#clamkit

There were ghosts in the crowd when Oilstripe got her name. Oilstripe tried to ignore them as Downstar spoke of the first graduation ceremony in the history of RippleClan, set on the first day of the new year, but it was hard when they sparkled at the edge of the crowd and cheered louder than her living Clanmates.

Truthfully, Oilstripe couldn’t have asked for a better day to earn her name. The snow had melted into a few stubborn piles along the brambles lining camp. She could step outside and not shiver. 

Moonpaw and Twinekit lurked behind Rustshade and the kits. They pranced at the edge of the crowd, singing Oilstripe’s name. They weren’t there when she became an apprentice, why were they here now? Or had they been there, and Oilstripe simply didn’t see them?

“Good job, Oilstripe,” Weedfoot purred. She shoved herself against Oilstripe, knocking her attention away from the dead. Downstar carefully climbed off the Shiprock, still sore from birth. Puddlespeckle had her four rowdy kits at his side. They were barely a quarter moon old, so they weren’t doing much, but they squirmed, kicked, and nibbled at Puddlespeckle’s side. Oilstripe would have laughed if she wasn’t so freaked out.

“Weedfoot—” Oilstripe gulped, but Weedfoot shoved her tail in Oilstripe’s mouth.

“No talking!” Weedfoot laughed. “You need to sit vigil outside camp until dawn.”

“But—” Oilstripe groaned through a mouthful of tail.

“No exceptions,” Weedfoot chuckled. “Don’t worry. It’s the first day of the new year! We’ll all be in camp to keep you company. Now get settled.” Weedfoot looped around Oilstripe and gently nudged her to the exit. Oilstripe searched for the dead, but Moonpaw and Twinekit were gone. As Oilstripe passed her family, Rustshade nodded at her, purring softly. Oilstripe nodded back, swallowing the stone in her throat.

(Oilstripe: 13, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Moonpaw: 10, female, mediator apprentice, childish, good hunter)

(Twinekit: 2, female, kit, noisy, quick to help)

(Weedfoot: 58, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Downstar: 68, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Puddlespeckle: 135, male, elder, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

(Rustshade: 53, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore) (I screwed up his age for moons I’m sorry)

Oilstripe and Rustshade actually get along better today. They share a meal.

[Image ID: Oilstripe and Rustshade face each other. Under Oilstripe, it says + PLATONIC LIKE: RUSTSHADE. Under Rustshade, it says + PLATONIC LIKE: OILSTRIPE.]

---

Oilstripe’s mind burned when Weedfoot stepped out of camp the next morning and eyed the young ginger historian. She probably looked like a wreck. Her eyes begged to close, but she forced them open with the same fire that fueled her thoughts. When she locked eyes with Weedfoot, the gray deputy paused, back arching for a brief moment.

“Wow,” Weedfoot chuckled, relaxing. “And my father said I looked exhausted after my vigil. How do you feel, Oilstripe?” 

“Confused,” Oilstripe said before she could stop herself. Her voice was harsh from a lack of use.

“Confused?” Weedfoot repeated. She sat beside her former apprentice. Her paws kneaded the sand. “Why is that?”

“I, uh,” Oilstripe stammered, ears going flat. “I was just thinking about that secondary apprenticeship thing you told me about! You know, the whole informal education, pursue your passions, bond with other Clanmates thing?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Weedfoot assured her. She began to groom Oilstripe’s fur. “You just have to ask yourself who you want to be and what you love to do. You don’t have to know immediately, and you can always try something else.” Oilstripe nodded absentmindedly. Weedfoot studied her sagging face. “Hey. Is there something else you want to tell me about? You haven’t been yourself since Twinekit died.”

“It’s not grief, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Oilstripe scoffed. “Honestly, it feels like she never died.” Well, that wasn’t completely true. Her death was a solid, hard reality in Oilstripe’s mind. It was more like she never left. 

“Carnationpaw’s making soup,” Weedfoot sighed. “It’s squirrel and mushroom soup. It should be enough to feed the Clan for the day. Get some soup and get some rest.” Oilstripe shook out her pelt and followed Weedfoot back into camp. 

The oven smoked with the remnants of Carnationpaw’s cooking fire. A large pot sat in the center of camp beside a big snapping turtle shell. The shell had some squirrel and mushroom soup inside. Rustshade sat beside the shell, gently lapping up the warm soup. When he saw Oilstripe, he patted the spot beside him. Dragging her paws and glancing around for signs of star-dusted cats, Oilstripe joined her father as Weedfoot and Scrubmask left camp. 

“Oilstripe is a good name,” Rustshade said. “It reminds me of the patterns oil makes above water.” Oilstripe sat in a loaf beside the shell-bowl and lapped at the soup. The warm broth soothed her hard soul. It thawed the questions digging at her guts.

“Hey, Dad?” Oilstripe asked with a crackling voice. Rustshade focused his ears on his daughter. “Do you ever feel… haunted?” Oilstripe stared at her dim reflection in the broth. She was right, she did look like a mess. Rustshade’s attention was fully focused on Oilstripe. “I mean, a lot of your friends disappeared or left or, or died when you were trying to form RippleClan, and now Twinekit’s gone… what do you think about that? Do you feel like they’re watching you? Does… does it scare you? What do you think they want? Why can’t they leave you alone?” Oilstripe braced herself for Rustshade’s confusion. He would find out what Oilstripe saw, he would think she was losing it, everyone would be jealous and scared and mad at her—

“I think that’s comforting,” Rustshade said.

“You do?” Oilstripe gulped. She stared at Rustshade.

“If my friends are watching me,” Rustshade sighed, glancing at the yellow-blue clouds, “then they’re making sure I’m okay. They want to make sure I don’t feel alone.” Rustshade put a paw on his furry chest. “I do feel haunted, but not in a bad way. If anything, I’d like to know the dead are checking in on me. It lessens death’s sting.” It could be comforting? Oilstripe supposed that could be true… but she wasn’t a cleric. Fennelspot didn’t see the dead all the time. What was she supposed to do with this strange sight?

