#carnationkit

“Okay, we got your feathers in the apprentice’s den, and you’re all groomed,” Oilpaw huffed, smoothing Carnationkit’s head. “Sorry you don’t have a parent to help you with this stuff.”

“It’s alright,” Carnationkit sighed. “I’m just worried. I don’t know what to train as!”

“You’ll be fine,” Oilpaw scoffed. “The Clans have a plan for that. Downstar will put you somewhere she thinks you would like. You can always change roles as you train.” The small Clan stirred as their youngest members chatted in the center of camp. The autumn chill had properly arrived, turning the ocean gray and the leaves of the eastern forest into a mimicry of the sunrise. Scrubmask entered camp from her shift guarding her sleeping Clanmates and noticed the two young cats.

“How long have you two been awake?” Scrubmask yawned.

“I wanted to get my nest set up before my ceremony!” Carnationkit chirped. “That way I can get right into training!”

“Oh, right,” Scrubmask grumbled. “That’s today.” Sure enough, Downstar trotted out of her den and climbed the rock in the heart of the shipwreck (which Oilpaw had named the Shiprock, much to Downstar’s excitement). 

“All cats old enough to catch their own prey,” Downstar yowled, “gather below the Shiprock for a Clan meeting!” Scrubmask sighed and settled down for the meeting. Weedfoot left the warrior’s den and sat next to her apprentice.

“Where’s my dad?” Oilpaw asked, glancing back at the warrior’s den.

“I’m not sure,” Weedfoot sighed. “He left when the sun set, and he hasn’t come back. He was always a fan of night-time hunts, so I’m not too worried.”

“He’ll miss the ceremony,” Oilpaw groaned.

“Hello, everyone,” Downstar called, drawing the small group’s attention. “We all know what today is, I believe. When we first discovered our shipwreck home and found Carnationkit tucked within, we knew our first mission as RippleClan would be to raise her as one of our own. And now it is time to make her an apprentice of our Clan. Carnationkit, have you decided where your paws are taking you?” 

Weedfoot nudged Carnationkit forward. The soon-to-be apprentice stared into Downstar’s deep amber eyes. What would she think of Carnationkit’s decision? Would she see her as an irresponsible kit, as she’d made clear so many times before?

“I don’t know, Downstar,” Carnationkit muttered. She stared at her sandy paws. “Everything seems amazing to me, but I don’t know what I’d be good at.”

“I see,” Downstar hummed. “Will you look at me, Carnationkit?” Carnationkit steadied herself for more disappointment and looked up. Downstar hopped off the Shiprock and approached her. Every muscle in Carnationkit’s body tensed.

“A few moons ago,” Downstar said, “I received a dream from StarClan. They put me in a field of flowers that protected me from wild dogs. I didn’t recognize the flowers at the time, but now their species is clear to me. They were carnations. Those carnations took care of me, and I believe that you will take care of this Clan, Carnationkit. Would you like to train to be RippleClan’s first caretaker? You will watch over future kits of this Clan and maintain our camp and territory. You had no mother to shelter you in our nursery, but now you can shelter cats yourself. What do you say?”

“I’ll do it, Downstar,” Carnationkit said with a lump in her throat. Pride swelled through her and a purr escaped her lips.

“Well then, Carnationkit,” Downstar purred, standing tall, “you’ve reached the age of six moons, and it is time for you to be apprenticed. From this day on, until you receive your caretaker name, you will be known as Carnationpaw. I will be your mentor.”

“Really?” Carnationpaw gasped.

“I was a caretaker back in SlugClan,” Downstar chuckled. “I’m the only one who could do it. It will be an adventure for both of us.” Downstar touched her nose to Carnationpaw’s. Had she ever gotten this close to her before?

“Carnationpaw!” Oilpaw and Weedfoot cheered. “Carnationpaw!” Though the celebration was tiny, in Carnationpaw’s heart, there might as well have been a hundred Clanmates cheering her name.

(Carnationpaw: 6, female, compassionate, splashes in puddles)

(Oilpaw: 8, female, charismatic, morbidly curious)

(Scrubmask: 21, female, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Weedfoot: 53, female, charismatic, very clever, steady paws)

(Downstar: 63, female, adventurous, valuable insight, very clever)

Puddlespeckle challenges Weedfoot to a sparring match.

[Image ID: Puddlespeckle and Weedfoot face each other. Underneath Puddlespeckle, it says + DISLIKE: WEEDFOOT. Above Weedfoot, it reads LEVEL UP! STEADY PAWS -> FORMIDABLE FIGHTER.]

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“I know some of the Clans will consider this a dirty move,” Weedfoot sighed, “but this is a staple trick in AshClan. All you have to do is get some dust or sand under your paw and…” Weedfoot whipped her paw through the sand covering camp. The sand flew in Oilpaw and Carnationpaw’s faces.

“Ow, that stings!” Carnationpaw whined, rubbing her eyes on her shoulder.

“Did you have to demonstrate like that?” Oilpaw laughed. She shook out her bright ginger pelt and rubbed a paw over her face.

