8 tracks, you're my favorite [ snowpaw ]

He rose with the sun as it flickers through the brambles of the warriors den and stretches over his pelt like thin, wispy paws of warmth, coaxing him into the waking world and away from his bleak, restless slumber. The tom stands, stretching the tired ache from his muscles and blinking away the grogginess that clouds his vision as his gaze soon settles over his denmates, ears twitching at their snores and shallow breaths. His own breath hitches in an attempt not to stir any of them as he heads towards the exit of their den, one paw after the other, winding around whiskers and tails. Ryeheart usually never woke without a plan for the day, but the idea of taking his apprentice out again leaves him hopelessly nervous. Snowpaw is darling, but he is only sub-par, unfit to teach the youth that were bound to be the future of the Clan. While she is doing fine thus far, he cannot help but to rid himself of the worrisome tick behind his ear that never gives him a moment to catch his breath -- a moment to breathe

The center of camp is deathly quiet as he emerges and the bird calls that jostle the air are deafeningly loud. He approaches the apprentice's den quietly and pokes his head through the entrance as he searches for the soft, white form of his charge. Ryeheart contemplates stepping in and waking her, leaving a paw hanging awkwardly in the air before he drops it. His whiskers twitch before he exhales as quietly as possible before calling out into the darkened den, "Snowpaw," his voice lingers in the air lamely and his tail snaps behind him as he presses his head in a little further, "Wake up. U-uh, training at Tallpines this morning." The tabby doesn't wait too much longer and withdraws, padding to the camp exit and waiting for the arrival of Snowpaw. They'll head out together and from there, Ryeheart isn't sure what the lesson will be. He just doesn't want to disappoint the eager young she-cat.

The trip to Tallpines is a walk that Ryheart wants to make in silence. There's a lump in his throat as words bubble up before being swallowed back down. He wants to ask her how did she sleep. If she's too hungry to do much. How has she been? But he vouches for the simplicity of nothingness instead and attempts a simple flick of his tail to her side -- it's warm, to Ryeheart, the contact somewhat searing -- before he settles, his paws kneading on the deep green pine needles underfoot out of habit. There's some adoration for the girl there in his gaze, but he suppresses it by glancing down at his own paws and then up at the thick branches of the pines, full of life and birdsong.

"Let's catch ourselves something to eat," he says, though he looks to Snowpaw, hoping that she's in accepting of the idea. If not, Ryeheart won't hesitate to change his sudden plans. A magpie flitters by overhead, its shrill chirp and black and white feathers disappearing into the next tree before it flutters to the ground, picking at the dewy leaf litter in search of bugs. "Hunting a bird is much different than hunting for mice or voles..." Ryeheart's voice catches on the breeze, fading, drifting off before he looks at his apprentice, giving a slight nod of his head and a curt twitch of his ears to urge her onwards, to tell him whether she knows the differences or not.


SNOWPAW -- sorry it took me a bit! computer restarted and such. besides, hope this is ok? if not, let me now!