“Dad, Locustkit left a hairball in our nest!” Clamkit cried from the nursery.

“It wasn’t me!” Locustkit huffed.

“The fur’s creamy, Locust!” Burdockkit huffed. Oilstripe snorted as Rustshade rolled his eyes.

“Thanks for sitting with me,” Rustshade purred. He turned to the nursery and called, “Locustkit, we don’t leave our hairballs in nests!” Rustshade trotted to the nursery. Oilstripe took a deep breath. She ate a bit more of the soup, smoothed out her fur, and marched to the medicine den.

“Fennelspot?” she called. The ginger and white cleric carefully brushed some powdered medicine into a small bowl. He placed a thick lid over the bowl before turning to Oilstripe.

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Fennelspot said, scanning Oilstripe. “Do you need something to help?” Oilstripe sat in front of Fennelspot, sitting as tall as she could.

“I want you to teach me about the dead,” Oilstripe said.

(Oilstripe: 13, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Weedfoot: 58, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Rustshade: 53, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Clamkit: 3, female, kit, lonesome, interested in Clan history)

(Locustkit: 3, male, kit, troublesome, moss-ball hunter)

(Burdockkit: 3, male, kit, bossy, interested in Clan history)

(Fennelspot: 66, male, cleric, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

While Burdockkit and Clamkit sunbathe, Burdockkit bullies Duskkit and Graykit.

[Image ID: Burdockkit and Clamkit sit together on the left, while Duskkit and Graykit sit together on the right. Clamkit says “Burdockkit, they don’t even eat prey yet.” Below Duskkit, it says + NEW SKILL: QUICK WITTED. Below Graykit, it says + NEW SKILL: CAREFUL LISTENER]

---

“Sunhigh is so boring,” Burdockkit groaned, rolling onto his back. He left a soft indent in the snow-mixed sand outside the nursery. He nuzzled into the sand and stared at the bright sky. “Why can’t we go do things?” Burdockkit kicked the air.

“Because everyone’s tired,” Clamkit sighed. She laid in a sunbeam near the edge of the sandy dip leading into the nursery. The rest of RippleClan copied her, sharing tongues and dozing off in the first warm sunbeams of the new year. “Dad says cats are… uh… we don’t like being active in the middle of the day.”

“Don’t you wanna hear more stories from Oilstripe?” Burdockkit whined, sticking out his tongue. “I wanna hear about the Ripple War! Why can’t we do things at sunhigh?”

“I just told you why!” Clamkit huffed. “We’ll hunt down Oilstripe later.” Clamkit yawned and further nuzzled into the sand. Burdockkit groaned loudly. His tail kicked up what little sand had dried in the noon sun.

Loud, clumsy footsteps stumbled out of the nursery. Duskkit and Graykit wobbled onto the sand. Their wide, unfocused eyes scanned the camp. Duskkit’s steps were big and awkward, like she couldn’t bend her joints. Graykit laughed and copied her sister. She immediately face-planted into the sand.

“Ha!” Burdockkit cackled, rolling over. “What did you think would happen?” Graykit cried softly as her tiny, barely usable legs pushed her up. Duskkit tumbled to her distressed sister and nibbled on her pelt.

“Burdockkit, they don’t even eat prey yet,” Clamkit sighed. “Be nice to them!”

“Dad said we could walk just fine when we were their age,” Burdockkit snorted. “Why can’t they?” Graykit cried a little louder as she tried to blink sand out of her eyes. Duskkit stopped her play-fighting and stared at Burdockkit with all the anger a kitten her age could muster.

“Dummy!” she yowled. “Stupid dummy! Stupid, stupid, stu… tailface! Dummy tailface! Stupid!” Graykit’s crying turned to laughter. Clamkit gasped dramatically. Burdockkit stared at the half-blind kit, never blinking. Duskkit spat out her last insult. Burdockkit couldn’t take it; he laughed as loud as he could, his belly aching from the sheer hilarity. He kicked his feet as he cackled like a mad-cat.

“Duskkit, Graykit, what are you doing?” Downstar stepped out of the cool shadow of the nursery and glared at her tiny daughters.

“Stupid dummy tailface,” Duskkit said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Burdockkit fell into another round of unstoppable giggles as Downstar’s pupils shrunk.

“Who taught you those words?” she gasped.

“Oil!” Graykit babbled through her chuckles. Downstar glared across camp to where Oilstripe dozed with Weedfoot.

“Oilstripe, please do not teach my daughters bad words!” Downstar yowled. Oilstripe jolted and didn’t realize who was yelling at her for a few minutes. Weedfoot groaned and yawned as her napping companion stirred.

“I didn’t teach them anything!” Oilstripe whined.

“I can’t breathe!” Burdockkit gasped before his violent laughter took over again. Downstar sighed and grabbed Duskkit by the scruff. She took her daughter back into the nursery, ignoring the best moment of Burdockkit’s short life. Graykit trotted after her, tripping over her own paws.

(Burdockkit: 3, male, kit, bossy, interested in Clan history)

(Clamkit: 3, female, kit, lonesome, interested in Clan history)

(Duskkit: 1, female, kit, troublesome, quick witted)

(Graykit: 1, female, kit, impulsive, careful listener)

(Downstar: 68, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Oilstripe: 13, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Weedfoot: 58, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

Shadowkit bonds with Scrubmask while Locustkit and Halibutkit hang out.

[Image ID: Scrubmask and Shadowkit stand in the lower left corner, while Halibutkit and Locustkit are in the upper right corner. Above Scrubmask, it says + PLATONIC LIKE: SHADOWKIT. Above Shadowkit, it says + PLATONIC LIKE: SCRUBMASK, + NEW SKILL: CAREFUL LISTENER. Below Halibutkit, it says + NEW SKILL: QUICK WITTED.]

