((I don't see much difference, anyway. . . Also, just because you might turn eleven soon doesn't change the fact that you are only ten years old. Haha, did you know that I can go to a mod any time I want and tell them that you are not legally allowed to give out information of yourself over the Internet; you would not be able to post in the forums for three years since you are not yet thirteen. It's called COPPA. n.n Fun, hm? And yes, Fairy, I do know her name. Before she left for your family reunion, we exchanged e-mail addresses. . . It's not a big deal. . . And Tink, you should definitely read it! The books are amazing, and I think you'd like them very much; they are very inspirational as well, and very well-written with an epic plot. :3 And now, to the far-too-procrastinated posts, since I actually have a bit of time for once.))
Battle
Patchkit jolted in alarm when the safe haven of his mother's warmth left him. He had been peacefully nestled among his siblings, his barely formed mind resting. His entire world, even though he had only existed within it for less then a day, consisted of the constant comforting warmth emanating from the nurturing body of his mother as well as his littermates' slumbering forms alongside him. He did not dream, simply slept without a single interference as the first few hours of his hopefully long life slipped by. The tiny tom-kit was not aware of single a moment of his future, nor was he knowledgeable of what was to occur in the course of only a few heartbeats. A tranquil, gleeful purr emitted softly from Patchkit's throat, barely audible yet filled with the undisturbed joy he was experiencing. The hearts of his family around him beat in unison, all of their chests rising and falling in tune. Although the tabby-and-white cat wasn't yet old enough to be conscious of the desire he wanted this moment to last forever. . .
Suddenly, the warmth that had been his whole life vanished, its radiating heat flitting from his side. To Patchkit it felt as though everything he knew was seeping from his existence, fading away into the shadows he couldn't see. He cried out in alarm, the shock of his mother's abrupt departure sending him into a frightened state of consciousness. The minute sound was possibly unheard by anyone, for it was swallowed into the night without an answer. His immature heart racing at rapidly accelerating speeds, he did the only thing he could; his nose lifted into the air and he gave it a sniff, desperately searching for his mother's already familiar scent. Instead, a jumbled mixture of confusing scents greeted him and flooded his sensitive nostrils, overwhelming him. With a small squeak of surprised disorientation, he tried again to no avail. Terror-stricken, the young tom-kit attempted to lurch forward in fear and pursuit of the warmth and comforting presence of Petalsong that he yearned for only to stumble to the soft, mossy ground of the nursery. Patchkit started trembling, utterly frightened of his situation when a gut-wrenching sensation pounded throughout his minuscule body, caused by an mysterious veil of combat, death, and darkness that was foreign to him. He detested this obscure, unexplained feeling but was unable to do anything but to cower petrified in a fetal position on the ground, completely powerless to the fate that would soon befall him, oblivious to the bloody slaughter that had just commenced.
He was quickly sentient of multiple beings hastily entering his birthplace, causing his muscles to bunch up and a fresh wave of fearful tremors to ripple down his spine. What were they going to do to him? The vibrations of what could only be fighting pulsed in his bones, although this was the only way he was aware of the vicious battle. Patchkit was blind to the swiftly moving forms shedding blood and conceiving anger; he could not hear the rage-filled screeches and yowls of agony echoing in the nursery that had been his safe haven, his former shelter of cherished serenity.
Before he knew it, a warm body was looming over his own. A living cat who formed a protected place to take refuge and seek out his previous world of peaceful happiness once again. He couldn't be more wrong. Too relieved to take notice of the stranger's scent that was tainted by blood, Patchkit was overcome with shock and agony when pain exploded in his right eye. Almost immediately after that his assailant was gone, the heat of her body slipping from his pelt just as his mother's had. But he was too preoccupied with the agony bearing down hard on him, reverberating throughout his body, far too much suffering for a kit as newborn as he. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced before, and so painful he couldn't stand it. The torment was overwhelming his mind, quivering in his limbs, consuming his very existence. He was oblivious to anything else that was happening, too absorbed in screaming the ear-splitting screech that would make the shoulders of the bravest warriors shudder. His cry sliced eerily through the night, disrupted and heartbreaking. Every horrible throb of agony was being channeled into his woeful howl so the world could know his pain.
Patchkit's shrill shriek was briefly interrupted when a pair of powerful but gentle jaws fastened in his scruff; he resumed and continued it for as long as he could before it was cut off due to his weight shifting to his throat as he dangled from the blood-stained fangs of his savior. His breaths were jagged and rushed while the kit gasped for air and attempted to regain his so-called composure. In next to no time at all after a quick, careful journey out of the nursery to a new and unknown location where the tension wasn't so great, his paws touched ground again, and he shrank closer to it in a pitiful, shivering huddle. The bizarre perception of fresh air ruffling his downy coat raised the hairs along his spine, but he barely noticed the sensation over the apprehension of agony shattering his mind. Patchkit dug his miniature claws into the ground, clutching at it urgently so he had something to cling to in this dark dimension of anguish. Why did he have to experience such horrid torture? What had he done to deserve it? The tabby-and-white tom-kit's inquiries faded away with nary an answer for him to grasp. His pelt was slick with blood; the crimson liquid was the only scent he could distinguish, and he was nearly positive most of it was his own. He was losing blood fast, not to mention life itself. A scarlet wave of nausea and dizziness made his head spin and his tormented thoughts flickered slightly. It would be a miracle if he could survive his possibly fatal wound, for the extremely short course of his life was already beginning to fade away, the greedy tongues of death licking at his paws promising for the torture to vanish as well as everything else.
((Ack, have to cut this post short due to lack of time
again. I may edit it tomorrow; at least it's a decent length. Not too shabby, eh? Also, this was my first time writing in paragraphs, and I'm not sure how it will turn out in the future. How is my last post? I would appreciate some constructional criticism and feedback, since writing in that format is unfamiliar to me. Also, Fairy, I am so sorry I couldn't write Dappleclaw's post; I will the next time I find the opportunity as soon as I can! ;A;))