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Though they would never dare admit it, life had felt different since the cat hunt. Who they were, their role in the clan, their relationship with their peers, it all felt slightly different now. Some viewed it as an admirable thing; they had been one of the first to ever participate in an actual cat hunt, others treated it with envy or even, secretly, disdain at the whole affair, but no one could deny that since then there had been low murmurs in the air, that something was about to happen, that someone had done something during the entire thing. It had been them, Ratsneer, and Leveretpaw doing the long, miserable walk back into camp that night after the entire event had concluded, and perhaps it was obvious that the atmospshere was off when the three had returned, that the mood was sour when it should, by all means, have been either something of pure excitement or pure jealousy. Low spirits meant something had gone down -- and in the typical Nightclan atmosphere, filled with cats always looking for information and to stick their nose into others buisness if it meant rising higher on the social ladder -- that had put more eyes on Bumblebeepaw than ever.
Normally, they would have loved the attention, cats coming to them with questions, asking them to recite the entire affair. "What was it like?" "Who got to kill her?" "Did someone kill her, or did the traitor get away?" "What role did everyone play?" "What happened during that chase?" The question, thinly veiled, was obvious: They wanted to know what had gone wrong; enough information weaseled out to get the credit for someone going up on stage at the next trial, or if was too late for that, likely to get a least a moment in edgewise to be a good little sychophant and spill the damning information as a witness at trial that would call the guilty verdict. And it wasn't like Bumblebeepaw could necessarily blame them; if the situation was reversed, they'd be doing the same thing in a heartbeat -- they were sure of it. But there was that slow, unspeakably anxious chill that followed any time someone broached the subject with them, they hated the way that cats who they had never even bothered to acknowledge them before looked at them, like they were just a stepping stone. Or worse, like they were prey, like they were the reason that things had felt wrong that night when they'd returned; like whoever was talking to them were trying to find out a way to get them on trial. If Bumblebeepaw was a more paranoid person, a more overtly, agressively paranoid person, they might have snapped back by now at some of the cats that had started prodding like that, told them straight to their goddamn faces they were barking up the wrong tree, that they were looking for the wrong neck to be slit and they'd better watch where they put their nose if they wanted to keep the head it was attached to. But then, that probably would have sounded like the kind of defensive response of someone who was suspsicious -- in truth it was the response of someone who had been up for nights with a very different kind of guilt, but finding the line between a guilty traitor and a guilty conciensce was probably too thin of a line for even some of Nightclan's most insightful cats.
So Bumblebeepaw tried to keep life as usual, if not, perhaps, avoiding eye contact more than they used to, and trying to never not look busy. Unfortunately for them, one couldn't work every hour of every day, and life for an executioner ranked apprentice could get awfully slow sometimes; it was hard to know what to do in-between classes and practice other that just... Chill, maybe? Relax? Probably socialize, but the thought of that right now left a bitter taste in their mouth. So they just sat there, leaned up against the cavern wall of camp, one of the few times the expression on Bumblebeepaw face wasn't one of easy, obnoxious nonchalantness and affableness. Instead it was probably one step away from glaring daggers; a look that said, "Don't talk with me right now if you want to live." But then again, that was the expression of half the cats of any rank higher than inferior in Nightclan, so it might have not come accross as all that serious all things considered.
Post by brackenleaf on Apr 22, 2022 19:23:09 GMT -5
Grayjaw clambered out of his nest and shook out his pelt as he shouldered his way past an inferior and into the main clearing of the NightClan camp. His stomach growled, empty for the second day in a row because the lazy inferiors couldn’t be bothered to catch enough prey to feed the rest of his Clan. It wasn’t like they had any more pressing issues to tend to like the rest of the Clan did, but he had long since reconciled himself with the disappointing nature of the lowest ranked cats in the Clan – that was, after all, only to be expected.
He didn’t bother checking the fresh-kill pile; the only scents around were cat-scent and whatever the night breeze carried in.
I might as well go out tonight, he thought. He padded towards the camp entrance and stopped when he spotted Bumblebeepaw skulking in the shadows and the corners of his mouth drew up ever so slightly. He veered towards the executioner-class apprentice, mind flashing back to the flooding rain some nights before when their last cat hunt had brought them and their other apprentices back quite suspiciously without their quarry. “You look unoccupied,” he remarked once he was within earshot. He quirked a grin. “Why don’t you join me in the forest for a bit? I won’t bite – unless you ask for it.”