---

Downstar dropped Duskkit back in her nest. Graykit tumbled in next to her sister and buried herself in the moss. Downstar groaned, stretched, and crawled into the nest. Her daughters quickly latched onto her for another meal. 

“Sorry about that,” Downstar whispered, “what were we talking about?” Scrubmask had volunteered to watch the kits while Rustshade took a sunhigh patrol. The cream and white molly sat in Rustshade’s nest. Somehow, in the few moments Downstar was outside, Scrubmask had fallen asleep and Shadowkit had crawled over to her. The stocky kit chewed on Scrubmask’s tail like it was a piece of prey.

“Shadowkit, get back here,” Downstar purred.

“‘e’s fine,” Scrubmask mumbled, turning over. Her tail moved in the process. Shadowkit huffed and followed her tail around the nest and continued to devour the young warrior. If Downstar’s youngest son was over there, where was her oldest? 

Downstar leaned forward as much as she could without disturbing her suckling kits. Locustkit lingered behind Scrubmask, dead to the world. The tiny spotted tom purred in his sleep. Halibutkit laid beside him, equally content. Downstar purred and curled tighter around her daughters. 

Life in RippleClan was everything she ever wanted.

(Downstar: 68, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Duskkit: 1, female, kit, troublesome, quick witted)

(Graykit: 1, female, kit, impulsive, careful listener)

(Shadowkit: 1, male, kit, troublesome, careful listener)

(Scrubmask: 26, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Locustkit: 3, male, kit, troublesome, moss-ball hunter)

(Halibutkit: 1, male, kit, impulsive, quick witted)

While on patrol, Weedfoot, Scrubmask, and Rustshade find a loner with a mangled tail.

[Image ID: A tortoiseshell sits on the left, while Weedfoot, Scrubmask, and Rustshade stand on the right. Below the tortoiseshell, it says NEW PLAYER: PARSLEY, 103 MOONS, FEMALE, RIGHTEOUS, GREAT SPEAKER, + CONDITION: MANGLED TAIL.]

---

“So this is where you claim to have seen the giant frog?” Scrubmask asked, lazily scanning the rocky terrain near the AshClan border. 

“Claimed?” Weedfoot scoffed. “I did see it. Why would I make that up?”

“Maybe you were tired,” Scrubmask hummed. A cool wind brushed through her fur and carried Rustshade’s scent from further ahead. The tom in question appeared from behind a tree, shaking out his leg.

“The border’s marked,” he reported. “AshClan scent is thick on the other side.”

“They want us to remember this used to be their land,” Weedfoot sighed. Well, now it was her land. RippleClan’s land. AshClan didn’t deserve it, not after what they did. Weedfoot took in the scent of the area. AshClan smelled like stones and thick forest. The scent still clung to that portion of the territory, but a new, salty smell drifted it over it. The smell of RippleClan. One day, all of the AshClan scent would fade from the land and Weedfoot could bask in the pure joy of her new home. She would forget all the pain and strife of living in AshClan and relax knowing she found a better place to live.

“Weedfoot,” Scrubmask said. Weedfoot opened her eyes and grounded herself in the moment. Scrubmask’s nose twitched and sniffed the air. “There’s an odd smell nearby. Neither AshClan nor RippleClan.” Weedfoot stiffened and tasted the air. Scrubmask was right; somewhere to the southwest, a stiff and sour smell drifted through the territory.

“Rustshade,” Weedfoot said quietly, “check it out.” Rustshade nodded and crept through the early spring growths, silent as could be. He left a few muddy paw prints behind him. Now that the territory was slowly shifting from winter to spring, Rustshade could no longer blend in with dead leaves and foliage. That didn’t seem to concern him nor slow him down, however, as he crept toward a small hole, big enough for a cat to squeeze in, underneath the roots of an oak. Rustshade peered into the shadows and flicked his tail for the rest of the patrol to come closer. Weedfoot and Scrubmask slipped around the oak tree and joined the ginger codekeeper.

There was a tortoiseshell huddled under the tree. They had a dark ginger pelt with three large splashes of dark gray. Huge bites littered their gray tail and stained it red. Cobwebs clung to their single white paw as they dabbed at the wounds. A tortoiseshell with one white paw… Weedfoot knew this molly!

“Parsley?” Weedfoot asked. The tortoiseshell, Parsley, startled, wild eyes locking onto the patrol.

“Now I know I am out of AshClan territory,” Parsley huffed, holding her tail close. “I know your colony’s rules. You don’t need to bother me out here!”

“This isn’t AshClan,” Scrubmask grunted. “This is RippleClan.”

“Another one?” Parsley groaned.

“Do you remember me?” Weedfoot asked. She bounced off the roots covering Parsley and stood in front of the loner. “I’m Weedfoot. We met a few times at the border.” Parsley peered at Weedfoot for a few seconds. Suddenly, she gasped.

“Why, Ms. Weed!” Parsley said. “I didn’t recognize you for a while there! Your Clan has more than its fair share of cats with a pelt like yours, after all.”

“I’m not a part of AshClan anymore,” Weedfoot explained. “I’m the deputy of RippleClan. We’re a new group.”

“That sounds quite important,” Parsley said. “Good for you!”

“Weedfoot, who is this loner?” Rustshade asked.

“Rustshade, Scrubmask,” Weedfoot said, nodding at each cat in turn, “this is Parsley. She’s a loner who used to hunt along the edge of AshClan territory. She lives in the human farmlands.”

“More like used to, Ms. Weed,” Parsley groaned. “There I was, comfy in the hay, when this huge dog comes marching into the barn like it runs the place! As soon as it sees me, it tries to eat me for lunch. Just about took my tail off.” Parsley weakly lifted her tail and flinched when it moved too much.

