#graythroat

Oilstripe hated the wait. 

All of RippleClan lingered in their camp’s clearing, the light of a central fire throwing shadows onto the shipwreck. A soft snowfall danced overhead, fizzling out well before it reached the warm camp. Everyone’s minds seemed far from camp, however. Weedfoot paced around the exit while Puddlespeckle watched her with a tired, but oddly soft gaze. Burdockcreek and Clammask silently shared tongues with Rustshade. Oilstripe sat close to the fire with Carnationspeckle and Applepelt. There were no StarClan spirits in camp that night to distract her. All she had were two friends stuck in the same state of mind.

“This seems like a formality, don’t you think?” Applepelt sighed, front paws kneading the sand. “AshClan hasn’t done anything since last moon’s Gathering. I don’t know why everyone is so tense.”

“We don’t know what Autumnstar thinks of us now,” Carnationspeckle said as Oilstripe groomed her long brown fur. 

“I know exactly what he thinks,” Applepelt chirped. “He’s terrified to face me again!” She rolled onto her back and batted the air. 

“Terrified to face StarClan, maybe,” Oilstripe scoffed. “His whole argument fell apart the moment Downstar came back to life. He can’t chase out a Clan accepted by StarClan, it’s in the code.”

“So StarClan’s truly real, is it?” Applepelt sighed. She squirmed deeper into the sand while Oilstripe gave a half-hearted laugh.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Oilstripe said.

“Applepelt, scoot away from the fire, your whiskers will catch,” Carnationspeckle chuckled. 

“Make me,” Applepelt cooed. “It’s too quiet tonight. I’m gonna ramble for a while. Smack me if you wanna stop me.” She rolled back onto her belly. She ranted about WheatClan stories she picked up at the last Gathering, but Oilstripe tuned her out. She and Carnationspeckle groomed knots out of each other’s fur as the fire crackled and spat.

Soon enough, Downstar and Rabbitjoy both entered the camp. Weedfoot stopped pacing and joined them on their way to the Shiprock. Carnationspeckle and Oilstripe both kicked Applepelt, pausing her story mid-sentence. Applepelt seemed ready to whine, but spotted the returning leader and sat up. 

“All cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather below the Shiprock for a Clan meeting!” Downstar called before she even got to the rock. Halibutpaw had been sitting quietly outside the apprentice’s den but now called his littermates into the clearing. The small Clan huddled around the fire. Their eyes shone in the dim light like Silverpelt brought down. Rabbitjoy sat at the bottom of the Shiprock. Oilstripe put her paw over Applepelt’s and her tail over Carnationspeckle’s as she held her breath. Downstar could only keep her serious expression up for so long, though.

“It’s over, everyone!” Downstar yowled, tail high. “RippleClan and AshClan are at peace!” A great cheer tore through the clearing. Oilstripe’s muscles melted like her namesake. “AshClan will hereby acknowledge our position as a Clan ordained by StarClan. As the moons pass, we will establish the same relationships we have with the other Clans. AshClan will allow us to walk along the border to visit the other Clans.”

“Finally,” Halibutpaw scoffed. Graypaw batted his ear.

“Aww, you afraid of a fight?” Graypaw laughed. “You’re the warrior apprentice. You should be sad you can’t show AshClan what’s what anymore.”

“Maybe I don’t want another friend to die, Graypaw,” Halibutpaw snapped. Graypaw stepped back, blinking wildly.

“Alright, alright,” James cooed, stepping between the pair. “That’s quite enough. When I lived with humans, they always celebrated special moments with a good meal. I say we do the same!”

“I like that idea, James,” Downstar chirped. “Carnationspeckle, you’re the best swimmer we have. Would you take Graypaw to the coast and find some fish for the Clan?”

“The ocean’s freezing, Mom,” Graypaw whined. “Can’t I help at the oven?”

“You’ll be a caretaker soon, Graypaw,” Downstar sighed, shaking her head. “If I ask you to do something, you’ll need to do it. It won’t take long.” Graypaw muttered something, but didn’t put up anymore fight. 

“We have a bit of flaxseed oil from WheatClan!” Clammask said, jogging over to the portion of the shipwreck where the Clan stored jars and pots and baskets. “Let’s use that tonight!”

“Wonderful,” Downstar purred, hopping off the Shiprock. “We could use a feast. Enjoy yourselves tonight, everyone!” Weedfoot, Shadowpaw, Halibutpaw, and Rustshade surrounded Downstar. Carnationspeckle stretched and touched noses with both Oilstripe and Applepelt.

“I’ll catch a fish for us to share,” she promised. With a wave of her feathery tail, Carnationspeckle led Graypaw out of camp. 

“My humans used to catch fish, did I ever tell you that?” Applepelt chirped.

“A few times already, yes,” Oilstripe purred, her heart as warm as the fire.

“You should have seen the fish they would bring in,” Applepelt laughed, stretching her legs as far as they could go. “Some of them were this big! I’ve never seen others of them before, either. I think they got on a ship and caught them, but I don’t know how that works. I know James helps build rafts sometimes, but they couldn’t go far enough to catch these fish. I don’t know if I could call some of them fish…” 

Applepelt continued on, describing spider-like masses of flesh and fish with more teeth than she could count. As her words washed over Oilstripe, the ginger historian’s eyes drifted over the apprentice’s den. A cream-colored cat stood outside the den, shining as bright as the fire. Oilstripe nodded to her sibling and enjoyed her Clan’s victory.

(Oilstripe: 24, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Applepelt: 29, she/they, historian, rebellious, lore keeper)

(Carnationspeckle: 22, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)

(Downstar: 79, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Halibutpaw: 12, male, warrior apprentice, impulsive, quick witted, lover of stories)

(Graypaw: 12, female, caretaker apprentice, bloodthirsty, careful listener)

(James: 96, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Clammask: 14, female, caretaker, righteous, lore keeper, good teacher)

Two apprentices graduate from their training without their brother. Shadowpaw was held back to catch up on missed training from whitecough.

[Image ID: Halibutdusk and Graythroat pose. Under Halibutdusk, it says LEVEL UP! HALIBUTPAW -> HALIBUTDUSK, IMPULSIVE -> GLOOMY, QUICK WITTED -> CLEVER, LOVER OF STORIES -> GREAT STORYTELLER. Under Graythroat, it says LEVEL UP! GRAYPAW -> GRAYTHROAT, BLOODTHIRSTY -> FIERCE, CAREFUL LISTENER -> VALUABLE INSIGHT.]

(Halibutdusk: 12, male, warrior, gloomy, clever, great storyteller)

(Graythroat: 12, female, caretaker, fierce, valuable insight)

Graythroat attacks a fox without hesitation, but merely freaks it out.

[Image ID: Graythroat faces down a fox while Fennelspot and James watch in the corner. Under Fennelspot, it says + GUIDANCE FROM STARCLAN: GRAY & GRAY (OMEN).]

