Cats are not Squirrels [OPEN]

Willowstep's day had begun at the rosy rise of dawn, when the birds had just begun their rich morning song, and the soft new-leaf breeze carried the fertile scent of prey and lush forest. Many elders on days like this preferred sleeping in as long as possible before, upon awakening, furthermore plodding outside to doze in the sticky evening sunshine. And that was perfectly fine of course. Indeed, Willowstep almost wished she could enjoy her retirement as carefree and luxuriously as her fellow denmates seemed to. As it stood however she still had the burning fire of a warriors' blood rushing through her veins, and such lazy enjoyment was simply something she could not bring herself to do.

So instead of basking in the noon new-leaf heat, Willowstep decided it was time to leave camp. Her bones may have been creaky, and her eyesight failing, but nothing could dampen the spirit of this respected ThunderClan teacher, and none dared argue when they saw the fiery elder making her exit, scrambling up the steep hill and disappearing over the lip of the ravine.

She wasn't planning on hunting, or border patrolling. She merely desired only a relaxing walk through the lush greenery of ThunderClan forest, savoring the sweet and moist air of the fresh and springy season. She had no direction in mind, though perhaps her paws had a mind of her own, and she soon found herself nearing the Great Sycamore, where the age-old tree towered high above, its knotting branches silhouetted against the waning new-leaf light.

A distinct smell suddenly brushed the roof of her scent glands, and she perked. She could barely keep the small smile from her countenance, as her eyes grazed the familiar figure of her former apprentice, Rowanstorm. Of all the cats she'd trained, she'd forged the closest relationship with him, and guilt still clenched at her chest for the unlucky scar that had befallen his face. She remembered that day as clear as rain; her foolish Rowan scampering up the tree, only to receive a mouth full of talon. She sighed. Why was it that trouble always seemed to follow her apprentices about like a pesky flea?

Unable to keep the purr from her voice, Willowstep padded forward. "Rowanstorm," she greeted, her tone as clipped as ever, though warmth seeped like honey beneath her naturally sharp tone. "Perhaps you can spare the time to comfort an old she-cat like me." Her blue eyes twinkled with merriment at that. Of course, she thought herself nowhere near the title of 'old broad', though even she couldn't deny that she had gotten on in her years. She padded up to the very base of the tree, her blue eyes remained fix on her former apprentice perched on the branch. "Has the prey been treating you well?"