Rough Starts [Open to 1]

Hollowpaw sat in one of the many pitfalls of shadow that his camp was renowned for, sharp yellow eyes unblinking, as he observed the happenings of his Clanmates. He was fresh out of the nursery, but he already looked like a warrior in the making. There was something about the way he held himself, even when he was sitting down, that exuded owlish confidence. His expression was lackluster, eerily vacant, but alert just the same. It seemed like there was next to nothing that would escape him, and that was precisely the moment he saw her.

He was far younger than ShadowClan’s medicine cat, but he still regarded her from his shaded spot along the outskirts of camp like she was a piece of prey. Even from a distance, he could tell her fur was fluffed up, and he absentmindedly pondered the reasoning behind her discomfort. There was only so much that could be gathered from afar, so he decidedly stood to his full height and then crossed camp to interact with her. It was unlike Hollowpaw to go out of his way to socialize, and despite his newfound motivation to do so, his reluctance was as thick as fog; he would’ve largely preferred to remain where he was, alone and uncommitted to a task, but Sparrowpelt’s behaviour struck him as too good of an opportunity to pass up. If it took something as easy as walking through camp to unsettle her, he’d want to know for future reference.

“Sparrowpelt.” The black and white smoke tom greeted her with a polite, respectful dip of his head. It was far too easy for him to fall into character. As soon as her eyes found his, he would own a different personality entirely, and it’d wrap around him like a warm blanket and become true of him in seconds flat. On some level, it was true of him, for he practiced it often enough that it hardly felt like a charade anymore. “Can I be of assistance? You look like you’re searching for something.” He prompted her for information with an open-ended question and wide, innocent eyes. He had no idea that it was Sparrowpelt, on the contrary, that was out to offer assistance of some kind. From where he stood, she had looked lost and uncertain, and it was his sole mission in that moment to uncover why—they were, after all, two of his favourite qualities to see.

He’d always suspected medicine cats to be among the most knowledgeable throughout the Clans. For that, he had taken it upon himself to be wary of them, but it was pure luck if nothing else that his medicine cat was an exception. It wasn’t to say that he belittled what her mind was capable of, but rather that he felt comfortable enough to disregard it when she was so clearly focused elsewhere. The day was calm, and for all intents and purposes peaceful, but it managed to rattle Sparrowpelt’s foundation. She confided that she was unsure where to start, and even asked him if he’d seen anyone in need of her assistance; he could’ve given her a name out of the goodness of his heart, for he could’ve sworn he’d seen a passing warrior with a cough, but he didn’t. His reason for approaching her had been routed to her struggling. If he brought an end to it too quickly his time would be wasted.

He shook his head, eyes filled to the brim with an unspoken apology. “I’m afraid not. Everyone I’ve seen today has looked like the picture of health.” There was always something a medicine cat could be doing. He figured she could leave camp to collect herbs if she wasn’t needed. However, he’d let her draw to her own conclusions. He wasn’t here to make her life easier; on the contrary, he’d be delighted if his comment sent her into further disarray. He played the role of the concerned, generous Clanmate effortlessly despite his intentions. After a couple heartbeats of silence, he tipped his head to the side curiously. “Are you sure you’re feeling like yourself, Sparrowpelt?” She was merely anxious—anyone could see that, and she’d told him as much herself—but he wasn’t above a sly attempt at expanding upon it for his own amusement. Hollowpaw had an undeveloped understanding of emotion, and as a self-confident, proud individual, he had no clue what it felt like to be grasped by the skeletal, cold fingers of anxiety. “It might be best if I take you back to your den for a breather, hm?”

He made a show of sucking in a large gulp of air. Did the air feel tense, or was that just him? Hollowpaw, of course, had no trouble breathing, but he liked to think he knew how to make the world feel like it was deafeningly small. His facial expression was carved out of as much sincerity and kindness as he could muster. If she took the bait, he’d happily escort her back to her den, and then he’d even considering talking with her for a while until everything calmed down. After all, he knew better than to push his limits. If he didn’t see to it that she was okay, his intentions could be seen for what they were, and that wasn’t something he was going to tolerate.

