#sandfang

“Not good enough.” Rough words rumbled against a parched throat; Rowanfang stood back to allow Honeypaw to regain her footing. She skirted away, doing her best to project indifference; she knew the sting shone in her eyes all the same.

Sitting down, the young Warrior watched a boar-beat roll by to let Honeypaw smooth her ruffled coat and the onlookers consider their verdict. Honeypaw glowered; they weren’t doing a very good job of it, for all that her scuffle in the sand was worth.

Applepaw’s blue eyes searched for her own, lighting up with Honeypaw met her gaze with as much enthusiasm as she could muster; Creekpaw was completing her third lap around the training hollow and seemed to pay more attention to her pawsteps than the lesson.

Rowanfang veered towards her. “Creekpaw; what did Honeypaw do right?”

The patched kitten was jarred out of her path, looking up. Already the pupils within her yellow eyes were too dilated for such a clear morning; she looked at Rowanfang’s brows, not her eyes.

“She didn’t protect her neck; she grappled your shoulders and arms instead of trying to control your head, which left her vulnerable to that ending... sorry, Honeypaw.”

“Don’t say that; it’s well-deserved, and if I know my weaknesses I can work on them,” the flame point replied; she could see Applepaw’s tail waving from the corner of her eye.

A whistle of breath slid between Rowanfang’s teeth. “Oh, she definitely has a bit to work on; not too bad being Lichencloud’s apprentice and all... “

The fur along her spine rippled; she worked to keep it down under the Warrior’s eyes.

“I’m not asking that; I’m asking what she did right.”

Creekpaw blinked. “Oh, yeah.”

“Sheath your tongue, Rowanfang,” a new voice crested the riverbed; all four cats swiveled towards it. “Honeypaw didn’t let you get a grip on her all the same. Though trying to control the pointy bits in such tight quarters is essential, she was just about ready to knock you off balance and scramble off anyways. Could use some work, but not as much as you’re implying.”

A pretty pale molly stood where a pool would once have rested; she trotted down the shallow banks, shadowed by a chocolate ticked tabby. Her movements were stiff as the older cat’s thanks to a tailless rump; her smile was flexible and reached every gaze gathered.

“Pansypelt!” Applepaw bounded forward, leaving Honeypaw feeling flustered as her sister shared an affectionate greeting with her mentor. Her enthusiasm carried her to the next visitor easily. “Oh, Sandfang! What are you doing here?”

Honeypaw had to note the strangeness of the situation; Sandfang, all scrapes and nicked ears with shoulders too broad for his body, was an Elder, retired long before Applepaw and Honeypaw had ever dreamed of Ashclan, let alone forest. She'd never spotted him out and about, not even sunbathing with Bramblecloud and Frogthroat. Seeing the retired Warrior in the sunlight was almost intimidating; even at his age he was a handsome face.

He did not quite look at Applepaw as he answered her.”I’m the last survivor of the Blight to bear -fang; we thought it wise to pass on even a bit of that before I get confined to my den.” Honeypaw tried to follow his gaze; it shifted before she could pinpoint who -or what- had him looking so severe.

“Aren’t you always in there?” Rowanfang quipped; jib or not, there was a sharp tone to it. Was the tortoiseshell intimidated?

Bristling fur foretold another comment; Sandfang’s ears slicked back as he streaked forward. Honeypaw’s heart dove down.

“Wait- stop-” Creekpaw yowled. Rowanfang snarled, bunching up and bracing for the impact. Sandfang collided with her side, sending both cats rolling. Applepaw looked to Pansypelt for help; the Warrior had already skittered as fast as her bad back could take her, tugging Creekpaw away from the hissing, spitting ball that swung in all directions.

The other Apprentices were panicking, crowding around the only form of authority that wasn’t thrashing like mad; Honeypaw, however, couldn’t help but watch. She knew little of the techniques; leaves and roots and flowers were more to her liking, the reflexes and quick thinking required in such brawls were beyond her, but it was thrilling to watch. Rowanfang was a bulky, massive cat built of mismatched, thick fur. With indignant rage she would come out on top, pinning her senior in a cloud of grit and pebbles. Sandfang, sleek and a little lean in his age, nonetheless consistently toppled her, forcing the rolling grapple to continue on as soon as she would take a moment to breath.