“Those wounds are severe,” Rustshade sighed. “Fennelspot could attend to those.”

“Well now, I know the rules of your Clans,” Parsley said, shaking her head. “You don’t like sharing your resources with folks outside of your little groups. I don’t blame ya for it, it’s good to support your own, but I don’t want ya getting in any trouble with your leader.”

“RippleClan is different,” Weedfoot purred. “The three of us left our old Clans because we wanted to be kinder and welcoming to loners and kittypets.”

“Among other reasons,” Scrubmask muttered.

“Downstar would gladly shelter you for as long as you need,” Weedfoot said. “I promise we’ll take care of you.”

“Well that’s mighty kind of ya, Ms. Weed!” Parsley laughed. “You always were a nice cat, that’s for sure. Will you do me one small favor first?”

“Do you have other injuries?” Scrubmask asked, sniffing Parsley through the roots.

“Oh no,” Parsley assured the group. “I crawled in here to put a bit of cobweb on my tail, and well…” Parsley wiggled and shifted, bumping into the roots. “I think I’m stuck now.”

(Weedfoot: 58, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Scrubmask: 26, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Rustshade: 53, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

Downstar could feel the approach of snow in the clouds above. Despite sunhigh sending all of RippleClan into their dens for a midday nap, Downstar couldn’t help but feel alive as she looked over the Clan from the medicine den. What would her new home look like covered in snow? Would the ocean send a wicked chill over the area, or would their makeshift dens keep them warm? Downstar still had friends in the other Clans, they gave her advice on tanning the hides of prey and turning them into warm flooring or something to stick to the wall, but RippleClan needed its own artisan to learn these things, not a leader playing pretend. And now, with everything Downstar had to do… she prayed she made the right choice.

“You can wait to announce it,” Fennelspot said. He startled Downstar by appearing behind her.

“No, this is good news,” Downstar said, steadying herself. “We could use something to fight off the winter lethargy.” 

“No, I mean wait until sunhigh passes,” Fennelspot groaned, peering at the cloudy sky. “Everyone’s asleep.”

“It’s fine,” Downstar said with a bit more confidence. She brushed her tail down Fennelspot’s shoulder. She jogged out of the medicine den and leaped onto the Shiprock.

“Everyone,” Downstar called, “gather below the Shiprock for a Clan meeting!” It took a minute for anyone to leave their dens. Carnationpaw stared at her leader and mentor with sleep dragging her eyes shut. Weedfoot nudged Rustshade and Scrubmask into the open. Carnationpaw had to drag Oilpaw out of her nest.

“I’m tired,” Oilpaw groaned. “It’s cold. Why are we meeting now?”

“I know, I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t wait to make this announcement,” Downstar chirped. She glanced toward the elder’s den. Puddlespeckle did not appear.

“Good news or bad news?” Scrubmask asked, gently cocking her head.

“Excellent news,” Downstar purred. “I know our numbers are small. I wish more of our friends had joined us in founding RippleClan, but I wouldn’t trade a single one of you. Still, our numbers need to grow. I am pleased to announce that I am expecting kits!” Downstar brushed her tail over her belly. RippleClan’s eyes sparkled as they locked in on Downstar’s stomach. 

Weedfoot was the first to break the silence. She laughed, with half of the laugh taken up in a purr. She climbed the Shiprock and pressed against Downstar so hard, the tortoiseshell leader thought her deputy would knock her off.

“Congratulations, Downstar!” Weedfoot cheered. “I… oh StarClan, babies! Can, can I…” Weedfoot reached a paw to Downstar’s belly.

“You may not feel much,” Downstar laughed, but she let her friend touch her belly. Weedfoot purred and nuzzled the life growing inside Downstar like she was her mate.

“Great,” Scrubmask said. “More kits.” Downstar could never tell when Scrubmask was being sarcastic or genuine, but she chose to believe she was genuine this time around. 

“Are you sure you can keep working?” Rustshade asked as Downstar hopped off the Shiprock with Weedfoot. The ginger tom approached Downstar like she was a cougar. There was a strange shift in his eyes Downstar couldn’t fully place.

“I’ll be fine, Rustshade,” Downstar purred. “Fennelspot will keep an eye on me.” Fennelspot nodded fervently, standing beside Downstar. 

“Wait,” Oilpaw said, cocking her head, “who’s the sire?” The fur on everyone’s pelts prickled.

“Oilpaw, you can’t ask someone who their sire is,” Fennelspot growled. He stepped in front of Downstar with a hard glare. 

“I know she doesn’t have to answer,” Oilpaw gulped, eyes bouncing around the Clan, “but she doesn’t have to stay silent either. I was just curious.” Oilpaw rubbed a paw into the sand.

“Can you tell me about the Code of Kits & Queens?” Weedfoot asked gently. She joined Oilpaw’s side and rested her tail on her apprentice’s.

“No cat can put a kit in danger or look away when they are,” Oilpaw recited. She stared at Downstar’s belly when she spoke. “A kit’s origins may not be questioned. It is up to the parent to declare parentage, and they cannot be forced to do so. All kits are welcomed into a Clan as full-blooded Clanmates.”

“Why do we have this law?” Weedfoot asked.

“Because LynxClan killed the half-Clan kits of one of their artisans and gave her the dishonor title of Thornheart,” Oilpaw mumbled, “to remind her how her love caused pain.” Oilpaw’s ears dropped and she bowed her head.

“And it allows diverse blood into the Clan,” Fennelspot huffed. “If a molly wants to mate with an outsider for the sake of supplying kits for the Clan, they may do so and will not be shamed. If Downstar wanted to reveal the sire, she would have.”

“Sorry,” Oilpaw sighed. Downstar approached Oilpaw and groomed her ear.

