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Sootpaw
short-furred, dark, charcoal-gray tabby tom with white markings, and sharp amber-copper eyes.
purrks: prison escape - tier 1
he/him | shc apprentice | 16 moons

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The camp was still. Not the kind of stillness that came with peace, but the kind that settled before something broke. Sootpaw felt it deep in his bones, a tautness in the air that refused to let him fully relax. He stood at the edge of a shallow, small stream that recently formed, its surface frozen over with a thin, brittle layer of ice. The brittle crust reflected the pale light filtering through the thinned canopy above, the faint glimmer a stark contrast to the frost-clad world surrounding it. Every breath he exhaled turned to mist, the wretched cold biting at his nose and paw pads, but Sootpaw barely noticed. His copper eyes were fixed on the water beneath the ice, his mind miles away from where his body stood. It had been another sleepless night. The crowded apprentices’ den had felt stifling. Too many sounds and bodies shifting in the dark. It was suffocating. He’d slipped out before dawn, the chill air washing over him like a welcome slap to the face. Now, standing here with nothing but the soft creak of empty trees for company, he could finally think—or at least attempt to. The scars on his face felt colder than the rest of him, a dull ache that lingered as if the grueling memories behind them weren’t quite done with him. His striped tail flicked behind himself restlessly. He told himself he was here to clear his mind and center himself, but the truth was harder to admit. Sootpaw wasn’t looking for clarity—he was running.

The frost-covered earth crunched faintly under his paws as he began to pace along the edges of the camp. His claws flexed against the frozen dirt, leaving faint grooves in the ground as he walked. Every now and then, his gaze drifted toward the camp entrance. The sturdy barrier loomed in the dim light, its gaps carefully woven shut to keep predators—and nosy apprentices—from slipping through. Sootpaw’s white paws itched to cross that threshold, to feel the pine forest air on his fur and the ground stretch endlessly beneath him. But he couldn’t. Not alone. Not without permission. His copper eyes narrowed, and his white-tipped tail lashed behind him. Why had he always carried the feeling like he was trapped? The bitter thought came to him unbidden, and he swallowed hard against the lump forming in his throat. Instead of heading toward the entrance, Sootpaw made his way to the edge of the fresh-kill pile. There was a decent amount of prey present. A reminder that leaf-bare hasn’t been dragging ShadowClan down. He didn’t take anything; his appetite had been missing for days. Instead, he crouched beside it, staring blankly at the range of frozen prey. A scrawny mouse. A limp thrush. He wondered, distantly, if eating would make him feel less hollow than he already felt. The camp remained quiet around him, but it wasn’t the comforting kind of quiet he longed for. It was heavy, pressing down on him like the weight of unspoken expectations.

Sootpaw shifted his weight, the frost-coated ground cold against his paws even through the thick fur that lined them. His copper eyes lingered on the limp thrush, its feathers still glossy despite the frost beginning to edge them. It should’ve looked appealing—after all, the clan needed strong warriors, and warriors who held a logistical mind didn’t skip meals—but he couldn’t bring himself to move. The scars on his face ached again, as though they wanted to remind him of how they’d come to be, and he clenched his jaw, forcing himself to look away. He didn’t need to revisit that right now. Not here. Not when the memories already haunted his waking thoughts and slipped like thorns into his dreams. Instead, his gaze turned upward, tracing the skeletal branches that clawed at the pale sky. The sun was just beginning to rise, its faint light filtering through the sparse canopy and casting long shadows across the camp. Even with the pristine snow reflecting its feeble glow, the world felt dim. Cold. Lifeless. A mirror of the void that had taken root inside him. He let out a slow breath, watching as the mist of it dissolved into the frosty air, and for a moment, he allowed himself to wonder if this heaviness was something he could ever escape. He crouched there for what felt like an eternity, his striped tail curling tightly around his paws as he fought against the weight pressing down on him.

The camp remained quiet around him, but it wasn’t the comforting kind of quiet he longed for. It was heavy, like a brewing storm waiting to break. The kind of quiet that crawled into your chest and took root there, making every breath feel shallow and strained. Sootpaw’s copper eyes roamed the clearing once more, taking in the camp he had called home for moons now but that rarely felt like it. A shadow passed overhead, and Sootpaw’s eyes instinctively flicked upward. A crow wheeled high above the clearing, its dark plumage stark against the pale sky. It let out a single, sharp caw that echoed across the camp, the sound slicing through the stillness like a sharp blade. Sootpaw’s ears flicked back against his head at the noise, his tail lashing once before curling tightly around his paws again. The bird disappeared over the treetops, its presence as fleeting as the peace it had disrupted. He exhaled slowly, his breath clouding the air in front of him before dissipating into nothingness. It felt fitting, somehow, the way it vanished so easily—like all things, really. His mind wandered back to the fresh-kill pile, and his stomach twisted uncomfortably. He hadn’t eaten since the day before, but the thought of food only made him feel heavier, like adding another stone to the weight already pressing on his chest. The scars on his face throbbed again, sharper this time, as though protesting his refusal to address them.

His claws dug into the dirt involuntarily, the sensation grounding him even as his thoughts threatened to spiral. Those memories always lingered at the edges of his consciousness, waiting for a moment of weakness to resurface and drag him under. But he wouldn’t let them—not now, not here, where the walls felt so close, and the air so suffocating. Frost on the fresh-kill pile caught the morning light, glinting like tiny shards of glass. The mouse and thrush still lay there, untouched and unremarkable, but his eyes refused to linger. Instead, they drifted once more to the towering cedars that framed the clearing, their thick trunks rising like unyielding pillars against the pale sky. He traced the lines of their branches, the way they twisted and tangled in a chaotic yet deliberate dance, and wondered—briefly, foolishly—what it would feel like to climb to their highest point and look out at the world beyond. To see something other than the same trees, the same rocks, the same paths he walked every day. The thought was fleeting, replaced almost immediately by the reality of his circumstances. He was bound here, tethered by duty and expectation, and no amount of daydreaming would change that. Still, the yearning remained, a quiet ache that refused to be silenced.

He shifted his weight again, his tail uncurling slightly as he allowed himself to glance toward the camp entrance one last time. The brambles seemed denser now, their shadows stretching long and dark across the frozen ground. He told himself it was foolish to think about leaving to ease his mind—not when there were so many eyes and ears—but the thought wouldn’t let go. It clung to him like a burr, stubborn and unrelenting, and he knew it would follow him long after the dawn broke and the camp stirred to life. For now, though, he remained where he was, his copper eyes fixed on the skeletal branches above, the frost-covered earth cold beneath his paws. The camp was still, but the stillness was a lie, and Sootpaw could feel it unraveling around him, thread by thread.

open !