---

Fennelspot loved having a proper selection of caretakers to help him manage his gardens. It could be hard to properly tend to the selection of herbs he had begun cultivating in the southern half of the territory, but with caretakers, Fennelspot could focus on his medical and spiritual duties while they made sure the herbs grew well. Yes, it was the last moon of winter, and most of the growths wouldn’t begin showing up until the next moon, but it was the perfect time to plant some of his seeds. Besides, James and Graythroat hadn’t had much experience with the garden, so this was as good a time as any to introduce them.

“Humans have their farms and gardens,” Fennelspot explained as Graythroat and James walked behind him with baskets of thyme and sage seeds. “That taught us how to start our own fields and rise a step above herbal scavenging. There are a lot of plants we let grow wild, but some, like the sage and thyme seeds I’ve kept in storage all winter, grow well in gardens. I found the areas near the southern edge have better conditions for maintaining a garden.”

“Do you expect me to dig?” James scoffed, his words muddied by the basket in his mouth. “I don’t dig. I can barely tolerate the constant sand between my paws, I will not willingly coat myself in mud.”

“We’re caretakers, that’s our job,” Graythroat grunted.

“The mud’s not as bad as you think it is, James,” Fennelspot said, some of this enthusiasm seeping out. “It reminds me of SlugClan. It’s nice. At least I won’t ask you to help smoke out beehives. I don’t think you’d stay in RippleClan if you had to do that.” Fennelspot chuckled awkwardly as James tilted his head. The face Graythroat made told him all he needed to know on the subject.

The gardens were a section of an open field west of the RippleClan graveyard. At first glance, it seemed like any other field, but the grass was only half-grown and the remnants of plants that did not survive the winter sat in rows that would never have formed without an intelligent paw to guide them. A dusting of snow covered the gardens, but it wouldn’t stop the patrol.

Fennelspot was about to direct Graythroat to tear up the dead plants while he explained planting to James, but a gray shape on the other side of the gardens made him pause. It was a silver fox; its black fur was dusted white as though it had been caught in the snow. Brilliant orange eyes stared at Fennelspot. It stood in profile, watching the three cats, completely frozen.

“It’s likely passing through,” Fennelspot whispered as his companions noticed the fox. “We’ll wait for it to leave and come back later.”

“No,” Graythroat huffed, dropping her basket. “This is our territory. No fox is going to steal our prey.” Graythroat bolted past Fennelspot and James before either could respond. Graythroat hissed and screeched, catching the fox’s attention. The fox screamed at Graythroat, ears pulled back as far as they could go. Graythroat launched at the fox and dug her claws and fangs into its silver coat.

“Graythroat!” Fennelspot yowled. “It’s done nothing to us. Leave it alone!” StarClan, he wished there was someone in the Clan who could speak to foxes. James set his basket of sage seeds down and stood in front of Fennelspot, ready to defend the cleric.

Morning light bounced off Graythroat’s pelt. The sun illuminated the fox’s fur, blending the white flecks into its black undercoat. In that light, Graythroat’s pelt looked just like the foxes. Gray fur scrambled over gray fur in a shiny mixture of rage. A sudden sense of familiar clarity flooded Fennelspot’s mind as the fox scrambled out from Graythroat’s clutches and bolted toward the trees, barking madly. This was a sign. No, not a simple sign. An omen. StarClan may not talk to him like they talk to Oilstripe, but by the stars, he was good at his job and he knew an omen when he saw it.

What the omen meant, however, he could not say.

(Fennelspot: 77, male, cleric,  insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Graythroat: 12, female, caretaker, fierce, valuable insight)

(James: 96, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

James escorts the WheatClan deputy to camp.

[Image ID: James stands in the corner as Valleybrook, a golden tabby with Rustshade’s markings and lavender in his fur, speaks to Rustshade and Oilstripe. He says “I wish we were talking under better circumstances, Rust.”]

---

There were a lot of cats Oilstripe would have expected to walk into camp, but her uncle was not one of them.

Oilstripe and Rustshade were sharing one of their rarer moments of peace, quizzing Shadowpaw on the code so he could catch up to his littermates. They were halfway through the Code of Caretakers when James entered camp. Oilstripe would have paid him no mind if a slender golden tabby didn’t follow him in. The tom was so star-struck by the bulking shipwreck that he didn’t notice Weedfoot jogging his way.

“Valleybrook?” Weedfoot called. Rustshade snapped his head around. 

Valleybrook broke out of his trance and faced Weedfoot, saying with an awkward sigh, “I’m sorry. I’m very impressed by your camp. A shipwreck makes quite the statement.”

“I was enjoying my afternoon when he waved me over from the WheatClan border,” James huffed, scratching an itch behind his ear. “He asked to come to camp.”

“Downstar’s out on patrol right now,” Weedfoot said with a slight cock of her head. “What brings the WheatClan deputy to our camp?”

“It’s something of a favor,” Valleybrook admitted. His gaze shifted to Rustshade and he said, “I was hoping to speak with my brother.”

“Rustshade, you never told me you’re littermates with WheatClan’s deputy,” Shadowpaw said as Rustshade wandered over to Valleybrook, his tail stiff behind him.

“They haven’t talked much since we left WheatClan,” Oilstripe whispered. From what she remembered of the first half of her kithood, Valleybrook had been a loving uncle, encouraging Oilstripe to learn all about WheatClan’s crops. He was always the perfect image of grace at Gatherings, but his soft eyes rekindled Oilstripe’s old memories of him.

“Hello, Valley,” Rustshade sighed, gracefully sitting in front of his estranged kin.

“I wish we were talking under better circumstances, Rust,” Valleybrook sighed. He spotted Oilstripe watching and called to her. “Oilstripe, join us, please.” With a worried glance at Shadowpaw, Oilstripe joined her father and uncle. Weedfoot and James stepped away in a feeble effort to give the group privacy.

“What’s so wrong that we couldn’t talk about it during the Gathering?” Rustshade asked matter-of-factly. “You’d only have to wait a few days.”

“I didn’t want you to be blinded by the news,” Valleybrook sighed. He tucked his tail over his paws and took a deep breath. “Sunstrike came down with some sort of infection. I don’t fully understand what happened. She passed away yesterday.” 

Well that didn’t make sense. Oilstripe would have seen her. She spoke to Sunstrike at Gatherings, they were polite to each other, she knew she cared that Oilstripe was happy. She wouldn’t head to StarClan without visiting her kits. Should she even be thinking of her mother’s death in such simple terms? Should she feel more than she did? Rustshade seemed similarly stunned, at least. His unreadable expression gave no clues as to how he felt.

“I see,” Rustshade said. “Thank you for telling us before the Gathering.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Valleybrook said. “If you two want to share soup together at the Gathering, I think that would be nice.” Rustshade nodded softly. Valleybook gingerly reached a paw out and placed it on Rustshade’s head. Rustshade stayed still. “I’m sorry, Rustshade. I know things haven’t been wonderful between you and your old mate, but I understand what it’s like to lose someone you shared so much of your life with.” Valleybrook couldn’t have been more obvious about what he meant, but Oilstripe couldn’t tell if her father noticed. 

“Do you want me to escort you back to the border?” Rustshade asked.

“That would be nice,” Valleybrook sighed, moving his paw and standing. “I hope it’s alright if I visit your dirtplace first.”

