#leatherkit

Oilstripe probably should have felt bad about her father’s death. He was another founding member of the Clan, gone barely a moon after Fennelspot. And yet, Oilstripe was closer to Fennelspot in life and still didn’t grieve him. That was, in part, because she still saw him all the time.

Fennelspot loved to linger. Oilstripe was sure he would be one of the Blessed Ones, guiding the growth of herbs along, the Celestial of RippleClan Clerics (she was trying to get that title going for him early on, he was the first of their Clan after all). Oilstripe would see Fennelspot in the gardens often, trotting around the caretakers and eyeing how they tended his herbs. He would also show up in the medicine den, surprising Oilstripe when she went to see her daughter. Oddly enough, Troutpool was never shocked to hear of Fennelspot being around. She would say she “had a feeling” he was watching. Sometimes, Oilstripe forgot Fennelspot was dead at all. How could she grieve someone who never left?

That was how it was with Rustshade as the Clan sat at his vigil. Rattlepelt treated him well, weaving a crown of wheat stalks tenderly bartered from WheatClan, honoring his role in the Clan’s founding. His grandkits were with him now; Troutpool gently groomed his forehead as Honeykit, Splashkit, Leatherkit, and Drumkit, all just a few days away from their apprentice ceremony, pretended they weren’t still kits and kept quiet. Carnationspeckle, whose pelt was half-shaved from all the mats they had to cut off, sat with Downstar, offering a gentle word to her old mentor while her daughter and mate grieved. Except Oilstripe wasn’t grieving. She sat with Clammask, grooming the sadness off her pelt with Scrubmask on the other side, but Oilstripe’s eyes were off to the side. She wasn’t looking at her father’s empty shell, she was looking at Rustshade himself.

Rustshade sat with Fennelspot and Puddlespeckle, watching his own vigil. Valleybrook’s ghost sat a ways behind them (he had passed a while ago, killed by a human farming wheat). Oilstripe figured Rustshade needed time to process the fact that he was dead. She was sure it would have been a shock for him to fall asleep and never wake up. As Scrubmask collected her kits from Rustshade’s body, the ghosts wandered toward the exit. Oilstripe brushed against her younger sister once more and followed the spirits outside.

“Dad!” she called. Puddlespeckle continued on, vanishing into the tree line, but Fennelspot and Rustshade stopped and turned around. Oilstripe had to dig her back paws in to avoid tumbling through her father’s spirit. “So then, what did you think of your own vigil?”

“I’m happy with how I’ve been honored,” Rustshade sighed, whiskers drooping. “Take care of your sister and your kin, Oilstripe.” There was an odd finality to the phrase that made Oilstripe cock her head.

“You say that like I’m not going to keep seeing you around,” she laughed. Rustshade bristled and Fennelspot placed his tail on his friend’s back. One of the red petals that forever stayed in his fur slipped onto Rustshade’s pelt.

“I’m dead, Oilstripe,” Rustshade huffed like a mentor reminding their apprentice of an obvious fact. “That means I’m not going to be here to help you.”

“Yes, not in the same way you used to be,” Oilstripe chuckled awkwardly, one ear tilted to the side. “But you’ve always been a comforting weight at my side, and you’ll keep being that as a spirit of StarClan. You can join Applepelt when they shadow me sometimes. They’re good company.”

“No, Oilstripe,” Rustshade growled. “You don’t understand. The next time you see me, you’ll be a warrior of StarClan yourself.” Rustshade was right. Oilstripe did not understand.

“But I’ll see you when you visit the territories,” Oilstripe huffed. “just like I see Twinekit and Locustseeker and Burdockcreek.” A hole, not too different from the gnawing anxiety that bit her pelt when Carnationspeckle was held captive, opened in her chest.

“What your father means,” Fennelspot sighed, stepping closer, “is that he’s tired. He’s lost many of the cats he cared for. He is one of StarClan’s ranks who find returning to the Clans too painful. The friends you’ve known who have joined StarClan, they like to visit, but Rustshade wants to spend time with his long-gone children in the stars.”

“But no,” Oilstripe said, unable to stop a panicked laugh from slipping out, “that would mean he’s leaving me.” Fennelspot and Rustshade simply stared at Oilstripe, their gazes heavy. “Dad… Dad, no, I need you to visit.”

