Littlestorm
“Well, here we are.” My mentor pointed with his nose toward a pile of fallen rocks. “There’s a crack in there that widens out. You’ll sleep there.”
“I certainly hope it’s comfortable.”
“Ha! I’ll find you some moss.” He bounded away, long tail waving.
I licked my chest nervously. The smell of cat was strong here, but I could see no one. I was standing in a depression surrounded by ferns and brambles. Nearby a stream trickled down to collect in a wide, shallow pool.
Well. If I was to meet my new Clan mates, I’d better shake a leg. I gave myself a quick but thorough washing.
I thought I saw a pair of eyes watching me but couldn’t be sure. Spooked, I decided the best tactic would be to tempt my audience out. “Now, now,” my voice echoed, "don’t stalk in the shadows! I have a fresh-caught mouse that I’ll give to the first cat to show their head.”
Two shapes appeared. First came a pure-white queen, expecting kits by the look of her; then a ginger tom. I made my voice gentle: “Hello. I’m your new warrior, Littlestorm. What are your names?”
“Owlflight, and my mate is Briarpelt.” The tom spoke in a cracked voice that suggested age or injury.
“Good. Briarpelt, the mouse is yours. I’ll catch something else for your mate.”
While I was speaking, another tom slunk out of the shadows. His brown-white-and-black fur was in disarray, and he walked with a limp. Is this the state of all their cats? If so, I’d have my work cut out for me.
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