“There’s a path looping around the shipwreck for you to follow,” Rustshade explained, nodding toward the dirtplace path. Valleybrook nodded and his gaze lingered on his brother as he crossed through camp.

“Oilstripe,” Rustshade muttered into Oilstripe’s ear. “Clammask and Burdockcreek will be back from Downstar’s hunting patrol before I get back. Will you tell them about Sunstrike?” Oilstripe nodded absentmindedly, then realized exactly what that would entail.

“You want me to…” Oilstripe gulped, locking eyes with Rustshade. Rustshade sighed and nodded.

“If they haven’t figured it out themselves,” Rustshade explained, “they deserve to know now. They should get a chance to mourn their mother.”

“I’ll tell them,” Oilstripe promised. She couldn’t predict how they would react, but her father was right. It was important for them to know where they came from.

Valleybrook returned soon after and walked with Rustshade out of camp. Oilstripe dismissed Weedfoot’s questions of concern and went off to a quiet corner of camp to think. Well, not really think; look. She scanned the camp and the trees beyond and the humming waves that brought the shipwreck to its home. 

Sunstrike was nowhere to be seen.

(Oilstripe: 24, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Weedfoot: 68, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(James: 96, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

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

(Shadowpaw: 12, male, codekeeper apprentice, adventurous, confident with words)

Carnationspeckle finds an abandoned kit while on patrol with Weedfoot.

[Image ID: Weedfoot and Carnationspeckle face a silver kit with a white left ear and copper eyes. Under the kit, it says NEW PLAYER: RATTLEKIT, 3 MOONS, FEMALE, INSECURE, PLAYS WITH PREY. Weedfoot asks, “What happened to your fur, little one?”]

---

“I wish I could say I’m surprised that Graythroat attacked the fox, but I’m not,” Carnationspeckle sighed. “She’s always been more ready to fight than she should be.”

She and Weedfoot were at the gardens, carefully planting some heal all seeds Rabbitjoy traded with SlugClan. The ground kept freezing as night fell, but Fennelspot insisted the frost wouldn’t hurt the seeds. The frost still clung to the grass when Carnationspeckle and Weedfoot arrived. Carnationspeckle found the simple practice of spreading seeds to be a mindful activity, allowing her to connect with the world around her. Weedfoot kept shaking mud out of her paws, but at least she was willing to help.

“If she wanted to focus on fighting,” Weedfoot huffed, “she should have trained as a warrior. Her brothers learned to curb their battledrive, I don’t know why she hasn’t.”

“StarClan only knows,” Carnationspeckle said. She studied the edges of the garden and asked, “Do you suppose there is a way to protect the herbs from rabbits and those sorts of creatures?”

“We would need some sort of wall,” Weedfoot muttered, tilting her small basket of heal all seeds onto the ground. “I don’t know how we would keep other animals out but let ourselves in.” Carnationspeckle hummed softly and shoved dirt over the heal all seeds.

“Mom?” a high-pitched voice called. Weedfoot and Carnationspeckle’s ears shot up. The wild growth beyond the garden was quiet, but distant plants swayed as an unseen figure pushed past them.

“Hello?” Carnationspeckle called into the trees. A soft gasp reached her ears and the plants shifted while the figure hurried toward the garden. Weedfoot tensed up and took a cautious step toward the approaching form. 

A silver face peeked out from the half-alive plants beyond the garden. Dark orange eyes shone in the light of the early morning. Carnationspeckle held back a gasp as she realized the silver coloration was not fur like it should have been, but skin. The kit lacked a single hair anywhere on her face. Wrinkles settled over her body like fluff. Her left ear was shiny and white like a fin sticking out of the water. Her face soured at the sight of Carnationspeckle and Weedfoot.

“You’re not my mom,” she huffed. She stepped back into the trees.

“Wait!” Carnationspeckle yelped. “Come back!” The kit emerged once more, studying Carnationspeckle just as the brown molly studied her.

“What happened to your fur, little one?” Weedfoot asked softly, getting down to the kit’s level.

“I never had any,” the kit said, hesitating. “Who are you? Have you seen my mom?”

“I’m Weedfoot,” the deputy explained. “This is my friend, Carnationspeckle. What does your mother look like, little one?”

“Like me,” the kit explained. “Have you seen her?”

“I’m sorry, we haven’t,” Carnationspeckle sighed. “What’s your name?”

“Rattlesnake,” the kit muttered. As she stepped further into the garden, Rattlesnake shivered violently. Carnationspeckle hurried up to her. Rattlesnake yelped, but Carnationspeckle brought her close and pressed her into her long pelt.

“You’re freezing,” Carnationspeckle gasped. “Stay here, please. I can keep you warm.” Rattlesnake shivered so hard, she almost knocked Carnationspeckle over. The skin of her needle-like tail was red and blistered. 

“She’s no Clan kit,” Weedfoot sighed. She sat next to Carnationspeckle. “Rattlesnake, when did you last see your mother?”

“She woke me up and brought me to the forest,” Rattlesnake explained. She buried her bony face into Carnationspeckle’s fur. 

“So you’ve been out here all night?” Weedfoot mumbled.

“Weedfoot, she has frostbite,” Carnationspeckle said, draping a paw over Rattlesnake. “I can’t warm her up here.”

“Rattlesnake, can we bring you to our home?” Weedfoot asked. “We have some warm leather and a fire you can sit by.”

“Mom said not to go with anyone unless they were a Clan cat,” Rattlesnake gulped, eyeing Weedfoot.

“Then you’re in luck,” Carnationspeckle purred. “We’re from RippleClan.” Rattlesnake purred and rubbed her cold nose against Carnationspeckle.

“I’m going to run ahead and make sure the Clan’s ready for her,” Weedfoot explained. “Will you escort her to camp?”

“I won’t leave her side,” Carnationspeckle promised. The pair touched noses and Weedfoot took off, grabbing the seed basket and leaving deep pawprints behind her. Carnationspeckle reached for Rattlesnake’s scruff, but paused. Without fur, would Carnationspeckle’s teeth pierce her gentle skin? She decided against it.

“Rattlesnake,” Carnationspeckle whispered, “have you ever had a horse ride?”

“What’s that?” Rattlesnake asked, peeking out from Carnationspeckle’s fur. Carnationspeckle crouched down so her belly touched the ground.

“Climb onto my back and hold on tight,” Carnationspeckle chuckled. Rattlesnake hesitated for a while, one paw gently reaching toward Carnationspeckle. Eventually she scaled Carnationspeckle’s back. Carnationspeckle gently stood and adjusted her stance for Rattlesnake’s weight. 

“Here we go,” Carnationspeckle chirped. She waddled out of the garden as quick as she could as Rattlekit’s tiny claws poked into her skin.

It was a long walk back to camp, but at least the frost melted underneath Carnationspeckle and Rattlesnake didn’t shiver so intensely. When the shipwreck came into view, Fennelspot was waiting for her outside camp.

“Let me see the frostbite,” Fennelspot gulped as Carnationspeckle ran toward him. Fennelspot walked alongside Carnationspeckle and studied Rattlesnake. Downstar and James tended a fire in the center of camp while Rabbitjoy set out a few soft leather pelts beside it. Weedfoot waited anxiously by the fire.