“You haven’t needed me in a long time, Oil,” Rustshade sighed. “You have a strong life built for yourself. You don’t need me.”

“No, Dad, I don’t know…” Oilstripe stammered. She reached a paw toward her father’s ghost. Rustshade stepped back. With a soft shake of his head and one last look with his stern heather eyes, he walked out toward the trees. “Dad, stop! Come back! Fennelspot, stop him! Bring him back!”

“I’m sorry, Oilstripe,” Fennelspot gulped. “Let him rest in peace.” Fennelspot ran to catch up to his old friend. 

“Stop!” Oilstripe begged. “You can’t leave like that! You have to come back! Even for one visit! Dad!” Fennelspot and Rustshade were nothing but specks of red among the early dawn trees. One blink and they were gone..

When the Witch Hunters captured Carnationspeckle, Oilstripe had not known what to do. There was an uncertainty in her heart, a hundred questions she could not answer. She supported Troutpool and Rattlepelt, demanded answers from Lemmy, and searched for reassurance when she could. She was scared, but she had not felt hopeless, because if Carnationspeckle had died, her spirit would have stayed at her side. She would return, not in the way she wanted, but she would have returned.

Was this what true grief felt like?

Oilstripe needed the pain to go away. She didn’t know how to handle it. It was killing her. She couldn’t breathe. She needed her father’s quiet support at her side. She crouched in the sand, shaking. Why would Rustshade leave her like that? Didn’t she mean something to her father?

“Oilstripe.” Carnationspeckle’s soft, gentle fur pushed into Oilstripe’s stiff pelt. Her touch broke down the wall in Oilstripe’s throat. A deep, guttural sob broke free.

“He’s leaving me!” Oilstripe wailed. “He’s leaving me behind!” Carnationspeckle was strong; she could handle Oilstripe’s entire weight against her. Oilstripe shook so hard, she thought she might break like Trumpetspore’s half-finished pottery.

“When you rescued me,” Carnationspeckle said softly, “you told me you’d do everything possible to make my heart right again, and thanks to you, I know I’ll get there someday. I’ll do the same for you.” Each mate pressed into the other, clinging for life like debris along the sea.

(Oilstripe: 62, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Fennelspot: 113, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Rustshade: 102, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Puddlespeckle: 156, male, elder, strict, good hunter, good kitsitter)

(Carnationspeckle: 60, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

When Scrubmask and Clammask’s kits are apprenticed, Honeypaw asks to train as a cleric and gets cicada wings as decor. His littermates train as a historian, warrior, and caretaker respectively, apprenticed to Weedfoot, Trumpetspore, and Elmsprout.

[Image ID: Honeypaw, Splashpaw, Leatherpaw, and Drumpaw all have their apprentice forms, with Honeypaw sporting some cicada wings. Under Honeypaw, it says LEVEL UP! HONEYKIT -> HONEYPAW, NOISY -> DARING, + ACCESSORY: CICADA WINGS. Under Splashpaw, it says LEVEL UP! SPLASHKIT -> SPLASHPAW, NOISY -> BOLD. Under Leatherpaw, it says LEVEL UP! LEATHERKIT -> LEATHERPAW, IMPULSIVE -> VENGEFUL. Under Drumpaw, it says LEVEL UP! DRUMKIT -> DRUMPAW, QUIET -> LOYAL.]

(Honeypaw: 6, male, cleric apprentice, daring, has lots of ideas)

(Splashpaw: 6, male, historian apprentice, bold, never sits still)

(Leatherpaw: 6, male, warrior apprentice, vengeful, avid play-fighter, confident with words)

(Drumpaw: 6, female, caretaker apprentice, loyal, moss-ball hunter)

Waspdawn’s tail is injured by a fox.

[Image ID: Splashpaw sneaks off while Troutpool and Honeypaw surround Waspdawn, who has + CONDITION: MANGLED TAIL written underneath him.]

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Elmsprout had gotten into a bit of trouble; Parsley accused her of giving prey to AshClan, as seen on one of her many strolls with Carnationspeckle. Waspdawn and Puddlewhisper, chosen as defender and inquisitor to the potential trial ahead, went out to investigate the scene and get information from AshClan. Unfortunately, they stumbled across a rather sickly and feral old fox that stuck a solid blow against Waspdawn, nearly biting his tail clean off! It threw the Clan into a bit of a whirlwind. Lavendertwist, who had gotten his stitches out but still wasn’t allowed to speak or eat hard foods, stayed at his wounded brother’s side. Weedfoot and James shared tongues outside the medicine den, waiting for news. 

