Chief

Chief

 Bowing my head, I knelt down in front of Chief Nightclaw. I waited for him to allow me to rise, to explain myself and to let me go, perhaps with just a warning. I hoped he would, anyway, but alas, I knew that wouldn't happen. Ok, maybe he might let me rise, but explain myself and let me go off with a warning was pure dreams and wild thoughts. He hated me, simple as that. He was Wolf and I was Cat. Right from the beginning of time, our races never got on well, and the pact between the Four Races was just an excuse to prolong the war. Give them time to figure out our weaknesses.

           From the moment I was let into the Tsaoc Tribe, he always looked upon me with scorn, like I was only another heart to keep alive. I was a ragged, scrawny kit; no-one expected me to live. Only Silvercoat saw me as anything of use and good. Maybe she was just lonely, or maybe she knew I needed someone to take care of me if I was to live. I was old enough to look after myself then, but I'd been starving for days and had had little to drink.

            I could still feel Nightclaw’s eyes boring into me, but if I stood or raised my head without being told to, he would lash out at me. That's the last thing I needed right now, more blood on my pelt. I guess he’d strike me anyway, just because he can.

            “Stand up, runt.” He growled at me. He had a deep growl, one that made most cringe and take a step back. If sent a shiver down my spine, but it no longer scared me. I’d gotten to use to it.

            As is rose, I took a look at my Chief. He looked like he usually did, with eagle feathers in his hair, ferret-tail shoulder pads and, my most hated of his adornments, cat pelt skirt. Each item was a “gift” from each species, although when they were given to him is debatable. Or if they were given at all, personally I reckon they were taken from dead beasts.

            On his shoulder sat his right-paw man, Hardbeak Warflapper the crow. Hardbeak was a formidable fighter; a war veteran after the Forbidden Races led a revolt against the mainland roughly six seasons back. The islands and Forbidden races are since then no longer part of the Pact; they are still tolerated, but there are no laws to protect them on the mainland, so they stick to themselves or tp the islands. Hardbeak usually seemed indifferent with my actions and the consequences, today he seemed quiet pissed off at me.

            “How many times have you been before me?” He didn’t even wait for me to reply before he continued. “Too many, and that’s for sure. I try and be just with you, but it seems you don’t care what I say.  My rules are there to protect…”

            “Your rules are there to suppress any forms of unrest.” I mutter. Unfortunately he hears me; it was obvious by the backpawed smack that is delivered clean to the side of my face. I spat the blood out onto the floor, realizing my mistake only once it had hit the floor. I tried to shuffle my feet so as to stand on it, but with my hands tied behind my back and still kneeling on the compacted dirt floor, it was hard to do so.

            “How dare you spit on my floor!” He shouted at me, the hair on the back of his neck standing on up. He was mad, that much I could tell, I hadn’t seen him like this before. Hardbeak had hopped of his shoulder and was marching around on the floor, eyeing me. “First you fight with my men, then you insult me in such a low manner! You’ve gone too far this time Targæt! Your usual punishments are too shallow and weak for this. The only punishment severe enough for you is exile.”

            My eyes opened wider as I hear that, my ears perked up despite the pain it brought to my cheek. Exile! It sounded harsh, but I spent most of my time in the wilderness as it was, one of my many rule-breaking acts. I couldn’t run away, even if I wanted to. I couldn’t leave Silvercoat after all that she’s done for me. But if I was exiled, it would mean that I would have to leave.