“Set her down here,” she said when Carnationspeckle got close. Carnationspeckle laid on her belly so Rattlesnake could drop off. She purred as she curled up on the soft vole pelts. Fennelspot examined her tail and ran a paw over the blisters. The rest of RippleClan watched from the sidelines.

“It’s in its early stages,” Fennelspot explained. “I can treat this easily. Put a pelt over her. She needs warmth.”

“I didn’t know cats could be born without fur,” Downstar muttered as Fennelspot jogged to the medicine den. Rabbitjoy set a rabbit pelt over Rattlesnake, furry side up.

“I know a furless cat!” Parsley stepped out of the crowd. “When I lived in the barn, I heard stories of a furless molly the humans kept as a breeder.”

“What do you mean?” Carnationspeckle gasped.

“Humans sometimes keep a molly around so she can keep kitting litters,” Weedfoot explained with a sneer. “They don’t care how exhausting it is.”

“What an awful fate,” Carnationspeckle growled. “Why did her mother leave her out here? If she could leave, why wouldn’t she join her daughter?” Rattlesnake had fallen asleep by this point. Her whiskers twitched peacefully in her dreams. Fennelspot returned with a salve in a small jar and spread it over Rattlesnake’s tail.

“Maybe she couldn’t leave for long,” James suggested. “If humans like the cat living with them enough, they’ll look for them if they leave. You said her mother wanted her to go with Clan cats, didn’t you? Perhaps she thought her daughter would have a better life without her.” Carnationspeckle curled around Rattlesnake and groomed her wrinkly head.

“She will,” Carnationspeckle promised. She met Downstar’s eyes and said, “I’ll raise her. I can’t let her sleep in the nursery alone.”

“I’m not surprised,” Downstar purred.

“It’ll be hard to explain this to her,” Weedfoot sighed, sitting by Rattlesnake and Carnationspeckle. “She can’t be much older than three moons.”

“Do you think she’ll want a Clan name?” James hummed. 

“If she does,” Carnationspeckle purred, “we could call her Rattlekit. That’s what you did with my name.” Downstar and Weedfoot nodded as Carnationspeckle rested her head by her new daughter. Yes, that was what she would be. The decision was as clear to Carnationspeckle as a cloudless sky. The small furless molly would not go through life without a mother.

(Carnationspeckle: 22, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)

(Weedfoot: 68, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Rattlekit: 3, female, kit, insecure, plays with prey)

(Fennelspot: 77, male, cleric,  insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 79, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

Rabbitjoy told Weedfoot that outsiders often saw the Clans as “imprisonment”, where others bossed you around and controlled your every step. This was far from the truth, of course. While apprentices had to be escorted due to the danger of the wilds and the Clan asked all who could to share the load, once you completed your tasks for the day, you were free to do as you may. No one would force a cat to follow commands all day.

But they still returned home. They weren’t supposed to be gone so long. Especially not an old, tired elder lost just before the start of winter.

“Father?” Weedfoot called. Harsh wind whipped her voice through the trees. “Father?”

“Puddlespeckle!” Parsley yowled from somewhere unseen. “Are you here?”

“I know you don’t like us much, but there’s no reason to leave!” Oilstripe half-laughed beside Weedfoot, nearly piercing her ear. Weedfoot shivered and rubbed her ear. Somewhere far behind her, the distant calls of the codekeeper’s patrol fluttered in the wind. With two patrols scanning every part of the territory for Puddlespeckle, someone was bound to find him, surely.

Oilstripe gently bunted Weedfoot’s shoulder. A soft trill slipped out of the ginger molly’s throat.

“I’m alright,” Weedfoot sighed, rubbing against Oilstripe. “I hope I didn’t drive him off.”

“He’s a stubborn old fool, but he’s grown to like the Clan!” Oilstripe chirped. “Somewhat, at least. He wouldn’t run off.” An emptiness swallowed the space after her words. Oilstripe was right. Puddlespeckle wouldn’t run away. But that meant something far worse had happened.

Soft pawsteps approached from behind. It was James. The former kittypet shook out his faded black ribbon and fluffed his fur against the early winter chill.

“James,” Weedfoot sighed, touching noses with her friend. “Did the codekeepers find anything?” James tucked his face into Weedfoot’s chest. His ribbon tickled her nose. His tail searched for Weedfoot’s. 

“Weed…” James sighed quietly. “Rustshade says he’s been out there for a while. I don’t think you should see it.”

[Image ID: Oilstripe is surrounded by the spirits of StarClan as she says, “I see StarClan whenever they come to visit. I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”]

Weedfoot didn’t want to know the details, but when that was all RippleClan could talk about, she was bound to hear them. According to Mousepaw, Puddlespeckle’s body had decayed enough that bringing it back to camp for a proper vigil would be worse than taking it straight to the graveyard. They couldn’t tell what did him in. Or maybe they did, but they were better about keeping it from Weedfoot’s ears than anything else.

Since the body was unpresentable, Fennelspot, Rabbitjoy, and Rattlepelt crafted a proxy. There were still some wilted forget-me-nots in the elder’s den from the last flowers Puddlespeckle managed to find to decorate his pelt. Rabbitjoy wove the petals into tufts of Puddlespeckle’s fur and Rattlepelt wrapped the creation in a freshly tanned pelt. With a simple blessing from Fennelspot, the wrap would be, in every spiritual sense, Puddlespeckle. At least for the night.

Weedfoot couldn’t say she was broken by this. She could never characterize her relationship with her father as something really positive, after all. But they had gotten better, hadn’t they? They were closer, even if Puddlespeckle sneered a bit when Weedfoot talked about James and complained about having to share his den with Parsley. Things were better. She should have had the chance to say goodbye.

James and Oilstripe were her closest companions during the vigil. She had expected Downstar to make an appearance, to say something, but as she had been prone to do for moons by that point, she stayed in her den. James and Oilstripe kept Weedfoot occupied with various stories of Puddlespeckle. Oilstripe had a shocking memory of the old gray tom; had Puddlespeckle actually told her about her apprenticehood misadventure at the Great Northern River? That didn’t seem like something he would share with her. At least she had stories to share, Weedfoot supposed.

Most cats did not stay long at the vigil. The search had taken up most of the day, leaving the whole Clan craving sleep. Even James bid farewell come moonhigh. Weedfoot and Oilstripe were the only ones stil awake at the end. 

“You can sleep, Oilstripe,” Weedfoot eventually sighed, running her paw over the leather wrap in front of her. “Thank you for staying up with me.”

“I don’t think I can sleep tonight,” Oilstripe mumbled. Her eyes were half closed and her ears constantly twitched. Her nose would curl up on occasion before she forced her face to relax.

“Try to,” Weedfoot suggested. “You look exhausted.” She bunted Oilstripe’s shoulder.

“I’m going to the dirtplace,” Oilstripe suddenly snapped. She stood so quickly, she knocked Weedfoot aside. Oilstripe scampered to the dirtplace, kicking up sand as she went. Was she more hurt by Puddlespeckle’s passing than Weedfoot first thought? She didn’t think the pair were that close. Oilstripe never really spoke to Puddlespeckle unless she was spending time with Weedfoot, after all. 

