Nights in the forest were much quieter than in the city, especially in Leaf-bare. It was as if the layer of snow upon the ground was weighing the earth down while the cold air held everything in its rightful place. The only sounds among the trees were the occasional hoot of an owl or the howl of wind. The harshest winds reminded Redd of the yowling he heard nightly in the outskirts; street cats fighting to lay claim over an alleyway, or a rotten mouse. Trudging alongside the river, the fire-hued tom's belly rumbled at memories of rotten mice and birds flattened by monsters.
Redd had been run out from the hole-in-the-wall he called home on the edge of the city only a few weeks prior. But by now, the young cat had lost count of the days. Without his brother, he felt lost in time just as he was lost in the woods. Since their departure from the twoleg place, Redd had been steadily losing weight. He thought he had learned how to hunt in the city; now, he realized the rats in the alleys simply were not as cautious as wild mice. Opportunities to hunt were now few and far between and a successful hunt felt like a miracle. The wilds were unforgiving, but the city held its own dangers for a tom his age.
The only relief Redd could find was the refreshing water--at least in spots where the river had not frozen over--and a small hollow beneath a tree which was now coming into his field of view. He dragged his paws through the snow, leaving a distinct trail behind him. The trail did not worry him; he figured falling snow would quickly cover his tracks. Approaching the tree, Redd could see claw marks on its bark. Another cat--or cats--had been here, but the frost made it difficult to discern any information through scent, not to mention how cold his pink nose was feeling. He had come across many strange scents in his travels, but never seemed to encounter another soul out in the snow.
Too cold to care about the scratch marks, the orange boy began to dig out snow from the small hollow beneath the tree. It would have to do for the night, until he could again safely travel in the warmth of the sunlight.
Redd's fur slowly flattened as he watched the other tom take a seat. But his claws remained unsheathed and his eyes began to narrow. He did not trust the stranger as far as he could throw him--and he certainly not throw the larger cat. He tried to let out a defiant snort, but ended up sneezing from the cold, dry air.
The young tom felt he was too deep in to give up his bluff now. The stranger could spring on him at any moment if he knew Redd was actually alone. He remembered the cruel treatment he had received in the city and this tom did not look far off from the one that had driven Redd away from the only home he had ever had. But that yellow bandana was unforgettable, not to mention that their scents were nothing alike. This cat smelled so foreign.
"I'm not a kit!" The ginger spat, his fur bristling again in attempt to make himself look bigger. When the black cat did not seem disturbed by Redd's outburst, his fur again began to flatten. Trying to intimidate a cat nearly twice his size was hopeless. The word warrior also put him at unease. What kind of feline battlegrounds had he stumbled into? "Warriors? You're in the middle of a war? With who?" A shiver ran up his spine. How many more battle-scarred, bandana-wearing strangers were out here? The youngster scanned the darkness around them, half-expecting to see a dozen pairs of glowing eyes blinking back at him.
Hawkstar studied the ragged youth with narrowed amber eyes. He had a desperate air about him, one that Hawkstar himself dimly recalled as though from another lifetime. At any rate, he was certifiably harmless. So he sat down in the snow, shivering slightly.
“Is that so? You’ll forgive me if I wait with you until they arrive. We Warriors have a code against abandoning kits. And this forest holds many dangers.” He murmured calmly. The acrid smell of fear-scent stained the cold air. The situation was fraught with red flags, leading himself to wait gently and see if he could uncover this youngster’s troubles.
Redd could not smell the approaching cat; the strong winds of Leaf-bare blew the older cat's scent away from the junior. Caught utterly off-guard, he popped into the air and unsheathed his claws all at once. He felt the fur atop his head barely graze the tree's bark as he rose. Redd landed on his feet, but hopped around a few more times like a kittypet kitten attempting to intimidate its new housemate. Snow exploded into small powdery puffs every time he landed.
Though the younger tom's bouncing eventually ceased, his back remained arched and his tail curled like a caterpillar standing to climb a twig. His ears were pointed back not only out of fear, but also because the stranger's cry was painfully loud, splitting through the otherwise quiet forest.
Redd's fear inflated to panic as the black cat's scent rushed into the ginger's nostrils. It was not only a tom, but one many seasons older than himself. The stranger's dark coat made him look like a void advancing towards him in the fresh snow, broken only by some battle scars and brightly-colored neckwear. He wondered if this cat was a kittypet; not many strays liked to keep their collars on in the city. But the elder tom smelled nothing like the artificial scents that clung to twolegs and their settlements. Redd feared he would be driven from his home a second time, if he could even call any place his home now.
"Yes!" the green-eyed boy blurted hastily, shakily. "They'll be here a-any minute now!" He hoped to scare the battle-scarred stranger away, but he could feel his terrified expression betraying his lie. In that moment, Redd's own fear scent burned cold in his nose.
Hawkstar trotted through the snow, kicking up sprays of silver in his wake. Was this the area Coldpaw had mentioned? He was thankful his son had hightailed it back to camp without engaging the intruder to report them, but it did leave some key details out. Certain things were just ‘the tree’ or ‘the rocks’ to kids his son’s age.
His nostrils burned as he scented the area deeply.
There you are.
His blood ran close to the surface as he prepared himself for a fight. Rogues usually gave one, as he of all cats would well know.
He vaulted high over a bank of snow and twisted to land facing the place where the smell and sounds of scuffling emanated. He’d yowled out, a good intimation tactic as well as a way to let his opponent know he was there– ThunderClan weren’t ambushers.
But the cat he found himself faced with was hardly older than Coldpaw was. Hawkstar’s fur began to flatten as he straightened up.
“Sorry, thought you were…nevermind. What are you doing out here? Is your kin nearby?” He glanced around uneasily.