thunderpath and streaked across, reckless with the nighttime absence of monsters. Ternpaw had spotted them first, yowling in alarm and alerting his mentor. She'd turned as soon as he cried out, claws unsheathing and ears flattening.

A pair of warriors tackled Ternpaw and set into him at once. She leapt onto one and clawed his belly, shredding the soft skin. He'd screeched and writhed in pain, seeking to avoid her claws. Another warrior had ripped her from the first, and slashed at her shoulder and flank. Ternpaw had struggled to his paws, bleeding profusely from several gashes, and sank his fangs into the warrior's haunch. This one screeched louder than the first, and Frostheart had used the opportunity to whirl and slash his throat.

At the sight of their Clanmate's death, the other four immediately set into the white ShadowClanner and her apprentice. They fought fiercely, back to back, but the ThunderClanners had the advantage of numbers and, over Ternpaw, experience. Eventually, one dragged Ternpaw down and clawed his belly to ribbons. Frostheart had dealt blows with the two facing her, each of the three leaving marks on their opponents. She managed to wound them more often than they did her, having been forced to attack her each from one side and with one paw so that their partner could move freely.

Shredding one's ear, she'd then turned and sank her claws into the other's throat, using the hold to drag the warrior to the ground. Frostheart had sank her fangs in, holding tight until she squealed and thrashed and scrabbled with sheathed claws at the white warrior's muzzle. Once Frostheart released her, the ThunderClanner and her fellow bolted back across the thunderpath. The two who had taken down Ternpaw leapt to their fellows' defense, hissing angrily.

Moons later, Frostheart still had only a vague idea of how her fight with the two remaining ThunderClanners had gone. The edges of her vision had tinged red, the haze creeping inward with every glimpse of Ternpaw lying bloody and still on the forest floor as she fought. When she came to herself and the red receded, the two had gone, and clumps of fur were lodged between her claws and teeth.

Ternpaw's eyes had gone empty sometime while she was fighting for their lives, the life draining from them even as his mentor struggled to preserve it. She had slung his body over her back and carried him back to camp once the dawn shift had arrived. They'd been shocked and horrified at the state they'd found the two in, and had assured her that they'd take care of disposing of the dead ThunderClan warrior.

She had taken him back to camp to clean before burial and for his kin to sit vigil with him. Hawkstar awarded him a warrior's name for his warrior's death, and StarClan had welcomed her apprentice as Ternclaw. His parents, Dovefur and Nightstorm, had ceased to acknowledge her existence at that moment. Save, of course, for their overloud discussions of her gross failure as both a mentor and a warrior of ShadowClan.

While her own wounds were being treated, she'd believed them. Frostheart had thought herself a failure, unworthy of life. And so she'd lacked the will to fight for her own life when her wounds became infected, and only the medicine cat's skill had saved her. Twice this happened before she began to heal in mind as well as in body. After the second time, her own brother had visited her, and railed at her about how unfair it was for her to up and leave him, leave their kin, while she was a warrior in her prime, one of the best in the Clan. While she was a brave cat who stood strong and determined, protective as any member of legendary LionClan in the face of poor odds.

Bit by bit, Sleet-tail had prodded her out of her funk, leaving her mostly in a healthy mindset, and much prouder of the scars on her body. They were still quite ugly things, cutting pale pink swathes through her long white fur, but what they represented made them beautiful as well. She could now look at her reflection in a puddle and not see a she-cat with a marred face, but one who bore badges of her service, visible for all to see her dedication and skill. For, as Sleet-tail constantly reminded her, cats with severe wounds gained them most often in combat, and of those fights, none had been easy.

With those thoughts bolstering her shrunken confidence, Frostheart was able to bloom back into her old self, striding confidently about the camp, and shouldering her way past jeering young tom-warriors on sentry duty for a lone hunt. She'd regained her love for feeling the way muscle rolled smoothly beneath her pelt, no longer hindered by the cleaved tissue or healing scabs.

Quick strides beat a quiet rhythm against the ground, carrying Frostheart through the forest and onto the marsh. Water splashed up wherever she stepped, flecking her lower legs and underbelly with droplets of muddy water. She ran on through the marsh, until the ground began to firm and dry again, and the WindClan scent-markers tickled her nose. The she-cat paused by the border, careful to keep a good cat-length and a half between herself and the markers.