Weedfoot wouldn’t be a very good deputy (or friend) if she let Oilstripe suffer. She patted the leather wrap and followed the path to the dirtplace. The ocean’s hum filled her mind and tried to muffle Oilstripe’s words. Words? Yes, words; Oilstripe was speaking to someone. Weedfoot paused in the darkness of the shipwreck and listened.

“Why would I tell you?” Oilstripe snapped. “I don’t tell anyone about this.” Weedfoot spared a glance into the dirtplace. Oilstripe was alone, but she stared at the empty space beside her with what little fury her exhaustion let loose. “If you wanted a vigil over your body, maybe you shouldn’t have left camp!” Weedfoot knew Oilstripe had a tendency to talk to herself, muttering half a conversation when she thought no one else could hear. Wasn’t Fennelspot helping her with that odd quirk? How severe were her symptoms to have her arguing with shadows.

“Puddlespeckle, I told every story you asked me to share,” Oilstripe growled. “What else do you want from me? From Weedfoot? She loved you, you old mousebrain, even if she isn’t broken about it. Go to StarClan already and leave me alone! You’re pushing me into madness!”

“Oilstripe,” Weedfoot huffed, stepping into the dim moonlight. Oilstripe stiffened, one ear cocked toward Weedfoot. 

“Not again,” Oilstripe muttered, closing her eyes. “I’m alright, Weedfoot. Go back to your vigil.”

“We need to see Fennelspot,” Weedfoot said. She marched up to her old apprentice and gently coaxed her toward the dirtplace exit. Oilstripe, however, stood her ground.

“No, we don’t,” Oilstripe snapped. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Your symptoms are getting worse,” Weedfoot grunted. “Fennelspot will know what to do for you.”

“My…” Oilstripe stammered, “my symptoms?” Weedfoot nudged Oilstripe forward, but Oilstripe looped behind her. 

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Weedfoot insisted, turning to face her friend. She kept herself small as Oilstripe’s fur rose. “You haven’t slept much. It makes sense that your hallucinations—”

“StarClan, Weedfoot,” Oilstripe gulped. Her voice cracked like cold water splashing on a hot stone. “I, I know other cats see me talking to myself, but I didn’t think… you think I’m mad? How many cats think I see things that aren’t real?” 

“It’s—” Weedfoot said.

“I am not hallucinating!” Oilstripe cried, stomping after each word. “I see ghosts, Weedfoot, real ghosts. I see StarClan whenever they come to visit. I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” She wildly waved her tail to the empty spot beside her. “Puddlespeckle has been here all night. He hasn’t stopped complaining about how long it took us to find his body. I’m tired because he’s been ranting in my ear all day!”

“Oilstripe—” Weedfoot tried to interject.

“You want to see Fennelspot?” Oilstripe snapped. “We’ll see Fennelspot. He knows they’re real. Locustseeker proved it to him. And once he makes you believe, he’s going to tell the entire Clan. I won’t have my friends look at me and think I’ve lost my mind.” Oilstripe stomped up to Weedfoot and paused beside her. “If you believed I was seeing things this whole time, you should have said something. I don’t need you to pity me.” Oilstripe marched past Weedfoot and whipped out of sight.

“Oilstripe, wait!” Weedfoot cried. She ran after Oilstripe. All the clever and soothing words she planned to say fell away as she hurried deeper into the rising chaos.

(Weedfoot: 79, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Parsley: 124, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Oilstripe: 34, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(James: 106, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

Graythroat recovers, but her tail is scarred.

[Image ID: Graythroat stands with a scar on her tail, saying, “Do I look wonderful or do I look wonderful?”]

---

“Do I look wonderful or do I look wonderful?” Graythroat purred. She stretched her scarred, freshly healed tail as high as she could. Most of RippleClan were enjoying their sunhigh naps, soaking in the sunshine of a uniquely warm winter’s day. Mousepaw and Rattlepelt, meanwhile, were more than happy to look at Graythroat’s new scars.

“They don’t hurt?” Rattlepelt wondered, her eyes following the trail of each scar like one watches a river’s current.

“Not at all,” Graythroat insisted. “I’ve always wanted a battle scar. I wish it covered more of my tail though. It’s hard to see without craning my back.”

“It’s a shame it isn’t from a grand battle, then,” Mousepaw mumbled. “Shadowdrop says you killed a fox minding its own business.”

“My brother also said a fox may have been the beast that took Puddlespeckle from us,” Graythroat huffed, tucking her tail away from Mousepaw’s judgy gaze. “Foxes are dangerous.”

“Not much more than a cat,” Mousepaw pointed out, whiskers twitching. Before Graythroat could come up with a clever response, something shifted in the corner of her eye. Downstar limped out of her den. She managed well on three legs, although the splint that bound her broken bone would likely come off soon.

“Mom, look at my scar,” Graythroat chirped. She wiggled her flank in front of her mom. Downstar studied the scar quietly. She then limped in front of the Shiprock, her face still and expressionless.

“All cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather below the Shiprock for a Clan meeting!” Downstar called, making Rattlepelt and Mousepaw jump. The sleeping masses scattered around camp stuttered to life, trying to collect themselves. Fennelspot stumbled out of the medicine den with weary eyes.

“Downstar, why are you calling a meeting in the middle of the day?” Fennelspot yawned as the rest of the Clan tried to wake up.

“You’ll see in a moment,” Downstar said softly. “Graythroat, come sit by me.” Graythroat happily trotted up to her mother. She nuzzled her mother with a deep purr. 

RippleClan was slow to gather. Their yawns and grumbles turned into quiet questions as they glanced between each other. Graythroat’s paws danced over the sand as she silently yowled for the group to come together already. Graythroat couldn’t take the suspense!

[Image ID: Downstar faces Graythroat, now called Wildclaw. Under Wildclaw, it says LEVEL UP! GRAYTHROAT -> WILDCLAW. Fennelspot sits in the foreground, saying, “Downstar, I don’t know about this.”]

“Since the day she became an apprentice,” Downstar began, “my daughter Graythroat has put her all into the defense of this Clan. She would gladly lay down her life if it meant RippleClan would survive.” Graythroat puffed out her chest. “She is everything I would want in a strong and loyal caretaker. She takes initiative to keep us safe and will always rise to the occasion. Her new scar is proof of this commitment. She deserves to be honored for her bravery. As such, today she will earn an honor title, which she will carry with her to StarClan.” 

The rest of the Clan faded away. An honor title? Graythroat was getting an honor title? She was getting a new name? Only the greatest in the Clan ever got an honor title! And they didn’t get theirs from their mother!

“Downstar, I don’t know about this.” Fennelspot’s worry tried to pierce Graythroat’s fog of joy, but Graythroat ignored him. She stood in front of her mother, chin and tail high, ready to erase her new name like pawprints in the sand.

