He was not a cat who slept through the night, but whenever he got a break. He had become used to sleeping the moment he had down time, during a particularly boring conversation or while waiting for other cats to sort themselves out. When he awoke from one of these naps, it was to the stench of vomit in the air. Fantastic; he'd been throwing up again. For a few moments he considered ignoring it, but when he stumbled to his paws he found the ground around him was clear. It was someone else.

He followed his nose and came up behind the young she-cat bent over the ground. He took it in with a flash of his dark eyes; then he lunged forward, grasping her by the shoulders and yanking her back. His back was against a tree, three paws resting on the ground except one that snaked around to hold her by the throat, a furious snarl rumbling in his throat. His claws pressed against her jugular, an instinctive reaction, though both knew he would not spill her blood today.

"Have something to share, little bird?"

"You're a fool, little bird," he growled, pushing her off and away from him as she turned to vomit once more. He did not move from his spot, but gazed upon her fiercely, fury etched in the harsh strings of his cheek and the blackened flesh peeling off his jaw. His mouth twitched relentlessly. "You think I don't know who you have been sneaking off to see? You don't think I see you creeping about at odd hours, taste your ancestors on the scent your coat? I know your mistakes, little bird, I see how you invite death. If you wanted to kill us both, you need only have asked."

His teeth bared, his maw twitched again, pulling up around his teeth. His entire face quivered with the movement, as he fought with himself against the tide of negative emotions battling themselves. There were no proper words to express it all, but it was there in his twisted snarl: the anger and hatred and boiling fury, the disappointment and the cruel jibes on the tip of his shriveled tongue.

"Your head is full of elder's tales," he spat. "Give up your delusions. Very well, what's your brilliant plan? I do hope it gets us all killed, you've taken wonderful steps in that direction so far. And look at that -- you've already made your next mistake."

He stalked closer again, his head low between his shoulders as his hackles rose. A dog indeed, a hound ready to strike - but instead of lunging for her throat, instead he loomed over her and let out a harsh, barking laugh. "Don't lecture me about a fate worse than death, little bird. You're in paradise inside your little cage." Anyone else, he might have killed for a slip of the tongue like that, but once again he restrained himself from tearing out her throat. At this point, he wasn't sure why; she was infuriating and dumb as a newborn kitten, and dead set on getting herself murdered, by him and everyone else. She thought she knew what a fate worse than death was? A meek little bird, oh-so-sad because her lover was of a different clan? His claws flexed with an urge to knock her back to the ground and see if that gave her any sense.

Littlebird was good at one thing, and one thing only: testing his very minimal restraint and patience.

He stiffened at her touch, but he did not flinch. Singedwolf flinched from nothing. After throwing away his life day after day, shoving it into the paws of his enemies and threatening them to just try and extinguish that bitter cold, there was no longer such a thing as fear within him. He might snap at her for unnecessarily throwing him into danger, but they both knew he was made for blood, and he wasn't concerned about any attacking force that dared threaten them, no matter how large. His whole life was merely waiting for death, and finding that he had become too good, that the common cat could not match him. It would take a legion, or a very skilled threat, to strike him down now.

Or the flickering at the back of his eyes. Just the thought made his scars flare to life with the memory of the scorching agony that had scarred him so. It had been a closely guarded secret, and he had let no cat know his weakness - not even Goldenstar, not even when their camp went up in flame. But now they were in a burning land, and every second they lingered, the closer to her admitting she saw the truth.

He did not flinch, but his nostrils flared at the foreign touch. He had not touched a cat except with his claws since he had carried her here, all those moons ago; cats went out of their way to avoid brushing pelts with him. It was in their best interest. Anyone else would be short a paw... but those were the threats he snarled at her inside his skull, but refused to let the words past his twisted lips. He had spoken them often enough, and they both knew it was an empty gesture. "Tell me you have some sense and you told him he was the faster," he rumbled.

"Suspects? I'm sure she knows full well. You think she doesn't have you followed, doesn't know exactly what you do with your time? You're her Promised, little bird, you only go where she pleases. Your precious Skipstep probably told her the moment you let him go."

Singedwolf had not met Foxstar except in passing when he brought the kit to the clan and became an initiate, but even he knew she was a vixen not to be tricked. He had seen cats start to follow Littlebird around before, though he had no proof they were intentionally stalking her or that the leader had put them up to it, and usually once they caught sight of him they veered the other way. Perhaps he was paranoid, and they were just normal cats that didn't want to get on his wrong side, but he preferred to be cautious. If Littlebird was so determined to do everything in her power to get herself killed, he'd have to err on the side of caution and assume no cat had good intentions.