“You’re forgiven,” Downstar chuckled. “I’ll need a good kitsitter once they’re born. Are you up to the task?” Oilpaw nodded, earning a chuckle from her father and mentor.

“What about my training?” a meek voice asked. Carnationpaw lurked at the edge of the group, watching Downstar with wide eyes. “How can you be my mentor if you’re resting in the nursery?” 

“It’s alright,” Downstar insisted. “There’s a lot we can do while I recover. And you’ll be able to join Rustshade and Fennelspot on their patrols.” Downstar tried to rest her tail over Carnationpaw’s back, but the long-furred molly moved just before Downstar could.

“I’m happy for you, Downstar,” Carnationpaw said softly. “Would you like me to prepare the oven?” She stared at the large stone structure while Downstar’s skin squirmed.

“Good idea, Carnationpaw,” Weedfoot said. “I think we’re all hungry.” She led the young apprentice up to the oven. Weedfoot glanced back at Downstar, but all the leader could do was stare at Carnationpaw and think.

(Downstar: 65, female, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Fennelspot: 63, male, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Weedfoot: 55, female, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Scrubmask: 23, female, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Rustshade: 63, male, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Oilpaw: 10, female, charismatic, morbidly curious)

(Carnationpaw: 8, female, compassionate, splashes in puddles)

[Image ID: Rustshade overlooks four newborn kits. From left to right, each kit has text under them reading NEW PLAYER: LOCUSTKIT, MALE, TROUBLESOME: NEW PLAYER: BURDOCKKIT, MALE, BOSSY; NEW PLAYER: CLAMKIT, FEMALE, LONESOME; and NEW PLAYER: TWINEKIT, FEMALE, NOISY)

---

Just two days after Downstar’s announcement, the clouds broke and snow covered the Clans like the sky was shedding its fur. The ocean growled beyond the camp as snow weighed on the shipwreck. Snow replaced sand and buried the roof of the medicine den. The hissing wind lulled the Clan to sleep like a queen’s gentle purrs. No one worried about guarding the entrance; who would try to strike in such brutal weather? 

A small fire crackled just outside the warrior’s den, where the entire Clan huddled through the cold night. There weren’t enough of them to justify more than one fire. It was something of a treat for the apprentices, who wouldn’t move into the den for at least a few moons, but Oilpaw couldn’t sleep.

She and Carnationpaw shared a nest near the edge of the group, huddled together to stay warm through the storm, but Oilpaw could only lay with her eyes open, half-pressed into a mouse pelt Carnationpaw brought from the apprentice’s den. Her tail twitched as she tried to force sleep to visit once more.

“I’m done with this,” Oilpaw grumbled under her breath. She carefully detached herself from Carnationpaw and looked over the sleeping Clan. Downstar and Fennelspot shared one nest, while Scrubmask, Weedfoot, and Puddlespeckle huddled beside one another. Rustshade was supposed to be in Downstar’s nest, but his scent had faded; he hadn’t been in the nest for a while.

Oilpaw stepped around her Clanmates and grew closer to the fire. The fire has grown weak as the night progressed and the snow closed in. Oilpaw blew on the coals and the light flared. The fire illuminated the faint pawprints leading out of the warrior’s den and to the camp exit, not the dirt place like Oilpaw expected. Oilpaw trudged to the exit as snow bit her eyes. Rustshade’s prints led toward the human settlements in the southwest; WheatClan territory.

“Dad?” Oilpaw called meekly. The wind stole her voice. She shook the cold out of her paws, steadied her will, and followed the fading trail south. Something outside her mind urged her paws on. Call it curiosity, call it a push from StarClan, whatever you want, but Oilpaw had to follow the trail, even as her nose grew cold and snowflakes clung to her whiskers.

She found him by the edge of the trees, a stark ginger figure among the brown bark and white snow. Rustshade had his back to Oilpaw and stared deeper into the forest. Somewhere beyond the trees, WheatClan tended the land that would eventually pool with a few special crops overflowing from the human territories. Somewhere out there were distant relations Oilpaw could barely remember. Somewhere out there was Rustshade’s past.

“Dad, what are you doing?” Oilpaw yowled over the wind. Rustshade’s head snapped around. Wide and wild heather eyes dug into Oilpaw. Rustshade shifted just enough for Oilpaw to see what rested at his paws. 

Four kits, about as long as Rustshade’s leg, squirmed together in the snow. Their claws, unable to retract, caught clumps as they wobbled about. Big blue eyes, only half-able to see, clung to Rustshade and to one another. They were diverse in color—golden, sandy, dark red, lilac—but all clearly littermates. That was as apparent as the sharp, shattering expression on Rustshade’s face.

“Dad…” Oilpaw gulped, “who are they?” She stayed where she was and held Rustshade’s attention. For a few moments, it was like they were the only ones standing in the snow, with nothing but bitter wind between them.

“They can’t walk far,” Rustshade finally said. “If you’re careful, you can carry two at once.”

“Dad, who are they?” Oilpaw said with more force.

“Oilpaw, do as I say!” Rustshade hissed. He snatched the dark red and lilac kits’ scruffs. The dark red one, a tom, looked just like Rustshade, but without the paler sheen.

“Oilpaw do say,” the dark red kit chirped, even as he shivered. Something about that simple command from a kit that wasn’t even a moon old, who still had the deep blue eyes of a newborn and the unsheathed claws that marked his age, flung Oilpaw from the storm of swirling thoughts back to that of swirling snow.

Oilpaw raced to the other two kits, a sandy-colored tom and a golden molly, and copied the way her father carried two scruffs in his mouth at once. Oilpaw was certain one of them would fall out, but they stayed still. A familar scent wafted off their pelts. As soon as Oilpaw had the two kits, Rustshade took off. Oilpaw kicked up snow behind her and burned her legs trying to keep up.