Edited Apr 23, 2022 20:01:40 GMT -5 By brackenleaf
Bumblebeepaw's ears pricked, the death-glare they had been holding melting a way a bit, now having been replaced by a look of subtle confusion, of trying to place a name to a face. It was odd really; Bumblebeepaw was so used to just knowing who everyone around them was. They'd pass by most cats around them every day and barely have to question who any of them were; they'd hear just the voice or catch only a glimpse of a pelt out of the corner of their eye from a fellow apprentice, or even a kit, and be able to pin point them in a second with a easy, "Oh! That's probably Oleanderpaw harassing Leveretpaw." or "Oh yeah, that's just Brat conning someone." or "Huh, sounds like Magpiekit is out and about with his siblings again." But they didn't know Greyjaw at first glance, and that made them hesitate. The answer was of course obvious with a little thought; it was pretty blatantly because the only cats they ever socialized with were either fellow apprentices and kits, or cats of their similar rank; the latter making up primarily cats of their own age, which just reinforced their socialization with the former. It was a vicious cycle really, and proved markedly efficient at keeping new Nightclan blood far away from the old. Which, likely, was precisely Kier's intent, though Bumblebeepaw was completely oblivious to it. Instead they just had the slow, awkward realization that they knew nothing about the cat in front of them.
Not that that had ever stopped them from socializing with anyone before. "Sure." They said, a casual shrug and a newfound nonchalantness replacing where a hesitant confusion had once been before. Upset as they were, they were plenty glad for any reason to not be resting up against the wall with nothing to do. They actually loathed not doing anything, and it was that loathing that had gotten them in this entire situation to begin with; some superior had said there was going to be a near day-long patrol, and at the thought of doing anything else but languishing in camp bored out of their mind their immediate response had been to sign themselves up -- of course, with absolutely no clue it would turn into a break-neck chase to kill a traitor.
"But ya' know, you shouldn't tempt me on the biting thing. You'll get me too excited." They threw the other tom a wry grin puntuated by a quick laugh, standing to their paws and giving their golden pelt a quick shake. Perhaps that joke was a risky move, especially considering the fact that Bumblebeepaw had zero clue what rank this other tom was, but the were placing bets on either Reporter or Executioner. They knew with almost 99% certainty he wasn't a Superior, Bumblebeepaw knew every Superior in the clan by heart, and they equally figured they weren't a Inferior because more than likely they wouldn't have been so brazenly daring in the way they addressed them. They could have asked, and maybe the should have -- then they would have known the other cat was a reporter and would have had the insight that they were possibly about to get hit-up for more information, and they would have known they could play the "I outrank your ass." card at every turn. But, honestly, at the moment they could have cared less and, truth be told, they were never eager to rock the boat too much as far as it came to rank -- at least before they were made a full warrior anyways. Touting your rank around as an apprentice always felt like an incredibly dangerous play that had a potential to backfire hard on you if you did something stupid in a class a week from the day you were mocking someone of a rank one lower than you. Bumblebeepaw had already learned how fickle the promotion system could be; having started out as a reporter themselves and been promoted to executioner after their first real trial. Sure they were excited about it, they still kind of were -- the extra bravado they walked with since said more than words ever could -- but they'd never weilded around the rank like it was actually their's. It seemed too likely to blow up in their face; while they were pretty sure could bitterly handle a loss to their actual authority, the thought of getting a taste of their own medicine was a little too much for them to handle. And perhaps, just perhaps, Bumblebeepaw wasn't a jerk enough to bully people using the power of their own rank anyways.
Post by brackenleaf on Apr 23, 2022 20:12:49 GMT -5
Grayjaw’s eyes gleamed and for just a moment, he contemplated a nip on the nape of Bumblebeepaw’s neck, but decided against it, though he was fairly certain the apprentice might just enjoy being roughed up a little.
“Excellent,” he purred just a little too suggestively. “Hope you can keep up with a real warrior.” He turned without waiting for a response and cantered toward the camp’s entrance and out into the rolling shadows of NightClan territory. It occurred to him that something in the apprentice’s response to his inquiry had contained an underlayer of uncertainty, and he thought he just about had it figured out. He had never personally had a conversation with Bumblebeepaw, but, naturally as a reporter, he’d made it his business to learn the names and ranks of every cat in the Clan. Information was power, thus Kier spoke, and Grayjaw knew what was in his best interest. And he thought he could use that gap in Bumblebeepaw’s knowledge to his own advantage.
Once he’d kept that pace up long enough to distance his two-cat patrol from the camp, he stopped short, checking to see how the apprentice had kept up.