“Spirits of StarClan, you know every cat by name,” Downstar declared. “I ask you now to take away the name from the cat you see before you, for it no longer stands for what she is. By my authority as Clan leader, and with the approval of our warrior ancestors, I give this cat a new name. From this moment on she will be known as Wildclaw, for her wild and daring spirit deserves to be honored.”

Wildclaw. Wildclaw. Wildclaw! What a beautiful name! Wildclaw’s heart fluttered as her Clan’s sleepy voices called her new name. It sunk into her very being. It was everything she was, deep inside. She didn’t care that the strained looks in her Clanmates’ eyes did not match the pride of their voices. She was proud of herself. Her mother was proud of her. That was enough.

(Wildclaw: 22, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Rattlepelt: 13, female, artisan, fierce, prey cleaner)

(Mousepaw: 7, female, codekeeper apprentice, loyal, oddly observant)

(Downstar: 89, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

Downstar was not supposed to be so cooperative.

Fennelspot was only a couple moons younger than Downstar, so he vividly remembered how she plagued his apprenticeship; spunky and wild Downpaw would limp into the medicine den with scraps and bruises from her latest misadventure, with Shadowsun sighing behind her. At first, Fennelspot’s mentor Yellowflower gladly treated her, but she was in the medicine den so much, she finally said that young Fennelpaw would treat Downpaw for whatever injury or illness she brought in. It prepared Fennelspot well for being Downstar’s first cleric and for caring for her equally troublesome children.

Fennelspot remembered when Downstar broke a rib not long before he got his full name. No matter how much he insisted she had to rest, she wouldn’t stay in her nest, insisting she could watch over the nursery or guard camp or do whatever it was she thought interesting at the time. That was just her way. Now, though…

Downstar spent most of her time in her den, resting. When Fennelspot entered to check her leg or help her exercise, Downstar listened without fuss. She groomed her leg, kept it still, and took whatever advice Fennelspot gave her without question.

Something was deeply wrong with Downstar.

Fennelspot was deep in his worries as he placed a new splint on Downstar’s leg when suddenly, a manic laugh broke through camp. Both Fennelspot and Downstar’s heads snapped up as the strange laugh drew closer. Fennelspot left Downstar’s den just as others in the camp, in the midst of naps or sharing tongues, looked out of their dens to find the source of the odd sound.

“Hali!” the source of the laugh yowled. “Shadow! You won’t believe it!” Graythroat marched into camp with wild eyes and a tall tail. Foreign blood smeared her muzzle while her own dribbled down her legs from a huge wound on her tail. 

“Graythroat, what did you do?” Fennelspot gasped. He ran at Graythroat and forced her to a stop. RippleClan gathered behind him, staring at Graythroat’s bloody face. Halibutdusk and Shadowdrop pushed through the crowd, standing on either side of their sister.

“What did I do?” Graythroat laughed, flicking her tail as though it wasn’t bleeding profusely. “What did I do? Let me tell you, I killed a fox!” She cackled once more, giving Fennelspot just enough time to shove her flank down and pin her tail for a better look at the wound.

“You killed a fox?” Rattlepaw gasped, peeking out from behind Rabbitjoy and Carnationspeckle.

“Gray…” Halibutdusk gulped. The young warrior studied Fennelspot as he groomed the blood around Graythroat’s wound. It was no doubt a fox bite; Fennelspot didn’t know another creature with such a long mouth and sharp punctures. Still, Graythroat must have thrashed her tail hard in the fox’s grasp. There were multiple smaller bites that tore across the skin.

“There I was,” Graythroat said, ducking slightly as though stalking through the forest, “enjoying some time alone, when I see the biggest, fattest, reddest fox I have ever seen in my life, just mouse-lengths from the border!”

“Graythroat, you’ve only ever seen one fox,” Halibutdusk sighed.

“It was outside our territory?” Shadowdrop asked. 

“I wasn’t going to let it come in,” Graythroat scoffed. “It was the greatest fight of our generation. Our fangs dug into each other, we tumbled to and through—”

“And you can keep telling the story once I treat your wound!” Fennelspot snapped. “StarClan knows what diseases a fox could have. Medicine den, now.” Graythroat groaned, tilting her head back as far as it could go. Still, she obeyed (with a nudge from Halibutdusk). 

As Fennelspot led Graythroat (and most of the Clan) to the medicine den, he caught Downstar’s eyes shining from her den. Fennelspot should have been snapping at her to rest her leg as she made sure Graythroat was okay, or at least question her as to why she would attack a fox who had done nothing wrong. But Downstar was still. She just watched Graythroat bleed. Fennelspot had been aware of Graythroat’s issues for a while, but Downstar… 

She scared him.

(Fennelspot: 84, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 86, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Graythroat: 19, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Rattlepaw: 10, female, artisan apprentice, insecure, plays with prey)

(Halibutdusk: 19, male, warrior, gloomy, great storyteller, clever)

(Shadowdrop: 19, male, codekeeper, sneaky, eloquent speaker, good teacher)

Rattlepaw teaches Carnationspeckle and Oilstripe a special dance in the water.

[Image ID: Rattlepaw waits for Carnationspeckle and Oilstripe as Carnationspeckle says “I’ll dance if she will!” Under Carnationspeckle, it says LEVEL UP! TALENTED SWIMMER -> FISH-LIKE SWIMMER. Under Oilstripe, it says LEVEL UP! GHOST SIGHT -> GHOST SPEAKER.]

(Rattlepaw: 10, female, artisan apprentice, insecure, plays with prey)

(Carnationspeckle: 29, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

Weedfoot chastises Graythroat for more reckless behavior on patrol.

[Image ID: Weedfoot faces Graythroat. Weedfoot says, “You can’t react like that on every patrol.” To which Graythroat says, “I’m protecting the Clan, aren’t I?”]

---

Graythroat thought the hunting patrol had been a success. While two mice would only be enough to feed one cat, Carnationspeckle and Puddlespeckle could put them in one of their signature stews and feed more of the Clan. With the new year celebration over, there were a lot of fresh herbs they could grab to further spice up meals. Graythroat even found a new patch of wild garlic the Clan could use if they ran into rats! So why was Weedfoot so upset?

“I’m upset because you nearly frightened that poor kittypet to death!” Weedfoot snapped. Her back was bathed in the light streaming into the warrior’s den where she had practically dragged Graythroat when they got back to camp. 

“He was about to cross the border,” Graythroat grumbled, fur bristling.

“We don’t treat outsiders like that, Graythroat,” Weedfoot growled. “RippleClan is kind to kittypets and loners. Your mother and I fought for kinder borders. We don’t terrify someone for getting too close.”

“Well I thought he could have been a threat!” Graythroat huffed. “We can’t have him hunting for sport just because the weather’s warming up.” Weedfoot sighed in such a way that Graythroat’s lips curled despite herself.

“You can’t react like that on every patrol,” Weedfoot said.

“I’m protecting my Clan, aren’t I?” Graythroat spat. “Unless you’re going to sick Rustshade and Shadowdrop on me, I’m leaving.” Graythroat shoved past Weedfoot. She expected the deputy to follow her, but she stayed behind. Graythroat ignored the stares of her Clanmates as she marched to the exit. If her Clan didn’t understand her reasoning, she wouldn’t explain it.

