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Oddpaw is not the luckiest of cats.
Most obviously, his size. Oddpaw was born sickly and small to a dying queen in the middle of a snowstorm. He lacks strength, vital for everything that means being a warrior. A true Windclan cat— he’s only good for running, and running fast .
His mother passed away a few days after he was born. Ramberry will not tell Oddpaw her name, only that it’s his fault that she died. Oddpaw wants to yowl and hiss and bite and kick. He wants the right to blame just as his father has.
You killed her because you made me. Worse yet, you made me this way .
Halfpaw, his closest friend, was four moons old when he was born, old enough to remember his mother. He tells him he takes after her, that he is almost her copy. Oddpaw is almost completely white, except for the occasional grey smudge. He doesn’t look like Ramberry at all.
Sootfall is his only other living relative, his mother’s brother. He doesn’t look much like a Windclan cat, with his dark pelt and bright eyes. He’s also Oddpaw’s friend, and his mentor. Oddpaw’s world is small and every cat in it is only concerned with hurting— Sootfall teaches him how to help, how to heal. Oddpaw can’t imagine himself being anything other than a medicine cat. He feels most at home chewing poultices of goldenrod and horsetail, breathing in the scent of borage leaves and poppy seeds.
It is the first day of leaf-bare. The breeze is colder than Oddpaw knew it could be. Sootfall warns of a sickness so deadly, it could mean the end of their already weakened clan. Greencough has claimed the life of Oddpaw’s mother, and many other queens, and countless elders and kits. It’s a miracle Oddpaw didn’t catch it himself. There is only one herb that can effectively treat greencough, and it lies in Twoleg gardens.
Oddpaw has been sent to retrieve catmint in preparation for what will surely infiltrate Windclan this coming season. Twoleg territories aren’t dangerous, necessarily. Not this time of year. There’s nothing to be afraid of, and, truth be told, Oddpaw very much needs the field experience. He never travels alone, but he is almost twelve moons old now. If he is to take Sootfall’s place as a medicine cat, he must get used to doing things alone.
He should’ve been more careful. A clan cat should never let his guard down, he knows this. And, yet, here he is, with a stranger’s teeth gripped to the scruff of his neck. The catmint must have overwhelmed his sense of smell, disabling him from noticing the scent of any other cat. Instinctively, Oddpaw flattens his ears. He yowls as he twists his lower half around, kicking his hind legs into the other cat’s belly in an attempt to get him off. Oddpaw is not used to unsheathing his claws, and it’s not until after the tom backs away that he remembers he’s supposed to do that when he’s in a real fight.
It doesn’t matter. He’s free now. Oddpaw almost runs away just as he always does, but he hesitates when he gets a good look at who he’s been fighting the entire time.
The tom can’t be much older than him. He’s bigger, but that’s not much of an achievement, and he wears a juvenile expression. If Oddpaw had to give him an age, he’d say he’s nine moons old.
His pelt fades from a sandy color on his torso, to a dark, cinnamon-like orange at his paws. He’s got muted blue eyes, unlike most of the cats Oddpaw has met. He wears a red collar around his neck. Kittypet .
It all makes sense to Oddpaw, now. The bite at his neck, barely hurting more than an affectionate nip. The lack of warning, of hissing. His tail, swishing from side to side in excitement rather than agitation. They weren’t fighting, they were playing .
Instead of asking What are you doing here or telling him to Back off, this is Windclan territory, Oddpaw does something bordering on betrayal to his clan. Oddpaw treats him like friend, not foe. They exchange names:
“Tommy? That’s a weird name.”
“You should meet my neighbor’s cat. Jambo ’s what they called him.” Tommy snorts.
When Tommy asks Oddpaw for his name, he gives it. Tommy’s expression shifts ever so slightly, but Oddpaw can’t tell what it says. He stumbles to explain himself anyways.
“I was given this name. My father— he hates me. He gave me this name. When my training is done, when I prove myself, it changes. My clan leader will change it.”
Tommy has never heard of Windclan, or any clan for that matter. He looks up at Oddpaw in wonder as he explains everything the clans stand for. Silverpelt, the Warrior Code, the hardships and the satisfaction of overcoming them, all of it. Tommy begs Oddpaw to take him with him, back to camp. To make Windclan his home.
There’s not a kit in the lake who hasn’t heard the story of a brave kittypet-turned-warrior, one who led his clan to triumph. The details have been lost: All cats argue that this cat was native to their clan, no one else’s. Simple things like his fur color are speculated, too. The stories speak of a cat made of fire— so, is he some sort of red tabby? Or is it a metaphor, a fancy way to speak of the fire in his soul?
It doesn’t matter. Oddpaw sees this cat in Tommy. He can’t say no.
That night, Tommy is killed in cold blood soon after his visit to the Windclan camp. It’s the first time his blood had ever spilled. His red collar lies torn in half at the center of it all, the only thing between Tommy’s corpse and Timidboar.
Out of this body, Swiftpaw is born. Swiftpaw is bright-eyed and chubby, a stranger to hunger and struggle, a privilege few Clan cats will ever know. Oddpaw almost laughs when he is named. Swift paw, a Windclan cat. It’s too on the nose, and everyone knows it. Swiftpaw doesn’t get the joke, doesn’t understand he’s being made fun of. He’s sure Swiftpaw has only been accepted into their ranks because Windclan is dangerously short of cats.
Sparrowblaze will mentor him. Oddpaw sees him sneer at his apprentice, already devising the most ruthless of training lessons.
Despite this, Oddpaw is not worried. He thinks, this time, he’ll go with his gut feeling. In time, Swiftpaw will prove himself. Swiftpaw will grow to be a warrior unlike anyone has ever seen. Part of him is worried that Swiftpaw will realize what a loser he is, and will drop him at the flick of a tail, but the rest of him knows he is too good for that. Windclan doesn’t deserve him. He doesn’t know if anyone does. Oddpaw closes his eyes, breathing deeply.
In the apprentice den, Oddpaw sleeps between Halfpaw and Swiftpaw. He feels warmer than he ever has before.