After a breathless time, one final tumble sent them spiraling appart. Rowanfang grumbled low in her throat, nub of a tail swishing in defiance; Sandfang acknowledged her with a chuff. Despite his demeanor, the old tom was just as winded as the prickly Warrior.

“Who mentored you again?”

Amber-and-ginger fur parted every whichway, Rowanfang watched him under low brows. “Cootheart. He taught me everything I know about the Code, our Clan and how to serve it and survive.”

Sandfang considered her answer, giving her fur time to lie flat. “He’s a determined one… on the nimble side of things, born to weave and dance.” He seemed like he wanted to say something else, but a shared look with Pansypelt made the ticked tabby swallow the thought.

“You are a skilled Warrior; I can see why Scalestar took you in,” Sandfang said at length. Honeypaw looked over the scene to meet Applepaw’s eyes; wasn’t Sandfang the only Clanborn cat in the clearing anyways?

“However,” he continued, “you would have suited better under their own tutelage. Maybe Cootheart should have asked for Bramblecloud to oversee a session, or even Pansypelt.”

The stars came out behind Honeypaw’s eyes. “They’ve all got less tail than most,” she said.

Pansypelt seemed to understand as well, taking a few steps forwards; her flank still touched Creekpaw, Applepaw followed the movement. The trio didn’t move much, and for good reason: Rowanfang’s eyes raked over the elder like claws, limbs stiff trunks.

The wind was stagnant; from what little Honeypaw had gathered from Crowstorm’s rambles, mentors were a big thing in Ashclan. She’d doubted it, feeling no bond clinging between her pelt and Lichencloud’s… seeing her sister leeched to Pansypelt’s side, seeing Rowanfang’s eyes blaze at an apparent slight against her mentor’s credentials, it gave weight to it.

Creekpaw lurched forward, scampering into the space between both cats before Pansypelt could drag her back. She scented the air with wide eyes and paused whiskers from Rowanfang.

Honeypaw hissed. “Creekpaw! Get back-”

“No!” she bit out, twisting to face the tortoiseshell instead. “You! You stop that; just ‘cause you’re a ‘fang doesn’t mean you know everything. Don’t you want to get even better?” Seeming to sense the tension in the air, or maybe realizing how blunt she sounded, the patched cat’s tail fled. “Sorry.”

Rowanfang glowered; Honeypaw couldn’t quite see what exactly those green eyes searched for. A beat later they drifted down, past the disturbed sand and stones. “I’ve earned my name, one of the best despite not being born here. Cootheart dragged me back by the ear when he found me sneaking away to find my brother; he dragged himself through mud to teach me how to swim though he barely could; he stayed up days and days asking you, and Loonfur,  Bramblecloud, about the heritage of this Clan, of everything I’d need to know.”

“And you’re telling me his effort wasn’t enough?”

Pansypelt spoke up. “No, it was not. It takes a Clan to raise a Warrior; do you expect a single mentor to be able to understand and be able to work on every weakness their apprentice has?”

Sandfang nodded. “Cootheart has a tail; you do not. I’m certain he offered you as complete an education as he could, but he can’t dock his rear to better teach you how to stabilize yourself against more agile enemies. He did well; you are still Rowanfang, not Rowanstripe or Rowanstorm. You both earned that name.”

Rowanfang’s fur had begun to lie smooth; she still had not relaxed, though. Unable to glare at Sandfang, she seemed to have taken to glowering at Creekpaw instead; the kitten seemed only barely aware of this. “Why didn’t Scalestar train me themselves, then? Or make Pansypelt take me on, or drag your mate out of retirement-”

“Best friend; Bramblecloud helped me have the kittens I’d always wanted and our bond never extended beyond that.” Sandfang’s tone grew thorns; it took visible effort to calm down. “Regardless, it is the Mentor’s responsibility to seek out any extra lessons or knowledge their pupil may need. Our clan was dying, Rowanfang; Scalestar had to worry about the training of many young cats, on recruiting new blood and ensuring that Ashclan saw its next year. Had it been before-”

Applepaw was at the old tom’s side, cheeks streaking over his flank. Honeypaw wondered if she should comfort him too; apparently he’d taken the Blight hard. Her sister’s support appeared to be enough, though; his snout rose to point at Rowanfang.