That left Splashpaw deeply, deeply bored.

He probably should have felt worse about Waspdawn’s terrible injury, but he had no doubt he would be fine. Honeypaw had only been training for a quarter moon and was already great at his job. But with Weedfoot worrying over her kit, Splashpaw could only sit in camp and kick at clouds.

Leatherpaw and Drumpaw trotted out of the apprentice’s den, laughing. Splashpaw rolled to his paws, eyes gleaming.

“What are you doing?” Splashpaw asked, leaping to his littermates’ side.

“Trumpetspore and Elmsprout are taking us to our first sparring session!” Leatherpaw cheered with a playful wiggle of his flank. “I won’t lie, I’m a little nervous to see what actual battle is like, but I can’t wait to drive off predators and rogues!”

“Nervous?” Drumpaw laughed softly. “More like overeager. Trumpetspore will stomp that out.”

“Please take me with you,” Splashpaw begged, crouching pitifully. “I’m so bored.”

“Our mentors will be focused on our training, not yours,” Leatherpaw said. “You’ll have to keep yourself entertained.”

“But Honeypaw’s busy with Waspdawn, and our moms are on patrol!” Splashpaw whined. 

“Figure it out!” Leatherpaw said without a hint of sympathy. Drumpaw, at least, gently batted Splashpaw’s ear. Leatherpaw and Drumpaw ran to the entrance, where their mentors were already waiting for them. Splashpaw watched, envy bubbling in his stomach, as they sauntered off. As soon as they left, Mosspounce walked in, tail held low.

“Mosspounce!” Splashpaw called. “Can you show me some battle moves? Or take me hunting? Please, give me something to do.” Splashpaw rolled onto his back in front of Mosspounce.

“Not now, Splashpaw,” Mosspounce sighed, stepping over the gold and white apprentice. Splashpaw cocked his head, still upside-down.

“Did you not enjoy your walk?” Splashpaw huffed, turning right side up. Mosspounce groaned dramatically and gave into the apprentice’s insistence, sitting.

“It wasn’t just a walk,” he grumbled. “I was waiting by the river for Lemmy. Again.” Splashpaw had a very clear memory of Lemmy from her visit three moons prior, after Carnationspeckle went missing. She had seemed so fierce, even with her silly yellow collar. 

“She still hasn’t come to see you?” Splashpaw huffed. “I thought we were friends with the Witch Hunters now.”

“They could have found out about her dreams,” Mosspounce mumbled. “They would have labeled her a witch if they knew about them. It’s just that… I think I really liked her, Splashpaw. I wanted her to join RippleClan. I thought that’s why StarClan visited her dreams. But maybe not.” Mosspounce shook his head and slunk into the warrior’s den. As his black tail vanished, Splashpaw got an idea. A brilliant, stunning, heroic, fun idea.

Splashpaw glanced around camp. Most cats were focused on the medicine den, waiting for an update on Waspdawn. Splashpaw fluffed himself up and marched out of camp.

“Where are you off with such swagger?” Tempestshade was guarding the entrance and purred mischievously when Splashpaw appeared. The lie came to Splashpaw with shocking ease.

“Weedfoot said I could join my littermates at Battle Beach!” Splashpaw chirped. “It’s north along the shore, right?”

“Head straight there, and have fun,” Tempestshade said with a nod. Splashpaw chirped happily and jogged away from camp.

Splashpaw was going to be a hero. He was going to find Lemmy and bring her to RippleClan for the reward she deserved.

(Splashpaw: 6, male, historian apprentice, bold, never sits still)

(Leatherpaw: 6, male, warrior apprentice, vengeful, avid play-fighter, confident with words)

(Drumpaw: 6, female, caretaker apprentice, loyal, moss-ball hunter)

(Mosspounce: 19, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Tempestshade: 19, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

Splashpaw heads into the human settlements to find Lemmy.

[Image ID: Splashpaw now wears a purple ribbon collar, and has + ACCESSORY: PURPLE RIBBON COLLAR written under him. He says to Lemmy, who has + CONDITION: YELLOWCOUGH under her, “This is a rescue mission!” Lemmy replies, “Yet we’re both trapped now.”]