It felt good to run uninhibited, even with the pull of the tight, bare skin of her scars. The cold always made the skin contract, but with her mind elsewhere, the sensation was negligible. She tilted her head back, ruined ear pointing forward, and good ear canted toward WindClan to listen for patrols. Her eyes slid shut, hiding the pale blue from the world. For once, standing within the lands StarClan had guided her ancestors to, beneath the clear blue sky, she felt something like peace touch her, settling gently beside the guilt she bore. Its presence would never erase the guilt, but, on days like today, it made it slightly easier to bear.

Because, no matter what any cat said, it was Frostheart's fault that Ternpaw had died.

_{1251 words -- it just kind of flopped out of me -- tagged! lynxchaser}

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His paws were firm upon the forest floor. The trees overhead made him nervous. He longed for the open moors, the waving grasses. Here he felt trapped, encased. The wood and leaves closed in around him, stifling him. If he screeched, yowled, begged for help, would anyone hear him? His ears twitched, back against his skull for a mere moment. He paused, parting his jaws to drink in the scents that surrounded him. There was a staleness, the dead silence of snow and hibernation. The mice, birds, little rodents that scuffled amongst the bushes, hid somewhere now – under layers of earth and roots. He frowned, pausing for a moment. His tail flicked against his back legs uneasily. He’d gathered a patrol, a small thing of himself and two other warriors. They’d split up at the border. The scent markers needed to be refreshed, ideally as quickly as possible. Tensions were still high, and Lynxchaser was loathe to start an unnecessary skirmish when so many had already been lost. His lip curled slightly up over his teeth, his nose wrinkling as he neared the border with Shadowclan. There was a reek of death, decay, a sourness. Of course, his own biases played into this interpretation.

He paused to renew a scent marker, his ears perking. He could hear no sound of his companions. He treasured the moment of solitude, even if the stench of Shadowclan wrapped it’s way around his fur, sinking into him. He heaved a sigh. Exhaustion was heavy on him, weighing on his paws. Nightshade, their previous deputy, had gone, leaving a surprised Lynxchaser in his place. The clan was eager to rebuild, replenish, to regain what they had once been. Too many bodies had been buried, too many mates and daughters and sons lost. Though he had lost no one that moon, nor in the skirmishes that had taken so many, he couldn’t help but think of his own loss. A memory washed over him, filling him with a white hot grief.

Lynxchaser was padding over a hill on the moors. His head and shoulders stood high above the waving grasses. He walked with strength, youthful vigor. He was well-muscled – a tom in his prime. A smile pulled at his lips as he turned and angled his eyes towards the ground. A long tail waved out of the grass at his side, though the rest of the body was concealed by the prairie’s grass. The tips of excitedly perked ears peeked out from the grass. Lynxchaser paused and rumbled a deep laugh as muffled words came from the grass. He shook his head, chuckling as he called out to the small shape at his side. “You’ll have to speak up son,” He paused his walking beside a large, seemingly misplaced, boulder. A second later, a little tom leapt up onto the rock, settling excitedly. Even perched on the boulder, he was still only at his father’s height. Little Tanglekit had just become Tanglepaw. His voice was high and squeaky when he spoke.

“I said, I could run really fast if there wasn’t all this grass in the way!”Lynxchaser laughed, shaking his head. He leaned in close, grinning at his son. Tanglepaw leaned forward excitedly, expecting some great secret to be shared between the two of them. He was nearly bouncing on his paws. Lynxchaser waited until his son was perched quite precariously, nearly tumbling off his stone. And with a gentle nudge, sent his only child flailing into the grass with a yelp. Lynxchaser boomed laughter and bounded a few steps away. An indignant and yowling Tanglepaw gave chase, their laughter the only thing echoing in the silent grasses.

Lynxchaser’s lips pulled into a frown as the memory faded. At the time, he had thought they might live forever. It had been a foolish ideal, and one that had been shattered only moons later. He still remembered the exact place of that happy memory, and had requested to have his son buried near that boulder. That little hill had been a favorite spot for father and son. Lynxchaser lowered his eyes, no longer able to look at the sky. Sorrow settled on him. He pushed the memory away, the echo of Tanglepaw’s laughter. The little tom was gone, his body buried moons – years – ago. Lynxchaser had aged, could have been a grandfather. He drew in a ragged breath, forcing his paws to move forward. He couldn’t bring Tanglepaw back. He spent every night searching his dreams for the young tom, for a hint of his spirit, of his forgiveness. But there was nothing. He strode forward, an anger in his movements, but also a practiced calm. He neared the border, freezing. A scent washed over him, fresh, present, living and breathing. He forced his lips not to curl with distaste, though his eyes hardened and narrowed slightly. He moved closer, out of the bushes, revealing himself still clearly up on his own side.

