Between Heaven and Hell {O}fficial Clan Training 1}

Tiresias stalked towards Jetstream, his grudging respect for the Warlord dragging him into this training session. Today, he would be fighting solo, meaning that neither Dementia nor Aileron would be there to help him out. The heat slicked down his short pelt, a fact that nagged at him when he wasn't being distracted by the sticky sand or the obnoxious bugs. Oh well, at least he wasn't long-furred or a darker shade. At times like this, his blue tabby pelt suited the weather in this damn desert Clan quite well.

His claws were already unsheathed, mostly with anger. Even now, the smarting defeat that Jetstream had stung him with ached. The swipes and slashes were either closed or oozing pus, adding to the remainder of the scars that he had earned as a rogue. Perhaps now his pelt could be compared to that of the new Warlord's, though he honestly didn't want to be compared to this b*stard of a cat. Devil. Demon. Whatever the hell he was.

Haemon's brother strode closer, making no secret of the loathing he felt for the black-and-white tom in front of him. The latter was bloody, as usual -- why was he always dripping the crimson stuff, anyways? -- and he stared out at the featureless and drab landscape with his ever-burning gaze. Logs scattered about showed Futan's recent participation, though the bear was undoubtedly sheltering from the merciless heat now. That was all right with him.

It was odd for Tiresias to be walking around without his cronies. They had recently become something of a personal guard for him, as added Jetstream protection, even though those hooked red claws had ripped through his three bodies many times. Better to have the two with him than to even think of fighting this adversary alone. Much as he hated him, the dust-for-brains *sshole proved himself a good fighter. It took a lot of skill to become Warlord in a lawless Clan such as this one, and it made the odd-eyed cat give some semblance of a grudging respect to the other.

What a f*cker, he thought angrily, his mind directed inwards instead of provoking a physical fight here. When it had almost occurred at the meeting, Dustsky had broken it up, but now there was no cat to save him from a shredded pelt -- and throat -- but himself. Perhaps five or six cats, working together and in tip-top shape, could banish this devil back to hell, but no single cat could do so without some serious powers.

Tiresias stopped a fox-length from Jetstream, claws kicking up sand. He sat down, hoping to look comfortable and rather dismissing instead of showing the twinge of fright he was feeling just being near this scarred warrior. There was a reason that the gory tom had been chosen for two separate high positions, and he had already learned that lesson once. There was no way he needed a fight again, not until quite a bit of time had passed. Training, however, was certainly something he could attend, if only to learn a few tips and tricks.

Phantom sighed. Ever since her kitting, this odd drape of laze seemed to consume her. It had indeed ruined her knack for being a known fighter of the clan since the days of Bonestar's reign. She seriously needed to get off her a** and back into the swing of sh*t! "Heyo, Jetstream! Care to add an assistant to the class?" Came her usual, cheery call as the padded forward to the tom. Quite honestly, she wasn't too sure where their relationship stood, considering past events. Surely he didn't hate her?

The senior third tier's head tilted as she awaited his reply, battle-ridden face twisted into a crazed grin.

Phantom's face immediately dropped into a frown. She didn't understand what would be so wrong with helping out, but wouldn't argue about it. From past witnessing, doing such never ended well with Jetstream anyways. "..Ight." She meowed simply, plopping herself down nearby. Her copper gaze watched over the group that had gathered, blinking thoughtfully.

Tiresias returned Jetstream's hellish glare with one of his own. Damn the b*stard! Lifting boulders on their backs? Perhaps the devil himself could do it, but few common cats could without crushing themselves. Well, he was now determined to prove himself anything but common. The blue tabby, whisking his tail, turned sharply away from the Warlord and began to head towards one of the larger boulders. He was damned if he couldn't do this.

He studied the stone for a moment. It was perhaps half as large as Aileron, whom he had left behind in the desert. The fox's strength and size could certainly be useful now. Despite being the brother to two of the largest she-cats in the Clan, he was rather small in stature. Nevertheless, he was determined to prove himself. With a hot glance back at Jetstream, he tipped his body to one side to cradle the rock between his shoulder blades. So far, so good.

Taking a deep breath, he began the slow and painful process of absorbing the immense weight. He soon discovered that the shifting sand beneath his paws held up to the size about as well as he did, so he dug his paws in deep and sank his claws in, just for good measure. Next, he slowly inched his way underneath the boulder, shouldering more and more of it until he felt almost crushed. Glancing up, he saw that barely half of it was off the ground. F*ck.