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Splashpaw wasn’t sure why so many of his Clanmates talked about the human settlement like the Dark Forest on earth. Yes, it smelled, it was loud, and until just recently, the loners that lived there might have killed Splashpaw for visiting. But Splashpaw liked the intense smells and sounds. He liked the tall dens and whinnying horses. He could see why so many cats lived here, whether with humans or along the horse paths. Who knew what stories and adventures lay hidden among the humans and Witch Hunters?

Splashpaw trotted eagerly through the streets, largely ignored by the humans. It was late afternoon, and the humans were as active as a Clan full of kits. They yowled and jostled one another, waving their paws about and stepping around the horse dung that covered the paths. Splashpaw knew the dangers of a horse path; Spikecrash made it her mission to warn every new litter of the danger of horses, sharing the tale of her scar. Yet the horses and monsters they dragged about moved slowly, careful to avoid the humans.

As Splashpaw crept among the humans, one of their gangly pink paws reached down and stroked his back. He shivered at the foreign touch and scampered away. To his surprise, the touch didn’t feel too bad! If humans touched kittypets like that all the time, Splashpaw could see the appeal of the lifestyle. He shook himself out though. He needed to focus!

A group of humans yowled and gawked at baskets of strange fruit, set within a wooden structure. A lilac tom relaxed at the base of the structure, idly watching the humans.

“Excuse me!” Splashpaw yowled. He weaved around the humans to reach the tom. “I’m looking for Lemmy. She’s a tortoiseshell with a yellow collar. Have you seen her?”

“I haven’t seen Lemmy since before that trouble at the Singing Place,” the tom sighed. “Sorry, young tom. .” Splashpaw crept underneath the structure and around the chattering humans. Even the loners of the human settlement hadn’t seen Lemmy? What had happened to her?

Two pink paws wrapped around Splashpaw’s torso. He should have yowled and clawed, bitten and kicked at his attacker, scrambled away to rethink his plan. Yet as his paws left the ground, Splashpaw was frozen. What was happening? He looked overhead and saw the gleaming, furless face of a human. It bared its teeth and made a high pitched sound that hurt Splashpaw’s ears. Splashpaw hissed as his heart beat wildly. He snapped his jaws at the human’s small paws, but even as his fangs dug into the soft flesh, the human’s grip only tightened. It made that high pitched sound again and pressed Splashpaw to its chest. The billowing fabric around its lower half swished as it spun and took off down a side path away from the taller humans.

How had Splashpaw not seen the human reaching for him? He had been so distracted by the other humans and his own quest, he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. That was the first thing Weedfoot told him when she showed him the territory; even when he was simply enjoying time outside camp, he had to pay attention. He could never predict when an excited dog or angry bear could stroll through the trees and pick Splashpaw as its next meal. He had forgotten that simple lesson, and now he was going to meet some cruel fate at the paws of a mad human. 

Splashpaw squirmed and clawed at the human’s pale overcoat, but he couldn’t break through the strange material. All of his efforts were met with a tighter hold that squeezed the air out of him. The human was slow, but its gangly walk disoriented Splashpaw. Eventually, as fewer and fewer humans appeared around Splashpaw and his captor, the human slowed. It stood in front of a den that was likely squat by human standards but still towered over any cat. Another small human waited by the den’s entrance with a long white pelt in its paws. It hurried over to its companion and wrapped the pelt around Splashpaw. His legs pressed into himself. He couldn’t move!

The second human revealed a new object from the ripples of its colorful pelt; a bright purple ribbon. It reminded Splashpaw of James’ ragged black ribbon he still insisted he wore. Splashpaw’s terror cooled for a moment as the human wrapped the ribbon around his neck. It was shockingly smooth; no wonder James and Lavendertwist wore theirs as much as they could!

The peace only lasted a moment, however, as the pair of humans carried Splashpaw around their den and toward a smaller wooden den. The second human hurried ahead and moved the wooden barrier that revealed the dark interior. The human carrying Splashpaw quickly unwrapped his restraints and tossed him into the shadows. He spun and bolted for the exit, but the humans quickly slammed the wooden wall shut.

“Let me out!” Splashpaw yowled. “I’m not a kittypet! I’m a RippleClan historian!”