_{820 words -- so many feels -- tagged! frostheart}

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Her head was tilted back, simply enjoying the feeling of sunlight on her face. It warmed the scars on her muzzle and over her eye, countering the chilly winds that blew from the moor. The ear canted toward WindClan twitched at the sound of pawsteps, and blue eyes cracked open. It was a faint sound, and she sometimes mistook the natural sounds of a windy day for pawsteps now that her hearing was much diminished. Frostheart shook her head to clear the cobwebs from her thoughts and cast her gaze toward the border.

A large tom stood there, his long brown tabby fur doing nothing to hide his muscular build. His green eyes were hardened, and glued to the ShadowClan side of the border. He stood carefully back from the border, like her, presumably to ensure that she did not suspect him to be on her Clan's land, as she'd done. She approached the border slowly, deliberately, keeping herself a good distance from the border. Her eyes flicked to behind the tom, one she vaguely recognized from a Gathering. Frostheart wondered if he was on a border patrol or a hunting patrol, and if so, where the other cats on the patrol were.

She sat and curled her tail neatly over her paws, a flash of irritation running through her at the sight of all the mud flecking the long strands. The scarred warrior kept her body language deliberately unthreatening, muscles loose and ears held casually, the ruined one twitching when the wind danced along the sensitive edge of scar tissue. Though the war hadn't just been between ThunderClan and ShadowClan, she hadn't fought along this border often. In fact, she'd learned more about the WindClan fighting style through her brother Sleet-tail than she had through experience.

Sleet-tail had often bragged that his words had been as intimidating as his skill in combat, grooming her fur while she was in the medicine cat's den. He had once even told her that the fighting had come to a stalemate long enough for the medicine cats to tend to each Clan's wounded, and that he'd spent some of that time chatting with a couple of WindClan's more amiable warriors. One, a tan tabby with a skewed hind leg, had been the unsuspecting victim of Sleet-tail's chattering mode, and had been inundated with stories of his and Frostheart's adventures, which was polished off with the story of her fight with the ThunderClan patrol that had landed her in the medicine den, and the overconfident declaration that he was his sister's equal.

In reality, Frostheart was the best fighter of the three, though neither herself nor Swanfeather could touch Sleet-tail's tracking abilities. Dainty, beautiful Swanfeather was the best hunter, which had surprised her siblings as apprentices. They'd taken bets as to how often she'd be distracted by her own reflection, and whether or not she'd even go near the marsh. As it turned out, Swanfeather was unafraid of getting dirty, although she was very insistent that she groom her fur immediately after any such excursion. Frostheart had reacted to that by wrestling with Swanfeather in a patch of mud, grinning broadly at her sister's screeching once she'd realized what the broader she-cat had done.

Drawing herself back to the present, Frostheart tilted her head slightly and regarded the WindClanner. "Patrolling alone?" she asked, voice neutral. Patrolling alone wasn't a good idea, even now that peace had returned to the Clans. There were always a few cats who were happier with chaos and bloodshed raging around them than the calm of the world. Thankfully, ShadowClan's coup had fixed that mindset in any of her own fellows, and ThunderClan once again acted as though the thunderpath could have a monster flying down it at any moment.

_{625 words -- she pooped out on me D= -- tagged! lynxchaser}

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He couldn’t truly pinpoint his aggression towards Shadowclanners, or at least a reason for it. His beloved son hadn’t been stolen by a cat, by any kind of cat. Rather it had been a badger, stupid and lumbering and violent, that had whisked away that fragile life. Some whispered that it was reasonless. Perhaps, deep down, Lynxchaser understood why he hated them. In a way, perhaps he needed to hate someone. He couldn’t hate the badger. It had not been malicious in intention, rather simply stupid. Tanglepaw had happened upon the beast, and paid the price. But with his grief, his anger, Lynxchaser had to point it at someone. And that someone was standing precariously close, a few bounds across the scent boundaries. He watched her closely, his eyes travelling the length of her body. She was heavily scarred, one ear completely shredded. Long claw marks stretched over seemingly every inch of her skin. Whole patches of fur were gone. She looked like some macabre toy, as if someone had torn her to shreds, then haphazardly sewn the pieces back together again. She was a marionette, dancing on delighted strings. There was something utterly creepy about it, and the life that glowed behind her eyes, betraying her for what she was – a survivor.