“Effective, right?” Weedfoot chuckled. It had been about a quarter moon since Carnationpaw joined the apprentice’s den and the camp was covered in fallen leaves blowing in from the east. Downstar had a lot to do as leader, leaving her with not as much time as she wanted to train Carnationpaw in skills that required long training sessions, such as combat. Luckily, Weedfoot had her own apprentice who just so happened to need someone more her size to practice on.

“Now that your enemy is distracted,” Weedfoot continued, “you can tackle them.”

“But we aren’t going to kill them,” Oilpaw proudly declared, “even though Fennelspot told me, apparently, there’s this long branch in your neck that’s full of blood and if you hit it just right—”

“The Code of Thorn & Ivy may support that move,” Weedfoot interrupted, putting a tail over Oilpaw’s mouth as horror filled Carnationpaw’s eyes, “but RippleClan will never intentionally kill another Clan cat like that. Your goal is to beat your opponent enough that they run away or are no longer able to fight back. Now, Carnationpaw, try to flick sand into Oilpaw’s eyes. Oilpaw, make sure to close your eyes.”

“I’m no mouse-brain, I know,” Oilpaw chuckled, obeying her mentor. Weedfoot stepped back. She swiped her paw in the air to show Carnationpaw what to do. Carnationpaw nodded. She slipped a paw into the sand and flicked it up. The sand fell back in a clump.

“It’s okay, keep practicing,” Weedfoot said. She made the motion again.

“You’re teaching AshClan fighting techniques now?” Puddlespeckle strolled out of the elder’s den, eyes following Carnationpaw’s swipes.

“Hi, Father,” Weedfoot said with a low nod (an AshClan custom for greeting parents that Weedfoot couldn’t stop using). “They aren’t strictly AshClan techniques. All the Clans use them.”

“My father was famous for the dust swipe technique,” Puddlespeckle huffed. “If anyone should be teaching these kits how to fight, it’s me.”

“I’m sorry, Father,” Weedfoot sighed, “but I’m running this training session. If you want to help, why don’t you see if Fennelspot needs anything?”

“Bleh,” Puddlespeckle spat. “There’s nothing I can do there. If you want these apprentices to learn how to defend themselves, they should see a real AshClan warrior in action.” Puddlespeckle lifted his chin. “Come on then. Attack me. Show these little mollies what’s expected of them when they go toe-to-toe with another Clan.”

“Father, most fighting moves would go over Carnationpaw’s head,” Weedfoot groaned. “She’s only just begun training.”

“I want to see you spar!” Oilpaw chirped. 

“Of course,” Weedfoot sighed with a soft chuckle and a shake of her head. She stretched out her legs and steadied her paws on the shifting sand. “Alright, Father. Let’s see what we can teach them.” Weedfoot barely finished speaking before Puddlespeckle lunged at her.

The two were identical blurs of rosetted silver dancing through the sand. Puddlespeckle had a hunter’s grace, lunging for Weedfoot’s neck and dragging her down. However, Weedfoot would not be moved. Even as the sand shifted underneath her, her paws stayed firm. Each blow held the same grace as her father’s attacks, but with a precision Puddlespeckle could not match.

When the sand began to settle and the apprentices could see clearly, Weedfoot had a paw on Puddlespeckle’s neck. The old tom hissed and shoved her off.

“Guess you’re better than I thought,” he growled. He glared at the apprentices and added, “I hope you got something out of that. Now I gotta clean sand out of my pelt.” Puddlespeckle trudged back into the elder’s den as abruptly as he arrived

“You need to teach me all of that,” Oilpaw said. Weedfoot didn’t hear her. As Weedfoot’s heart settled down, her eyes lingered on the elder’s den and the shadow huddled inside.

(Weedfoot: 53, female, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Carnationpaw: 6, female, compassionate, splashes in puddles)

(Oilpaw: 8, female, charismatic, morbidly curious)

“You would think a tom who talks to the dead would believe us when we say we see a giant frog walking through the forest,” Oilpaw grumbled as she and Carnationkit, only a moon from her own apprenticeship, practiced their paw-drilling. Carnationkit was a natural. It only took her a few minutes to make smoke rise from her fireboard. Meanwhile, Oilpaw had been working for an hour and she might as well have tried to start the fire with her mind.

“Well, it’s a weird story,” Carnationkit said. The breeze caught the smoke and blew it in her face. Carnationkit coughed and dropped her spindle. 

“I know that, but it really scared me!” Oilpaw groaned. “He could have been a bit more considerate. Even Weedfoot needed something to calm her down! He’s such a weird cleric. I got to meet the WheatClan cleric, Bubblemoon, at the Gathering yesterday. He’s way cooler than Fennelspot. I can’t believe he used to be Fennelspot’s apprentice.”

“Fennelspot was probably a different tom when he lived in WheatClan,” Carnationkit sighed.

As though the pair had summoned a warrior of StarClan, Fennelspot emerged from the small white ship that sat against the main shipwreck, RippleClan’s medicine den. He called, “Oilpaw! Come here for a moment.” Oilpaw sighed and put down her drill.

