no wonder (YOU GOT DEMONS) [skunkstripe]

“Leap—and twist!” Pearpaw grunted as he flipped himself through the air. He landed hard on all four paws, stared hard at the sandy ground underpaw for a few moments. It was getting late, the shadows in the sandy hollow were starting to grow. He should have been resting—he’d already been training with Featherstone most of the day. Pearpaw lashed his tail, turning and heading back up to the rim of the hollow grumpily. No, he wouldn’t rest until he was perfect. He had to be perfect.

Just like Stoatclaw.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Pearpaw breathed. He’d slipped away for some solo-training—of course that wasn’t without its negatives. If you trained alone you taught yourself your mistakes and nobody was there to give you feedback or help you. Pearpaw couldn’t bother his father to watch over his training though—and he had a feeling that if he asked Featherstone she’d just say they would train some more tomorrow. So he’d push himself on his own. He had to get it absolutely right, he wouldn’t let himself do it until he was sure it worked.

“Creep up on your opponent,” Pearpaw muttered, slinking forward so that his belly fur brushed the hollow floor. “Gather your weight onto your haunches….”

The orange-and-white apprentice waggled his hindquarters, fixing his eyes firmly on a leaf in the middle of the hollow. He imagined that it was an unsuspecting ShadowClan warrior, wandering in their territory. A low growl bubbled out of his throat, he tightened his muscles. “Leap and twist!”

Pearpaw hissed as this time he lost his footing and landed on his side. He was trying to do a move that would turn him around mid-air—meaning that he would land with his hindpaws on the imagined opponent’s head and his teeth buried in the base of their spine. Right where the tail started—but he couldn’t seem to turn himself around right. Every time he twisted too much he overbalanced and ended up falling on his side. If he didn’t twist that much he only managed to turn sideways—which would mean he’d end up riding on the back of another cat sideways and that wouldn’t do.

Honestly, it was likely the move was out of his league. Stoatclaw had boasted about it once, and Pearpaw was determined to learn it. Imagine Featherstone’s face if he pulled a move so advanced in one of his first training sessions! No—imagine Stoatclaw’s! The idea of pleasing his father filled him with joy, and he hurtled up the slope—breathing heavily, ignoring the creeping shadows of the evening—and tried the move again.

“YOW!” Pearpaw yowled when he twisted his paw under his own weight. He went sprawling through the sand with a grunt, and sat up with a wince. Pearpaw tried to shake the rolled paw out and pain bolted through it. “TSSS! Fox-dung!”

Great—now he’d gone and rolled his stupid paw. He rasped his tongue over it. The idea of going into the medicine den and seeing Peachpaw’s stupid happy face was filling him with disgust, and he wondered if he could get away without telling any cat that he’d gone and done it in the first place. It wasn’t like it was necessarily sprained or anything—Pearpaw hoped not at least that’d be humiliating.