He recognized the she-cat, dimly. He’d seen her perhaps at Gatherings in moons past. He remembered faintly something about a skirmish between Thunderclan and Shadowclan, an unusually vicious thing. His lips folded into a thin line. This female was a survivor, true. But he couldn’t help but wonder at what the cost of her life had been. She seemed aged, moons stolen by the jagged raised puckered skin that covered her flanks and parts of her face. Lynxchaser stood stock still, reluctant to sit in her presence – as if somehow it would display a weakness. “I am never alone.” His voice rumbled, his eyes narrowing slightly. He couldn’t decide whether her words were a lightly veiled threat. His lips twitched, yearning to curl into a snarl. But he kept himself calm. He was deputy of Windclan, and he was determined to behave as such. His ears flicked back. He saw no companions for the she-cat. He flicked his tail towards the moors behind him. “My patrol awaits my lead, but what of you?” He bluffed easily. He knew his warriors weren’t far. He could call, raise his voice to a yowl, and they would find him. This he knew. But he couldn’t help but wonder if anyone would come looking for this marionette of a warrior.

Even from his place a few paces away from the border, the rank scent of Shadowclan swirled around his nostrils. It was sharp, rancid, smelt of decay and illness and regret – if regret was even a scent. He couldn’t stay still, he couldn’t keep staring at her. Somehow it was as if she was winning, by her stillness or her mere presence. He moved forward. After all, he’d come to do a very specific job. This was a border patrol, and the borders needed to be strengthened. He kept eye contact as he moved to the very edge of the border, brushing along trees and bushes along the way – leaving his scent strong and wafting from the leaves. He urinated subtly, the scent of rabbits and the moors now mingling with decay and disease. He wouldn’t cross. Oh no, he was not so foolish nor so headstrong. He had a certain wisdom about him. He kept carefully to his own side of the border. But his disdain, the anger and hostility, rolled off him in waves. His eyes were a challenge. He wanted to see the broken marionette dance, to pull her strings and see her move those shattered old bones.

_{632 words -- scary new side of lynx -- tagged! frostheart}

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She knew how most cats outside her own Clan saw her, RiverClan and WindClan especially. ThunderClan, at least, knew exactly how she'd obtained her scars and recognized them for the marks of a skilled warrior that they were. But some cats looked at her with horror, ushering their apprentices behind her. They saw the way her body had been ravaged, and assumed that she was broken, that she was somehow less for her wounds. Frostheart had let them look, and held her head proudly high. No matter how her temper had flared, she'd kept it under control, purely because she knew they hungered for a reaction, yearned to see her react to them and validate their opinions of her.

A dim spark of recognition flared in the tom's eyes. So he recognized her too, then. The set of his muzzle was severe, prodding a further sense of recognition. He was... she'd seen him near Ravenstar, the WindClan leader. He'd sat at the base of the boulder during the Gathering, with the other three deputies. WindClan's deputy sat across the border from her, eying her with no suspicion, no anger. Interesting. Her head tilted a fraction, and Frostheart blinked.

“I am never alone.”

"Silly Frostheart, I'm never alone! I've always got you, right?" Ternpaw had grinned at her, so earnest and so trusting that she hadn't been able to disagree, to tell him that one day he'd have to stand on his own four paws, by himself. She'd promised him she'd always be there for him, always be beside him. And she'd done her best to keep that promise to the last moment of his life and beyond, sitting vigil in the entrance to the medicine den while his parents sat vigil beside his body. Her body had been screaming and wailing at her, wounds reminding her harshly of their presence and severity, attempting to drag her down and cast her back in her nest. But Frostheart could be a very stubborn cat, and so she'd remained at her vigil for the entire night, light-headed and seeing double by moonhigh.