“Wish me luck,” Oilpaw chuckled before heading to the medicine den. 

Inside, Fennelspot had his collection of herbs sitting on the broken wood and stones that gutted the white ship. Baskets, firkins, and even a few pots lined the walls with all of Fennelspot’s valuable medical mixtures. Part of Oilpaw wanted to test the effects of each mixture on herself, if Fennelspot wouldn’t kill her for it.

“Weedfoot has you practicing fire-starting, right?” Fennelspot asked. The tom fiddled with drying leaves resting in the upper crannies of the den.

“Yes…” Oilpaw said carefully, like Fennelspot was trying to bait her into a trap.

“Well,” Fennelspot gulped, “if you’re going to keep failing, you might as well practice an easier method.” He plucked something shiny from his shelf of herbs. It looked like one of the flat rocks Downstar built the oven out of, but made of crystal.

“What is this?” Oilpaw gasped.

“Glass,” Fennelspot explained. “WheatClan sometimes steals this from the humans. I got a few shards from Bubblemoon at the Gathering. If you hold it up to the sun and point the reflected light onto the wood, it should start to burn after a while.” Oilpaw ran a paw over the smooth surface of the glass.

“Are you… being nice to me?” she asked.

“No…” Fennelspot mumbled. “Just sparing you some humiliation.”

“Are you secretly a nice person?” Oilpaw chuckled.

“No,” Fennelspot whined. “Leave. I have things to do.” Oilpaw picked up the glass and trotted out of the den with her tail high in the air. Maybe Fennelspot wasn’t so bad!

(Oilpaw: 7, female, charismatic, morbidly curious)

(Fennelspot: 60, male, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

Puddlespeckle rethinks his life choices.

[Image ID: Puddlespeckle sits in the middle of the screen with + DISLIKE: WEEDFOOT underneath him]

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Carnationkit was old enough to watch herself without Puddlespeckle hovering over her. She was basically a little apprentice at this point, helping with whatever camp chores Downstar and her cronies asked for. So Puddlespeckle was stuck in the elder’s den on a grotesquely pleasant early autumn day.

Puddlespeckle had a good view of the rest of camp from his nest. Fennelspot, Downstar, and Weedfoot shared tongues in the shadow of the shipwreck, muttering about something or other. StarClan, it made him sick. A SlugClan cat was his leader now. And worse, his own daughter was subordinate to her. He turned his back to the Clan.

Maybe he should have refused Weedfoot’s pleas. He could have stuck it out as a loner. Perhaps, as Weedfoot and her little Clan of traitors formed their Clan, Puddlespeckle could have returned to AshClan and begged Autumnstar for forgiveness. Sure, he was right to exile Puddlespeckle, Weedfoot hurt their Clan and he was her father. They needed to root out the wet leaves so the ashes could burn again.

It was too late now. Puddlespeckle gave his daughter another chance. Look where it left him. A useless elder in a useless Clan.

(Puddlespeckle: 129, male, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

Carnationkit plucks a bird and puts the feathers in her nest.

[Image ID: Carnationkit sits in a nest covered in white pixel feathers. The text under her reads + DISLIKE: DOWNSTAR, SCRUBMASK. A text box to the left reads “Carnationkit, what happened to this bird?” A text box above Carnationkit reads “Uh… mange?”]

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Carnationkit tucked the feathers along the edge of her lone nest in the nursery. Each one was long, white, and silky. She rubbed her face against the feathers and settled deep into the nest. Blurry memories of a warm belly and a gentle voice drifted to the surface when Carnationkit touched the feathers. Maybe they would bring a little life back to the empty nursery. With one wall against the jagged shipwreck and one wall formed from water-smoothed stones, the barren den trapped Carnationkit inside with nothing but that small, fluffy nest to keep her company.

“Carnationkit,” someone called, “what happened to this bird?” Downstar and Scrubmask appeared outside the den. Scrubmask carried a seagull whose pink skin peeked out from its feather-bare wings. The two older mollies locked their eyes on Carnationkit’s feathers.

“Uh…” Carnationkit gulped, covering her treasures, “mange?”

“Carnationkit, please don’t play with the prey,” Downstar sighed. “If you want feathers, let me know and I’ll pluck the bird. Bird feathers can carry disease if you aren’t careful.”

“Please don’t take them,” Carnationkit whined. “They’re really soft! The nursery gets cold at night!” Carnationkit pulled her feathers close and hid them under her chin.

“I won’t take them,” Downstar groaned, “just… please don’t play with the prey. Alright? It’s a rule in the code.” Downstar shook her head and slipped away. Scrubmask stared at Carnationkit in a way that made her fur prickle. Eventually, the quiet warrior followed Downstar back into camp.

“I just wanted some company,” Carnationkit grumbled, burrowing her nose in her feathers.

(Carnationkit: 5, female, sweet, splashes in puddles)

(Downstar: 62, female, adventurous, valuable insight, very clever)