It seemed like no amount of pressing was going to convince Sparrowpelt to backtrack. She was here, in the middle of camp for all eyes to see, and unsettled which he could tell from a quick glance, but his presence alone wasn’t enough to deter whatever confidence she’d conjured out of thin air to make this adventure possible in the first place. Hollowpaw’s initial disappointment didn’t reach his eyes. It didn’t so much as reach his brain. It had been a small, needle-sharp prick at the back of his neck if nothing else, and now it was a thing of the past he’d never reflect on again. Just because his plan didn’t pan out exactly how he wished for it to, didn’t mean the medicine cat wasn’t playing into his hand. The sweetness of his guise was too thick to be seen through, and he clung to it like it was life-support. She had suddenly and all at once become less of an interest to him, because her weakness wasn’t something he could exploit single-handedly; it would be rude, however, to dismiss himself without answering her question, for it had clearly taken a toll on her to ask for the information in the first place.

He considered his response in contemplative silence. Her discomfort wasn’t something he could strengthen, but it was something he could at the very least prolong. “Herb-collecting along our border with WindClan should seldom be done alone, as our suspicions at the last Gathering in regards to the border being pushed in their favour haven’t yet been settled. I’m hesitant to believe any blood will be shed as a result of what we’ve accused them of, but I’m prepared nonetheless should Darkstar think our land hasn’t been returned to us in a sufficient amount.” He studied her expression closely as he spoke. His thoughts were generalized, and made to resemble that of the common ShadowClan cat that had a bone to pick with WindClan. If he’d handed out a genuine, personalized opinion, he would’ve told Sparrowpelt that he wanted Darkstar to threaten their neighbours with an attack. He would be more than enthused about the fight itself, but what excited him even more than that was the prospect of seeing how WindClan handled themselves. It would be an excellent way to examine a variety of individual weaknesses first-hand both in and out of his Clan.

“If you require any herbs from that area, I’d be more than happy to send a warrior on your behalf.” Polite and poised as ever, he awaited instruction unblinkingly. It certainly wouldn’t hurt his reputation throughout the Clan if word went around that he’d helped the medicine cat in some fashion without it being asked of him. As per usual, there had to be something in it for him, and it was simply an added bonus that it made him look like a considerate, reliable face amongst camp. Keeping the higher-ups in his Clan pleased with him, after all, was a very important part of the game.

Leader-in-training. It was an interesting thought, and the idea of it remained long after she finished her sentence. Hollowpaw, against popular opinion among cats his age, had never fantasized about the position. While it was true that he liked to have subtle control over situations, half of the fun lied in the fact that an apprentice wasn’t expected to be the one with influence; if he ascended into a position of authority come a certain age, cats would turn to him for decision-making, and then it would cease to be a game. Right now, it was the last thing he wanted, but he supposed there was room for that to change. At this point in his life, hardly anything was written in stone, and the possibilities were something he was hesitant to see an end to.

Sparrowpelt asked for his opinion on the matter, which was a direct violation of everything the snake he was stood for. Surprise flitted through his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as a passing breeze. How honest, exactly, did he want to be? There was no denying the itch he felt whenever battle was mentioned, and even now, standing as still as a statue, his claws reluctantly remained in their sheathes. WindClan would be hesitant to shed blood, of that he was certain, because he was the farthest thing from hesitant; they didn’t know that now, but one day they would, and on StarClan’s name he swore the rest of the Clans would as well. His warrior name would be spoken in hushed whispers, and he’d stand for nothing less. “Fighting for our grounds is the best way to guarantee that we aren’t taken lightly by our neighbours. I’d like to see to it that a point is made clearly.” It was oddly true for someone who was otherwise unclear in everything he did.

There was no harm in Sparrowpelt knowing that Darkstar’s apprentice was willing to fight, for in his opinion, they were all supposed to be willing if nothing else. It was the quickest way to take back what was theirs, but it wasn’t necessarily the easiest should it result in lost lives. Luckily for Hollowpaw, it didn’t concern him who lived or died as long as he was alive. “A battle could result in a few more occupied nests in your den,” he commented airily, searching her expression for discomfort at the thought of sharing a den with a couple other bodies through the night. “So I’d assume that you’d like it to stay that way, then?” It was undoubtedly different for the healers than it was for the warriors. For warriors, the work was done on the battlefield, but it didn’t begin for the medicine cats until the triumphant and the defeated returned to their respected lands.