At times, she wondered how Ternpaw saw their promise now. She wondered if he'd watch her from Silverpelt at night, or if he ever walked the world of the living, unseen and unheard, his starry paws carrying him along beside his mentor as she prowled the forest or marsh. She wondered if he even thought of her, or if he'd found some leader of legend to occupy him. If he'd found a pretty she-cat amongst the StarClan warriors. If he was happy. If he still thought of her as an older sister, and if he missed talking to her. Once she'd come out of her funk and healed fully, Frostheart had spared a thought for what Ternpaw would have said to her nearly moping to death. He'd have laughed at her, no doubt, told her how silly she was being, how she could no more have predicted the attack or defeated five warriors alone than she could fly.

“My patrol awaits my lead, but what of you?”

So he wasn't alone. Well, not wholly. But if he truly thought her a threat, he'd have called at least one member of his patrol over. Since he hadn't, Frostheart assumed that he wasn't concerned with driving her away from the border. In fact, the deputy looked as though he could hardly stand the scent of ShadowClan. She couldn't fathom a cat who thought that way. The marsh had a rich, muddy scent to it, earthy in a way that made Frostheart feel grounded and comfortable. From the pine forest drifted threads of the sharp tang of sap and the needles, something Sleet-tail had confided smelled to him exactly like vitality. She merely looked the tom in the eye.

He moved forward and rubbed himself on the plants along the WindClan half of the border, the potent smell of piss drifting toward her on a light breeze. Frostheart raised one muddy paw and cleaned the flecks from the top side before placing it on the ground again. The tip of her tail flicked, rising and falling steadily. "I hunt alone."

_{678 words -- FROSTIE YOU UNHELPFUL BUTT -- tagged! lynxchaser}

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He should have left. He should have walked away. He had done his job, renewed the borders. His task was complete. He could rejoin his patrol, rejoin his clan, forget this little marionette. But something held him rooted. He was suddenly incredibly conscious of the leaves brushing his belly, the feeling of quiet pebbles beneath his paws, damp dirt between his toes. Soon enough, his warriors would come looking. They would scent him, follow him, curiosity in their gazes. And they would find him, here, his gaze rooted to this she-cat of little consequence. These thoughts coursed through his brain, yet he didn’t move. He watched her carefully. There was a confidence about her, though this wasn’t surprising. With the scars she had, that riddled her body, he doubted there was much that scared her anymore. Whatever, or whomever had left their mark upon her skin, was likely far worse than he. And she had survived. What then could she have to fear, could she have to let those little insecurities trickle in? What was the worst he could do? In all likelihood, he would do nothing. He had no reason. And he was not so foolish to start a war over a chance meeting.

He found, as he stood watching her, that she was less broken than he had first assumed. She did look like some strange pieced together creature. But there was something utterly strong about her. The mere word “broken” implied a sort of weakness or defeat. Yet nothing of this sort pulsed from this she-cat. She wore her scars with pride, like tales of the long ago Bloodclan, with their teeth hanging from bits of string and fur. She danced with a grace, her every movement a challenge. “Fly higher than me”, those little strings said. He couldn’t shake that image – of needles and strings attached to her muscles. Yet previously he had thought it rather crude. He had imagined those strings jerking her about, violent and volatile and entirely revolting in some manner. But the hand, or paw, that held those strings now seemed far more practiced. And rather than that mystical paw guiding her movements, she seemed to be guiding him. She was pulling the strings of heaven and fate with a graceful confident ease. That little marionette had rebelled against her master, sought a new future. And now she stood before him, whirling and dancing with every grace.

He pushed these thoughts away. He was allowing himself to become distracted, lost in thought. And as he knew from past experience, his mind was no place to linger. It got too serious, too quiet, too quickly. It could pull him down, wrap vines around his limbs, hold him fast. He couldn’t wriggle away, not until it drowned him, drained him of energy and hope, and whispered with Tanglepaw’s voice all of his failures and sins. He cleared his throat slightly, arching a brow at her words. “Is that entirely safe, in times like these?” He meant no threat towards her. His words weren’t concerned or kind, but neither were they hostile. He simply was surprised. Many of the clans had opted to travel in groups, restrict solitary forays. So many had been lost, many couldn’t afford to lose more. And as high as tensions were, a single paw in the wrong place could send things bubbling over. And then the blood would spill, again, staining their paws red. Little bodies torn beyond repair. Lynxchaser’s voice lowered. “You’re brave to do such a thing.”

_{591words -- hum de dum -- tagged! frostheart}

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