(Graythroat: 13, female, caretaker, fierce, valuable insight)

Rattlepelt becomes a fully trained artisan of RippleClan.

[Image ID: Rattlepaw, now Rattlepelt, stands in an adult sprite. Under her, it reads LEVEL UP! RATTLEPAW -> RATTLEPELT, INSECURE -> FIERCE, PLAYS WITH PREY -> PREY CLEANER.]

(Rattlepelt: 12, female, artisan, fierce, prey cleaner)

Mousepaw becomes an apprentice, with Shadowdrop as her mentor.

[Image ID: Mousepaw stands as an apprentice. Under her, it reads LEVEL UP! MOUSEKIT -> MOUSEPAW, KNOW-IT-ALL -> LOYAL.]

(Mouseaw: 6, female, codekeeper apprentice, loyal, oddly observant)

Downstar struggles to connect with her Clan.

[Image ID: Downstar watches Oilstripe, Puddlespeckle, James, and Weedfoot talk from some ways away. Under Downstar, it says + PERMANENT CONDITION: DEPRESSION.]

(Downstar: 88, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Oilstripe: 33, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Puddlespeckle: 155, male, elder, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

(James: 105, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

Rustshade was not the nervous sort. He could only remember three times where he was truly, distinctly nervous. First, when he admitted to WheatClan that he was one of the Ripple followers. Second, when Twinekit got sick. Third, when Locustseeker went on their mission and never came back. In each of those moments, Rustshade’s future hung in the balance. Was this one of those moments? Hard to say. But if things went well, the future he imagined looked pretty good.

There weren’t many cats in camp that late afternoon. Shadowdrop was out of camp with a few others, investigating a new monster-path the humans started following on the edges of the territory, beyond any of the Clans. Carnationspeckle was with Rattlekit, trying to convince the furless molly that she needed to keep her leather pelts draped over her if she wanted to stay warm and safe from the sun. Puddlespeckle was thankfully out on a begrudging walk with his daughter (he was the last cat Rustshade wanted around when he put his plan into action). The only other cats in camp were Fennelspot and Graythroat, huddled around the cleric’s grillstone. 

The cleric’s grillstone was built in an offshoot of the camp where the heat wouldn’t endanger the shipwreck. It was a tamed fire built underneath a long, flat stone. When Rustshade approached, Fennelspot and Graythroat sat staring into a pot placed on the hot stone.. There was another pot sitting in the bigger pot that contained a dark bubbling mixture. Water filled the bigger pot and steam drifted overhead.

“What’s this?” Rustshade asked. 

“We’re making wax,” Graythroat hummed with a playful twitch of her whiskers. “I found a big hive and all us caretakers agreed we could harvest it. I only got stung twice!” Sure enough, there were a couple spots on her flank covered in one of Fennelspot’s ointments.

“You’re lucky you aren’t one of those poor souls who die when they’re stung,” Fennelspot sighed. “Do you need anything, Rustshade?”

“I can wait until this is done,” Rustshade promised, taking a seat a couple tail-lengths away. A minute later, the pair seemed satisfied with their work. Graythroat kicked sand over the fire until nothing remained but smothered smoke. 

“Once that cools,” Fennelspot explained, “we need to strain the beeswax through a filter Rabbitjoy weaved for me. That will collect the thick elements we don’t want. Then we will let the wax cool and I can melt it as needed.” He paused, thinking for a few moments, before adding, “In SlugClan, one of our artisans invented a way to craft leather so we could shield our mouths from heat and take pots off the grillstone immediately. Remind me when Rabbitjoy comes back that I want to speak to SlugClan about that.”

“Anything else?” Graythroat asked, stretching.

“I plan to cook some infusions later, so if you’ll help me prepare for that, I would be grateful,” Fennelspot said. He turned his focus to Rustshade, and once more the younger tom seemed caught by how Fennelspot’s eyes blended with the color of his fur to form a gorgeous pattern of ginger and white. “What was it you wanted to talk to me about?” Graythroat had been about to leave, but her ears stayed pointed toward the two, even as she pretended she was minding her own business. Oh well. It wasn’t like Rustshade wanted to hide his emotions.

“It’s not a medical issue, if you’re concerned,” Rustshade said with an awkward flick of his tail. “It’s a personal question. It’s about something us founders agreed on when we started RippleClan.” Fennelspot nodded, eyes serious and focused as he sat in front of Rustshade. “One of the big issues we wanted to change in this Clan was how clerics, like yourself, were forced to abstain from romance and parenthood due to a misguided belief about your connection to StarClan. RippleClan won’t follow that part of the Code of Clerics. As such, I was hoping you and I could give a relationship a chance.” Graythroat suffocated a poorly hidden gasp, masking it as a cough. Rustshade glared at her with enough fire in his eyes that Graythroat stepped away.

“A…” Fennelspot gulped, ears twitching rapidly.

“I haven’t won someone’s heart in a while,” Rustshade chuckled, whiskers twitching, “but we could take it slow. Perhaps a walk or two?” Fennelspot tensed. His eyes looked everywhere but at Rustshade. As the moments stretched on, Rustshade slowly realized that this wouldn’t end the way he hoped.

“It’s important to me that future clerics have the chance to be mates and parents,” Fennelspot said, “but I… swearing to that part of the Code of Clerics was important to me. It’s my choice to keep that oath. I wouldn’t be comfortable taking a mate, even with our Clan’s laws.” Rustshade nodded softly. His whiskers stilled and his face, as it so often did, betrayed nothing. Fennelspot shifted awkwardly, glancing for a way out. “I’m sorry, Rustshade. I’m going to prepare some herbs.” Fennelspot shuffled back toward the medicine den. Rustshade’s gaze stayed on him until he slipped into the shadows of the small boat.

“Too bad, Rusty,” Graythroat hummed. She had somehow slipped behind Rustshade during the conversation. “Don’t hold it against him. Knowing Fennelspot, he’ll probably try extra hard to not make you feel bad about it.”

“I don’t want your advice, Graythroat,” Rustshade muttered, walking past her. He headed for the empty warrior’s den. It was fine. It was a disappointment, but it was fine. He could live without Fennelspot. It was fine.

(Rustshade: 66, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Graythroat: 14, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Fennelspot: 79, male, cleric,  insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

Puddlespeckle scares Rattlekit with a story.

[Image ID: Carnationspeckle and Rattlekit stand together, facing Puddlespeckle. Carnationspeckle snaps, “Puddlespeckle!” To which Puddlespeckle says, “It’s good for her!”]

---

“It is said,” Puddlespeckle purred as Rattlekit sat in front of him, “that the Harvest Moon is the most dangerous day of the year. There is a reason the Clans gather for the whole day, Rattlekit. Without the protection of every star-fearing warrior, we would get pulled into the machinations of the Spirits of Shadow.” 

“Is this a real story?” Rattlekit gulped, “or one of those stories Rabbitjoy makes up?”

“Maybe a little of both,” Puddlespeckle said. The pair lurked in the quiet elder’s den while the rest of RippleClan shared tongues outside. Rattlekit had discarded the leather pelt Carnationspeckle always made her wear to the side. Although Puddlespeckle’s joints creaked as he told the tale, there was a certain look of wonder in the furless kit’s eyes that kept him going. 