The father/daughter duo were back in camp in a few moments. Rustshade went straight to the warrior’s den, silent as ever, and Oilpaw followed. Rustshade placed his two kits on a velvety soft vole pelt Weedfoot scored from LynxClan trade. Rustshade dragged a nest close to the fire and placed the kits in it beside him. He settled them by his belly. Oilpaw instinctively put the other two there as well. The lilac kitten, half-asleep, squealed when her brother settled next to her. She wrapped her tiny limbs around the sandy tom, who was already dozing off.

“Can’t an elder get any sleep?” Puddlespeckle grumbled. He lifted his head and his sleepy eyes settled on the kits. 

“Hi!” the dark red tom called. Rustshade shushed him and nudged him toward his quiet golden sister. 

The simple greeting woke the entire Clan. Slowly, everyone’s eyes settled on the strangers at Rustshade’s belly. Weedfoot pulled herself out from under Scrubmask and sat next to Rustshade. All of RippleClan scooted closer. Oilpaw found herself shoved beside her father as Downstar cast a long shadow through the den. The glow of the fire made her eyes glimmer.

“Is no one going to ask him where he got these four?” Oilpaw finally snapped. “I… Dad did you steal these guys?”

“Do you really believe I would do that?” Rustshade grunted.

“We all know you didn’t give birth to them,” Oilpaw scoffed.

“He didn’t steal them,” Weedfoot said softly. She crouched to the kits’ level. With the warmth of the den and the fire, even the chatty red tom was asleep. “What are their names?”

“The red one is Burdockkit,” Rustshade explained quietly, with a tenderness to his voice Oilpaw only remembered from her few moons in WheatClan. “The sandy tom is Locustkit, and the kit keeping him trapped is Twinekit. Clamkit is the runt.” The Code of Kits & Queens rang through Oilpaw’s head as everyone examined the new additions to the Clan. StarClan, if there was ever a time to break the code…

“How old are they?” Carnationpaw asked, peeking out from behind Puddlespeckle.

“A little under a moon old,” Rustshade purred. 

“StarClan, Rustshade, these kits can’t eat prey yet!” Puddlespeckle groaned. “Fennelspot, you’ve been working on pottery, haven’t you? Tell me we’ve got a pot for the oven.”

“Bubblemoon gave me a small one when we spoke at StarClan’s Shrine,” Fennelspot gulped, glancing at the medicine den across camp.

“Well, grab it!” Puddlespeckle snapped. He shoved Fennelspot out of the den. “These kits are cold and hungry. Carnationpaw, you’re a little fire starter, aren’t you? Get the oven on. We’re making kitten soup.” Carnationpaw looked to Downstar, and the tortie leader nodded. Carnationpaw hurried to the storage den within the shipwreck where she could find dry materials to light the fire.

“What’s kitten soup?” Oilpaw asked.

“An old AshClan recipe for kits who haven’t been weaned,” Puddlespeckle huffed. “You take some prey juice, boil it with water, and soak some moss in it. The little mouse-brains think it’s their mother half the time and drink it up. It’s nothing compared to milk, but if you don’t have a molly who can nurse, it’s the best you can do.”

“You would need fresh prey, right?” Scrubmask said. “I’ll catch something.” The quiet molly vanished from camp before anyone could agree with her idea.

“How do you know this recipe, Father?” Weedfoot asked.

“How do you think we fed you when your mother died?” Puddlespeckle scoffed. He turned to Rustshade and added, “You keep those kits warm, you WheatClan reject.” Puddlespeckle hurried outside as Fennelspot dragged the oven pot toward Carnationpaw.

“I suppose we’re starting our day early,” Downstar chuckled. She touched her nose to Rustshade’s head and said, “Congratulations, Rustshade. Oilpaw, go check on the nursery. Make sure it’s ready for our new guests.” 

Oilpaw couldn’t be happier to get away from the half-grown masses at her father’s side. Maybe the rest of RippleClan recognized the scent, maybe they didn’t. Weedfoot knew, Oilpaw was certain of it, the look in her eyes when she saw those kits was ripe with unknown conversations and unclear truth. Oilpaw knew where these kits came from. She knew it as well as she knew her own pelt.

They were her mother’s kits.

(Oilpaw: 10, female, charismatic, morbidly curious)

(Rustshade: 63, male, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Burdockkit: 0, male, bossy)

(Locustkit: 0, male, troublesome)

(Twinekit: 0, female, noisy)

(Clamkit: 0, female, lonesome)

(Puddlespeckle: 132, male, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

(Fennelspot: 63, male, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Weedfoot: 55, female, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Scrubmask: 23, female, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Carnationpaw: 8, female, compassionate, splashes in puddles)

“Are we on a walk or are we on a hunt?” Rustshade called back to his patrol. “Come on. Weedfoot and Downstar need food.”

“I’m freezing,” Oilpaw groaned. She walked beside Scrubmask through the snowy forest. They were near the Great Northern River that flowed along the northern edges of SlugClan, AshClan, and RippleClan. Oilpaw could see it through the conifers; a beautiful path of white foam over water that matched the color of the sky. 

“Stay close,” Scrubmask said. “We’ll stay warmer that way.” Oilpaw rubbed against Scrubmask. Her long fur was like sitting by a fire compared to the chill stabbing through Oilpaw’s feet. 

“Scrubmask, I want you to go through the trees,” Rustshade said, pointing his tail up. “Let’s search for gray squirrels.”

“Dad, why don’t we try the river?” Oilpaw asked. “There are bound to be some fish there.”

“I don’t want to risk frostbite,” Rustshade said with nary a glance toward the rushing water. “We have other tasks to handle today. We don’t have time to sit by a fire after the hunt. I’ll head further west. Scrubmask?”

“Into the trees,” Scrubmask sighed. She launched at the nearest pine and scurried into the branches. Her absence sent a cold wind across Oilpaw’s pelt.