“Roseclaw,” he grit out. “Skunkfoot. Cindercloud. Squirrelheart. Ember-eye... Grousecloud. Any of them could have taught you, but not; they’re all dead. We were few and tired and defeated; Cootheart was the only one with enough enthusiasm to handle the fire within you. To give you to their care would have been a fatal blow. Frogthroat had just earned his own name through surviving impossible trauma; you would have walked all over his other father. As for Pansypelt…”

His eyes slid open to eye Honeypaw; he’d felt her curiosity and she couldn’t quite hold the blue-green gaze.“The clan, what was left of us, was still in an uproar over this cat being accepted at her age and without going through a formal apprenticeship. Scalestar is not foolish enough to give a controversial cat an apprentice that early.”

What little of the Manx’s short fur fluffed out; her eyes were merry as she ambled over. “Give me some credit, I fought off that terrible pair of rogues with nothing but my shadows and teeth.”

Sandfang chuffed. “I’ve still got to get that story out of you.” He nudged Applepaw with his white chin, silently thanking her for the support, or so Honeypaw thought. Meeting her sister’s eyes, she could have sworn that the red-and-white point looked like she knew this curious tale...

Pansypelt spat at him playfully. Satisfied with her childish behaviour, she hobbled over to Rowanfang; the Warrior had courched, searching for answers in scuffs in the sand. Creamy fur brushed Creekpaw’s side as she passed; the apprentice stuck close after they made contact. The pale tortoiseshell nosed the darker fur of Rowanfang’s shoulder.

“Just because you have earned your name doesn’t mean there isn’t more to learn. You are a keen hunter and fighter, a testament to Cootheart’s training and your own skill. There’s no shame in honing those teeth to keep them sharp”

Sandfang loped over; Applepaw and Honeypaw, after a beat, joined him. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I wanted to see what skills this new blood brings with it, see if it could get mine flowing again.”

Rowanfang, finally, met his eyes; Honeypaw circled around to see the reluctance in her eyes. “Well, what did this new blood teach you so far?”

Honeypaw could hear the intake of breath they all took; Sandfang chuckled. “You’re better at swallowing your pride than I was at your age; I think we’ll need a few more rounds before I know for sure.”

He turned and- oh no.

“Honeypaw! Let’s see if you can work on that defensive; try using your hind legs to push at one side of my undersides to knock me off-balance.”

The flame point felt her enthusiasm dropping like a stone. Making herself small, she tried to brush back against the training hollow’s banks.

Applepaw’s eager eyes found her, though; clear blue like the sky above. “You can do it sis,” she cried; Pansypelt and Rowanfang offered their encouragements too as they settled under an overhang in the shade. Creekpaw thrummed with excitement; she didn’t quite know where to look.

Honeypaw heaved a sigh; peer pressure sure was nice. She mimicked Sandfang as he squared his shoulders, ruffled a ridge of fur and paced to the side.

They crouched, facing off; she could see herself in Sandfang’s eye, a ferocious feral with pointed fangs and a snake for a tail. Intimidating; dangerous, despite her size and inexperience.

If Warriors could learn a new thing or two, maybe she could learn to be less of an easy target.

Frogthroat’s story is a pretty sad one; he was a very curious kit born to TWO WONDERFUL DADS just before they were due to become Elders. In fact, the very day he became an Apprentice his parents, Sandfang and Bramblecloud, retired. Frogpaw wanted to do anything to make his parents proud and be enough of a Warrior for both of them, so he tried to attack a fox. With cubs. Obviously, it didn’t go well and he was dragged back to Camp, a newly-made Apprentice who was already bleeding out. Broken ribs, neck torn to shreds and most of his ears gone. It wasn’t a good day.

After surviving the ordeal, Frogpaw found that he had severe difficulty speaking, and his ability to even breath, let alone run or do much physical work, was decimated as a result. When offered to become an early Elder, he resigned fairly gracefully; after all, he could now spend all his time with his dads. Lots of random hairs grew back white after the stress of the ordeal.

Frogthroat is a really heavy cat but loves to sit on others and kneed their shoulders while they recount a problem or tell a story. He’s terrified of water, fearing that if any gets into or near his mangled throat he’ll down, and the wound needs to be cleaned often so WELP.