Facade (Open)

She watched him gather discarded pine needles, one ear swiveled toward the sky. There were certain types of owls that were silent hunters, completely unnoticeable even to a watchful warrior. But she’d learned they typically wore moon faces, eyes a beady black in the white of their face. She didn’t think the one that lived here was of that type – all the stories she’d heard of it painted it larger than life, banded and fierce and wise from the years that it had lived. She’d hear it, she was certain, even if it was only the whistle of wind through its wings as it dived – but that was really all she needed.

She wasn’t WindClan fast, couldn’t strike like a hawk, but a cat of any clan could twist like a snake in an opponent’s grip; that was why the clans taught battle techniques, because two cats pinned together often turned into a whirling dervish of flying fur and flashing fangs. That was why ShadowClan relied on strength to pin its enemies, why RiverClan used the mighty river to hamper their opponents, why WindClan darted in and out of tunnels like long-legged rabbits. That was why ThunderClan was known for their lightning fast strikes, pouncing out of the bushes to deliver ferocious bites and scratches before they dove away as fast as they’d come.

So, unlike the apprentice that watched the woods with a guarded expression, the hair along his spine lifted with unease, she was content to keep her body limber and lax, a show of weakness that was in truth an invitation to come close and meet her sharp claws face-to-face.

Of course, as she watched him stuff the pine needles into the small hollow, it occurred to her that the den-space would be uncomfortable. She was used to moss and ferns and a bracken base that provided sturdiness and flexibility – and, in the aftermath of the sickness, she was used to a den that was spacious and allowed even younger warriors to settle near the center. Now she’d be sleeping atop an unknown nesting material, curled up beside an apprentice that stank of garlic.

But then he whimpered, and she quieted down her thoughts. She couldn’t exactly just leave him, especially when he seemed so—

She cut the thought off, nosing her way into the den with a twist of her whiskers as the garlic continued to roll off him in waves. She knew she’d grow used to it eventually, the same way she’d gotten used to falling asleep with mouse bile clogging her nostrils – or that time one of her clanmates had stumbled straight into fox dung. He had stunk so badly that dipping him in a nearby stream and then making him roll in mint had done nothing to mask the smell – had actually made it stronger, though StarClan alone knew how that was possible.

Just breathe through your mouth, she thought, paws working to tamp down the nest, shaping it until she was more satisfied with the arrangement.

She settled down beside him, instinctively situating herself closer to the entrance of the hollow. It was something she did unconsciously, based on a lifetime of training that had always encouraged protection of the weak – not that she thought him weak, but between the pair of them she was more in her element, she was the larger cat, and she was the more experienced.

“Sleep well,” she told him quietly.

Tomorrow she’d take him back across the border. Tomorrow she’d have to explain where she had spent the night – though that wouldn’t prove too difficult a task, if only because she was a known loner. But tomorrow was still hours away, and her eyelids felt heavy, black lids shuttering over her amber gaze, blotting out the darkening sky that could be seen from the burrow’s entrance.

For now she’d sleep.