Well, too late to back off now. He allowed his gaze to travel back to the blood-stained Warlord as he remembered the recent battle. White anger, fiery and scalding, coursed through his blood at the mere thought of it. Channeling the rage in a way that he was used to doing with his thoughts, Tiresias pushed hard with his legs. The stone began to shift, making a swishing sound as the sand holding it down fell. As less of the grainy weight was on it, the rock felt almost lighter. Perhaps it was his imagination, though.

He looked up despairingly. Only a quarter of the boulder was still on the ground, the rest having been transferred to his back. It felt as though the life was slowly being crushed out of him, ground into nothing but a spot on the ground. Then his gaze found Jetstream once more. The same fury flew through his body. I can do this, you f*cker, he screamed in his head, using the terrifying visage of the third tier as a motivation. You won't break me that easily.

Shoulders screaming, muscles crying, jaw set in determination, he began to take on the final few pounds. All in all, the stone probably weighed about forty to fifty pounds, but it felt like a million. The backbreaking work served only to increase his rage at Jetstream. As he lifted the last bit of weight, feeling his legs shake, a rush of triumph strengthened his resolve. I beat you, b*stard, he snarled in his mind. Holding the boulder for a moment, he enjoyed the victory, before stepping out from under it and allowing it to crunch on the sand with pleasure. Now, his entire body felt light as a feather.

"What's next, Warlord?" he spat, trying to make the title into a curse.

The right way? The right way!? It was clear to Tiresias that Jetstream was challenging him, hoping to crush his spirit, and he was every bit as ready to show off how damn good he was. This cat might have defeated him before, but it certainly wouldn't happen again if he had the opportunity. Next time, the Warlord would be carrying new scratches.

Tiresias slid his body next to the boulder once more, using the same position that he had last time. It was easier now to get the damned thing to balance on his back, though his already-tired muscles protested. Shut up, he admonished them silently. There is no f*cking way we're backing down from this one.

He brought the weight onto his shoulders again, carefully lifting up the huge stone. With this new problem at hand, he had to be careful not to expend too much energy on any one dip. Inhale, exhale. Deep breaths. He counted to five in his head, forcing his legs to hold straight and tall without shaking. If his math was correct, he'd have to carry this thing for over a minute to fulfill Jetstream's expectations. Perhaps he'd ask the Warlord to demonstrate next time, just to strain him a bit, though he doubted that it would bother the massive tom that much. He was about two thirds the size of the stone anyways.

Next came the hard part. He slowly bent his knees, refusing to let them crumple, as his body slowly dropped towards the sand. His tail was drooping already, making little circles in the dust, but as he lowered himself, it rose to balance him out. The kink was quite obvious when held straight, but he didn't care. Appearances were nothing, nothing, nothing compared to his anger.

The instant his belly fur brushed the ground, he stopped. Any closer would have his skin on the hot sand. He shut his eyes, fleeing to the darkest portion of his mind where he could think clearly. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. With each number, he alternated sucking in deep breaths and forcing them out heavily. It hurt, burning like the pits of hell from which the "trainer" had surely crawled, but he ignored the pain.

Getting up was easier. He simply had to straighten his legs, something that he would have done anyways in order to get the damned weight off of his muscles. Locking his knees, he stood straight and tall for another count of five. One done. With his eyes open, he stared out into nothingness, allowing his thoughts to fade into an almost meditative state. Not peaceful, surely, but better than bearing the brunt of the force residing on his spine.

Down again. His knees felt weak, but he rejected the strain, despised it for the failure it represented. Again stopping when his stomach fur brushed the sand, he allowed the numbers to wash over his mind. They were all that counted, they and the last vestiges of strength in his legs. As soon as he hit five, his legs began to force upwards again, defying the common cat in his will to succeed. That made two.

Tiresias bared his teeth at Jetstream, allowing the spike of anger to pierce his cool shell. All of his breath was focused on the monumental task before him, though, and so he didn't deign to respond. Instead, he lowered his body once more. One. Two. Three... It was indeed hard work, but he refused to show the tom just how exhausted he was. No, he would prove to him, to all of BloodClan, that he was just as strong, if not stronger, than the Warlord.

Legs straight. Knees locked. Muscles straining. The work became almost monotonous as he once again escaped his form, allowing his mind to flow free while only keeping limited control over his overworked body. He watched almost dispassionately as the blue tabby bent his legs and his back to the work, dropping his stomach again and again. On the tenth full drop, he brought himself back fully into control.

Exhausted, he counted the five that Jetstream had set before him and then pushed upwards, straightening his body. "Ten," he announced with finality, allowing the stone to roll off of his shoulders. "F*ck you as well. Any more impossible tasks for me?"