Warriors: Silent

7

Frostpaw laid in the late new-leaf sunshine, basking in its warmth. Nearby, Mosspaw was dragging her tail across the ground while several rambunctious kits fumbled after, squealing in delight.

Warmheart's kits were two moons old now, and as active and clumsy as ever.

Sunfur and Whitefeet had their litter a half-moon ago, and they still squirmed by her side. Slowly, though, their ears were opening. She had kept her pregnancy quiet until her belly was so swollen her Clanmates began to worry.

She'd had blue-fured tom named Duskkit. And a light yellow she-kit Whitefoot had named Doekit, on account of her large eyes.

Dawnheart eyed the playful kits in the clearing curiously, and Frostpaw wondered what thoughts went through the quiet, gentle medicine cats head. Was she envious she couldn't have her own?

Buckpaw and Littlepaw shared a crow near the warriors den, and Cricketlegs was sleeping inside. Whitefeet, Needlepelt, and Warmheart were all out hunting.

Movement caught Frostpaw's eye, and she observed Mothstar slowly padding out of his den. Quietly, he sat outside, and watched his camp with an expression Frostpaw couldn't determine. Was that a glint of happiness or sadness in his tired eyes?

Mothstar was becoming frail, his muzzle grew whiter by the dawn. Around his Clanmates, he feigned strength, but Frostpaw caught him in reserved, tired moments like this and she never knew what to feel. Does he long for the elders den?

Rolling onto her feet, Frostpaw padded towards her mother, who was sharing tongues with Crowfur. The two watched the apprentice as she approached.

She dipped her head in apology for interrupting. "Riverpelt? Would you mind taking me hunting?"

"Where's Cricketlegs?" Crowfur asked.

"He's resting." Frostpaw stated, pointing her chin towards the warriors den.

"I'd be happy to take you." Riverpelt started, twitching her tail in farewell to Crowfur.

Together, the she-cats left camp. "Anywhere in mind?" Riverpelt asked, watching her daughter fondly. Frostpaw's mother always gave her the opportunity to take charge.

"I didn't want to go far." Frostpaw considered, "Maybe to Dead Tree."

"Lead the way." Riverpelt said, dipping her head.

With her tail high, Frostpaw guided her mother down a small trail, leaping over a boulder, weaving her way through the bramble, until a dead, collapsed tree came into view.

Frostpaw opened her mouth, tasting the air. But there was no prey-scent to detect. Had she chosen a poor hunting spot?

No. Cricketlegs always taught her to be patient.

Riverpelt set down, tucking her paws beneath her, listening to her surroundings intently.

Stealthily, Frostpaw moved through the trees, eyes open and ears up. Then after some time, she came across a mouse trail. She followed the scent on high alert.

Before long, she heard a crunching, and Frostpaw spotted a brown fur ball nibbling on a bug.

Stalking forward, Frostpaw waited for the right moment to leap. The mouse was too close to a mess of tree roots and could easily slip inside.

She had moved forward one more tail-length before she shifted her legs beneath her, preparing for her pounce.

Then, leaping, Frostpaw outstretched her claws and caught the mouse's side, throwing it into the air and catching it in her mouth, killing it with a quick bite.