“Oilpaw, look around this area,” Rustshade ordered. “Fennelspot said he saw some jumping mice near here.” With that, Rustshade pushed on and left his daughter in the cold.

“Oh, what do you know,” Oilpaw grumbled, kicking a pebble. “WheatClan cats don’t fish.” Oilpaw couldn’t smell any mice nearby. Why shouldn’t she look at the river?

Oilpaw stalked through the trees toward the graceful majesty of the Great Northern River. The river flowed smooth the further west Oilpaw looked, but as the water ran to the ocean, rocks tossed the water about and jutted out of the river. The river’s flow cut smooth lines through the stone that guided its path ocean-ward. A junco bounced around the edge of the river, leaving tiny marks in the snow underneath. Rustshade never said anything about hunting beside the river, now did he?

Soon after, Oilpaw had the dead junco at her paws and licked warm blood off her fangs. It was a solid catch, capable of feeding at least two of her little siblings, but it wouldn’t be a lot. That was when Oilpaw heard a loud splash to her right. A big fish flapped on one of the big, flat rocks that dotted the edge of the river. It was a brook trout as long as Oilpaw’s leg. Oilpaw would have been a poor hunter if she gave up a star-given opportunity like that.

Oilpaw pounced on the trout before it could flop back into the water. She dispatched it with a swift, albeit messy, bite to the back of the neck. She couldn’t help but purr as she placed the trout beside her junco. Now this was a good catch, and she barely had to wait a moment between the two! Now how to carry them back to camp…

“Oilpaw!” Oh great. Dad. Rustshade trotted out of the trees, eyes locked on the trout.

“I leave you alone for a moment, and you immediately go against my orders?” Rustshade snapped.

“I didn’t go fishing,” Oilpaw insisted. “The trout jumped out of the water. I swear! See, I’m not even wet!” Oilpaw held out her paws, but Rustshade pushed them down.

“I asked you not to bother with the river, and you still went here,” Rustshade growled. “Are you this rude with Weedfoot?”

“Weedfoot doesn’t give dumb orders,” Oilpaw hissed. She stood over her prey like Rustshade would steal it. “If we’re hunting, why shouldn’t we try the river?”

“When I’m leading a patrol,” Rustshade huffed, “you need to trust me.”

“Maybe I’d trust you if I knew what you were doing half the time!” Oilpaw yowled. Rustshade’s fur rose. Oilpaw nudged the trout onto her back, with the fish’s slick body carefully balanced along her spine.

“What are you doing?” Rustshade asked.

“Bringing my prey back to camp,” Oilpaw growled. “Your kits need to eat, don’t they?” She grabbed the junco before she could regret her words.

“Oilpaw, please wait,” Rustshade groaned. He reached for Oilpaw, but she slipped away, marching away from the river as her heart burned.

(Rustshade: 64, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Oilpaw: 11, female, historian apprentice, charismatic, morbidly curious)

(Scrubmask: 24, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

Burdockkit convinces Scrubmask to play with him while Clamkit talks to bugs.

[Image ID: On the right, Clamkit faces a tiny ant and says “Hi, little ant! I’m Clamkit!”. Below her, it reads + NEW TRAIT: INTERESTED IN CLAN HISTORY. On the left, Burdockkit chases Scrubmask, yowling “Can’t you run any faster?” Scrubmask says “Trust me. You don’t want that.” Under Burdockkit, it says + PLATONIC LIKE: SCRUBMASK, + NEW TRAIT: INTERESTED IN CLAN HISTORY)

(Burdockkit: 1, male, kit, bossy, interested in Clan history)

(Scrubmask: 24, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Clamkit: 1, female, kit, lonesome, interested in Clan history)

Although Carnationpaw recovered from her cold in time for the Gathering, Twinekit now has greencough.

[Image ID: Twinekit sits in a nest, with text underneath her reading + NEW TRAIT: QUICK TO HELP. Locustkit sits on the right, saying “Twinekit? Twiiiiiinnnneeekit! Come play with me!” Underneath him, it says + NEW TRAIT: MOSS-BALL HUNTER]

---

“Twinekit? Twiiiiiinnnneeekit! Come play with me!” Locustkit hovered outside of the medicine den. His little nose twitched as he leaned into the den. The full moon shone onto the den, as though StarClan wanted Locustkit to explore the mysteries inside.

“Nope,” Oilpaw chuckled. She snatched Locustkit by the scruff and dropped him a few tail-lengths back. “The medicine den is full of sick cats right now. We don’t need you getting sick too.”

“But everyone’s leaving, and I’m bored!” Locustkit groaned. “Twinekit said she’d play moss-ball with me tonight!”

“She’ll play with you once she gets better, alright?” Oilpaw sighed. Locustkit groaned dramatically and flopped onto the sand. Oilpaw couldn’t stop herself from laughing. When she forgot where they came from, her little siblings weren’t half bad.

“Remember, don’t strain yourself,” Fennelspot said from the Shiprock. He sat next to Downstar, whose belly had grown plump in the last moon. Oilpaw could almost feel the life radiating from her leader. Fennelspot groomed Downstar, but Downstar gently pushed him back.

“I know what to do,” Downstar said, laughing. “I can’t wait to show off in front of Autumnstar tonight. Two litters in RippleClan! He’ll be furious.” 

“Please don’t fight Autumnstar,” Fennelspot groaned.

“I make no promises,” Downstar purred, gently bumping into her cleric. The rest of RippleClan gathered in the center of camp, grooming themselves before Downstar led them to the Leader’s Stone and the full moon Gathering. Rustshade was not in their small numbers, to Oilpaw’s surprise. 

“Locustkit!” Burdockkit yowled from the nursery. “Help me out!” Burdockkit had Clamkit pinned in the snow. The golden molly squirmed under her brother’s hold. She spun around and nipped Burdockkit’s cheek. Locustkit ran at his littermates and pounced on the duo.

