how the mighty fall ❧ // warrior cats

V - EXCHANGE

     After two sunrises, Streamheart decides it's time for a change. Over a breakfast of mice, she tells Stonetail, "Coal knows his way around the territory. We should be teaching them to fight like ShadeClan cats now."

     Stonetail nearly chokes on a small rib. "Already?" she wheezes, ducking her head until the bone reappears in the grass, slick with saliva. Cringing, the grey tabby looks back at her friend. "Shouldn't we do hunting techniques first and really prove they know their way around? Coal may have the land memorized, but I can't say for sure if Clay's been paying attention." It is a fair concern; the ruddy brown tom spends most of his time chattering away whether Stonetail is listening or not. If he knows ShadeClan's landmarks, he certainly doesn't talk about them.

     This doesn't dissuade Streamheart. She neatly severs her mouse's tail and casts it aside to finish the bulk of the meat. Through a full mouth, she exclaims, "We need them to be ready to fight like us, not hunt the same way we do! Didn't you hear what the patrol found by the WillowClan border?"

     "No. What?"

     "They found cat scent this morning!" Streamheart's blue eyes flash conspiratorially as she adds, "But it's not WillowClan at all. Pineheart said she almost missed it, but it's definitely there."

     Somehow, Stonetail does not share the silver she-cat's excitement. Foreign scents rarely bode well, and it strikes her that her hunt with Coal took place near the very border in question. Suddenly the faint scent she had ignored in the heat of catching her jay causes her stomach to twist. She pushes her breakfast away.

     "Let's teach them," she agrees without explanation, rising to her feet. "It's probably best."

     "Meet you in the grove, then. You get Clay, I'll get Coal." Streamheart takes the scraps of Stonetail's mouse, not bothering to ask and most certainly not wasting good prey. Bobbing her head in agreement, Stonetail pads towards the elders' den where she can see Clay's thick tail twitching in the entrance. He's taken a liking to Brightface, who tells superb legends about the first Clans. The brown loner often hovers by the patchy old tom like an apprentice, listening to traditional ShadeClan lore.

     Stonetail hopes Clay is as good at telling stories as he is at sitting through them. There's one tale she's eager to hear, and as she beckons him away from Brightface's nest, she asks, "What can you tell me about this murderer you're running from?"

»»««

     By the time they arrive at the grove, Clay has proven himself a horrific storyteller. His order of events is jarring, sometimes repetitive or cyclical, and he has an overwhelming tendency to recall only his own point of view, however narrow, over most everything else. The only thing of value Stonetail gleans from the convoluted tangent is a description about a half-remembered scent.

     "Like a ghost. Or smoke." Clay shudders, broad shoulders shaking in what would be a comical way if his tone weren't so cautious. "It doesn't smell good, but it's hard to notice. And it means he's catching up." Despite obvious efforts to remain upbeat, a thin film of fear slides over the tabby's eyes. A pang of sympathy erupts in Stonetail's chest, and she opts to keep the border patrol's discovery a secret. Disrupting Clay's focus any more than she already has before training could lead to injuries easily avoided.