“Carnationspeckle has told you about the Dark Forest, hasn’t she? That those cursed by StarClan spend their days there, chased by the memories of all they did wrong?” Rattlekit nodded. “Well, some of these cats grow to hate the living Clans and seek to meddle in the affairs of the living. They make up a number of what we call the Spirits of Shadow. They are forces beyond our living reality that seek to harm us and spread chaos. There are many, but when the Harvest Moon approaches, their powers grow with the coming of the autumn chill.”

“What can they do?” Rattlekit asked.

“Many things,” Puddlespeckle explained. His tail waved dramatically as he spoke. “The souls of the Dark Forest try to reach out to the living to further their own twisted plots. A skin ‘n bones will suck your stomach dry until you are so hungry, you eat your fellow cats. A wraith… well I don’t know if you can handle hearing about them.” With the mention of each dark spirit, Rattlekit’s copper eyes grew bigger and bigger.

“Rattlekit?” Carnationspeckle called from the clearing. “Where did you go?”

“I’m in here, Carnation!” Rattlekit yowled. Puddlespeckle grumbled and laid down. A few moments later, Carnationspeckle entered the den.

“Why are you making that face, Rattlekit?” Carnationspeckle asked, cocking her head as she spotted her adopted daughter’s huge eyes.

“Puddlespeckle says there’s a monster that makes you eat your friends,” Rattlekit gulped.

“Puddlespeckle!” Carnationspeckle snapped, drawing her tail around Rattlekit.

“It’s good for her!” Puddlespeckle insisted. “She’ll be an apprentice in less than a moon. She can handle some scary stories.”

“You never entertained me with stories as a kit,” Carnationspeckle muttered. She studied Puddlespeckle carefully, but the old tom couldn’t care less what she thought.

“Well I didn’t entertain anyone when you were a kit,” Puddlespeckle huffed. “Maybe a few moons in RippleClan have softened me up a bit.” Carnationspeckle draped Rattlekit’s leather back over her.

“It’s almost time to sleep,” Carnationspeckle sighed. “Hopefully you don’t have any nightmares tonight.” Carnationspeckle nudged Rattlekit out of the den. Rattlekit looked helplessly at Puddlespeckle, but a simple nod from the elder seemed to assuage her worries. The two mollies left Puddlespeckle alone in the elder’s den once more. 

Oh well, he thought as he settled deeper into his nest. That was the life of the Clan elder, he supposed.

(Puddlespeckle: 148, male, elder, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

(Rattlekit: 5, female, kit, insecure, plays with prey)

(Carnationspeckle: 24, female, caretaker, compassionate, talented swimmer)

Applepelt ventures out on patrol soon before a massive flood.

[Image ID: Oilstripe faces Applepelt, who is now a StarClan cat. Applepelt says, “Oh… I didn’t get out, did I?”]

---

It had been a brutal storm. The waves crashed so high that they nearly reached the shipwreck. Downstar evacuated the dens closest to the water, which included the nursery. Oilstripe huddled beside Carnationspeckle and Rattlekit in the packed apprentice’s den as rain pummeled the sand outside. Fennelspot kept worrying that the rain would leak through the shipwreck and ruin his stores. Scrubmask practically had to hold him back to stop him from running to the medicine den. 

When the storm finally passed, a tree not far from camp laid on its side, budding branches reaching toward camp. Weedfoot and Downstar split the Clan into teams; one to clean up the camp and the other to take care of the tree. After all, everyone in RippleClan had been in camp during the storm.

Everyone but Applepelt.

Oilstripe paced around the trees as the rest of her team harvested the fallen tree for resources; after all, why let a tree go to waste when it had bark and buds and other things to support RippleClan? Oilstripe couldn’t focus, though. Fennelspot stood nearby as she gazed out, searching for signs of brown fur.

“Fennelspot, what if she’s hurt?” Oilstripe groaned. “We should go out and look for her.”

“The storm hasn’t been over long,” Fennelspot reminded her, glancing at the dark clouds. “She could still be sheltered somewhere.”

“I hate waiting,” Oilstripe muttered, sitting on the soaked grass. Fennelspot sat next to her and groomed her ear. 

“Oilstripe!” a familiar voice called. Oilstripe shot up. A moment later, a brown figure hurried through the trees.

“Applepelt!” Oilstripe gasped. “There you are! What were you thinking, staying out in a storm like that?” Oilstripe and Applepelt met halfway. Applepelt panted and shook out their fur.

“I didn’t think the storm would be that bad,” they laughed. “Oh, you should have been there, Oilstripe. I was at the Great Northern River when the storm hit. It was beautiful, in a frightening way. The waters surged up and rumbled toward the ocean. I was so caught up in watching it, I fell right in!” Applepelt must have noticed the look of horror on Oilstripe’s face, as they quickly stammered, “Oh, don’t worry! It was terrifying for a while, and I think I passed out, but I woke up on the shore! I feel great! I can’t believe I got out! Do you think Rattlekit will be impressed?”

“Let’s have Fennelspot look you over first,” Oilstripe sighed. “Fennelspot…” She looked back at Fennelspot and the words faded before they formed. He watched her with big, pitiful eyes. His wet fur sagged and his ears drifted to the side.

“Oilstripe, I don’t see her,” he gulped. A cold weight settled on Oilstripe’s chest. She turned back to Applepelt. Her fur was too dry to have just come out of the river. As she looked, she realized that she could see the grass through Applepelt’s body. 

“Oh…” Applepelt said softly, “I didn’t get out, did I?” Stardust climbed up their legs. Their fur glittered in the dull light and their eyes shone like stars. In a few moments, they looked like every other StarClan spirit that wandered through RippleClan’s camp.

“Apple…” Oilstripe gasped. A gentle twinkle filled her ears. Twinekit slipped out from behind a tree beside Oilstripe and Applepelt.

“It’s alright, Applepelt,” Twinekit promised. “I’m here to take you to StarClan.”

“So you are real,” Applepelt muttered. Her voice had never been so dull before.

“We won’t hold it against you,” Twinekit chuckled.

“I…” Applepelt gulped. She cleared her throat and braced herself to meet Oilstripe’s eyes. “Looks like I’m off, then. Take care of Rattlekit for me, I… I was hoping to mentor that little freak of nature.” She had to clear her throat again before her grief overtook her voice. “I’m sorry we didn’t spend much time together. Uh, if it helps, I remember those stories you told me, about StarClan watching over us. I’ll be doing that.”

“It’ll be like you never left,” Oilstripe said quietly. Applepelt hesitated, glancing between Oilstripe and Twinekit.

“On to the next adventure,” they said, unable to hide a crack in their voice. Twinekit trotted deeper into the forest. Applepelt closed their eyes and raced after Oilstripe’s long-dead sister. 

Oilstripe blinked, and they were gone.

(Oilstripe: 26, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Fennelspot: 79, male, cleric,  insecure, valuable insight, incredible runner)

(Applepelt: 31, she/they, historian, rebellious, lore keeper)