“Be good tonight, alright Oilpaw?” Weedfoot lingered just inside the medicine den. Her voice was congested and yellow phlegm dribbled down her nose. At least she wasn’t coughing her lungs out now.

“When am I not?” Oilpaw chuckled, fluffing her pelt. “I’m going to tell all the new apprentices about the Giant Frog of RippleClan.”

“Good for you,” Weedfoot hummed. “Fennelspot said I’ll be better soon, and I can join you on patrol again.”

“I’m looking forward to it!” Oilpaw said. Violent coughing bounced through the medicine den. Rustshade stepped out of the holy den.

“Fennelspot, did you say to wait before I give her catmint, or give it when she needs it?” Rustshade asked.

“Wait until we leave, at least,” Fennelspot sighed. He trotted up to Rustshade and touched noses with him. “Good luck tonight.”

“You’re staying behind?” Oilpaw asked her father.

“Fennelspot wants to make sure Downstar doesn’t strain herself,” Rustshade explained. “I’ll stay behind and look after the kits.”

“Oh,” Oilpaw muttered. “Well, like he said, good luck. Let’s go!”

“Hold on,” Rustshade called as Oilpaw turned around. Oilpaw groaned and faced her father. “I want to talk to you before you leave. Over here.” Rustshade nodded to the apprentice’s den. He trudged across camp while Oilpaw looked to her Clanmates for help.

“You’re on your own,” Weedfoot said, going back into the medicine den. Oilpaw groaned again and dragged her paws after her father. Rustshade lurked inside the apprentice’s den and sat next to Oilpaw’s nest.

“Are you still mad about that fish?” Oilpaw huffed. “It’s been days, Dad, let it go.”

“This is more important than a fish,” Rustshade grunted. His tone was tense and he sat tall and stiff. Oilpaw hopped into her nest as her fur prickled. Rustshade sighed deeply, his surprisingly gentle eyes meeting Oilpaw’s. “Tonight, when you get to the Leader’s Stone, I need you to speak with Sunstrike. Tell her Twinekit has greencough, and… it’s bad. Very bad.” For a moment, Oilpaw couldn’t breathe. Did her father actually admit something for the first time in his life?

“I knew it!” Oilpaw hissed. “I knew they were Mom’s kits! Did you steal them?”

“Oilpaw, you know I wouldn’t do that,” Rustshade snapped. He fought to keep his fur flat. He took another deep breath, closing his eyes. 

“She told you she wouldn’t be your mate anymore,” Oilpaw growled. “She gave me up. And you had kits with her? Did you want to traumatize another generation? No, that’s not the question I want to ask. How in StarClan do you have them? Why aren’t they in WheatClan?” Rustshade scooted closer.

“When your mother couldn’t hide her pregnancy,” Rustshade whispered, “she left WheatClan and gave birth in the wild. As soon as the kits could start eating gruel, she brought them to me and went home. WheatClan thinks she was taken by humans. They don’t know the kits are hers.”

“You couldn’t stop yourself, could you?” Oilpaw hissed, stepping out of her nest. “How am I the responsible cat in this family? You two can’t control yourselves!”

[Image ID: Oilpaw and Rustshade face each other. Under Oilpaw, it says + DISLIKE: RUSTSHADE. Under Rustshade, it says + PLATONIC LIKE: OILPAW. The description box below them acts as a giant text box, with Rustshade saying “Oilpaw, Your mother and I... our relationship is complicated. We love each other as much as we hate each other. But we both care for you and your siblings, and we’re trying our best to give you good lives.”]

“Oilpaw…” Rustshade groaned. He slowly set his chin on Oilpaw’s head. Oilpaw shivered, but she didn’t pull away. “Your mother and I... our relationship is complicated. We love each other as much as we hate each other. But we both care for you and your siblings, and we’re trying our best to give you good lives.”

“So she put them in danger by giving them up?” Oilpaw muttered.

“She thought they would live better lives outside WheatClan,” Rustshade explained, “just like she thought you would be better with me in RippleClan.” Rustshade looked Oilpaw in the eyes and said, “We love you, Oilpaw. Please understand that.” Oilpaw couldn’t look away. She thought she was going to cry and throw up at the same time.

“I can’t talk to her,” Oilpaw gulped, stepping back and shaking her head. “I can’t do it.” Rustshade nodded softly.

“Alright,” Rustshade sighed. “I won’t force you to do this. Who knows, it may not matter. Twinekit might get better.” He moved closer, but stopped himself. “Enjoy the Gathering.” With that, Rustshade left Oilpaw to her confusing, conflicting thoughts.

(Locustkit: 1, male, kit, troublesome, moss-ball hunter)

(Oilpaw: 11, female, historian apprentice, charismatic, morbidly curious)

(Fennelspot: 64, male, cleric, insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 66, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Burdockkit: 1, male, kit, bossy, interested in Clan history)

(Clamkit: 1, female, kit, lonesome, interested in Clan history)

(Weedfoot: 56, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

[Image ID: Burdockkit says, "Now that Downstar’s kits are older, I like to pretend I’m their mentor and have them do chores for me. They’re pretty bad apprentices."]

[Image ID: Clamkit says, "I’m not sure. I’d rather listen to one of Weedfoot’s stories than play games."]

[Image ID: Duskkit says, "Does sneaking out of camp count as a game? Because I try to do that a lot. Mom gets annoyed, but Fennelspot says she was just like me when she was little."]

[Image ID: Graykit says, "I call it “which kit am I?” Halibutkit and I switch places and we make cats guess who is who. Our scents are totally different, but everyone is still awful at telling us apart!]

[Image ID: Shadowkit says, "Halibutkit and I have this game called Eagle Eye! We pretend we’re eagles flying over the whole territory and we have to guess what the other eagle is looking at."]