“They’ll be back with food later.” Splashpaw jumped. He peered into the darkness of the small den, barely big enough for a few cats. Giant human tools sat against the wall, sharp points jutting toward Splashpaw, ready to kill. A black lump laid in the corner, deep blue eyes glaring at Splashpaw. The entire den reeked of sick. As Splashpaw’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he could see the strange molly’s yellow collar and red patches.

“Are you Lemmy?” he gasped, trying not to sneer at the smell.

“You were one of the kits from RippleClan,” Lemmy huffed. She crept closer to Splashpaw before suddenly shivering. She coughed violently, bright yellow phlegm splattering onto the wooden floor. Memories of Rustshade’s phlegm crusted face splashed through Splashpaw’s mind.

“Stay back!” Splashpaw yelped, pressing against the wall. “You have yellowcough. You could get me sick.”

“I’ll try not to,” Lemmy grumbled as she shook from the effort of coughing. 

“Have you been here this whole time?” Splashpaw asked, claws digging into the wood. “Mosspounce has been looking for you.”

“I’m not surprised,” Lemmy sighed softly. “I was going to assist him in rescuing his friend, but those human kits snatched me and threw me in here. I think they want me to be their housecat.”

“A collar means you already have a human, though,” Splashpaw huffed. “Why would they take you from them?”

“I don’t believe my human is very popular among the others,” Lemmy grumbled, shaking her head as she shivered once more. “He tends to keep to his den. I wouldn’t be surprised if the kits thought they were rescuing me.”

“That’s what I’m here to do!” Splashpaw chirped, standing a bit taller. “This is a rescue mission!”

“Yet we’re both trapped now,” Lemmy said. She returned to her spot in the back of the den. “If you’re quick when they return, you can likely slip away.”

“I’m not leaving you behind,” Splashpaw huffed. 

“Then you’ll rot,” Lemmy growled, lips curled. Muffled yowls broke through the walls. Splashpaw backed up, ears perked. The yowling grew closer and closer. Suddenly, the wooden barrier tilted aside. Two big humans, male and female, crouched in the grass with long pelts in their paws. Splashpaw hissed, a warrior’s courage filling his heart. The humans cooed and clicked, but Splashpaw now knew better. He slashed at the long pelt and raked his claws along the big human’s paw. This time, the human yelped and pulled back.

“Still hopeless now?” Splashpaw yowled, kicking Lemmy. “Let’s go!” Life leaked through Lemmy’s cold eyes. She pushed herself up and, with whatever strength she had left, ran between the big humans. Splashpaw was right on her tail.

The human kits cried and wailed from the comfort of their large den as the older humans nursed their wounds. Splashpaw and Lemmy kept going. They ran across empty horse paths, as far from the human dens as they could. Splashpaw glanced back. Thank StarClan, the older humans were not chasing them; rather, they yowled at their wailing kits, utterly ignoring the escaping cats.

Lemmy collapsed as soon as they hit the trees. Splashpaw stopped, panting. Lemmy hacked up more phlegm, almost vomiting from the effort.

“I did it!” Splashpaw cheered, prancing around Lemmy. “I rescued you! I’m a hero!”

“We only got out because the adults finally realized their kits were keeping us trapped in there,” Lemmy growled, struggling to breathe.

“But maybe that realized that because they saw their kits grab me!” Splashpaw chirped. “And you said it yourself, you didn’t feel strong enough to run out on your own. So that means I saved you.” Lemmy laughed softly, shaking her head.

“That little black kitten kept telling me to stay strong,” she scoffed. “I never thought she would send a kit barely older than she.”

“I’m an apprentice!” Splashpaw huffed with mock indignation. “Wait, I never told you my name! I’m Splashpaw. Mosspounce has been waiting for you. He rescued Carnationspeckle thanks to you! Everyone in the Clan loves Carnationspeckle, so Downstar agreed that if Mosspounce found you again, he could offer you a position in the Clan!” Lemmy narrowed her eyes. “What’s that face for? What, do you not want to join RippleClan?” Lemmy seemed to have a sharp retort ready to go, but she tightened her jaw instead. 

Splashpaw took in their surroundings. Truthfully, he had no idea where he was. Still, he knew his directions, and if he kept heading south, he would eventually hit the Great Northern River. He wasn’t sure if Lemmy had the strength to swim, but if they could find the stepping stones, they would be back in RippleClan like that! It was close to sunset though; his mothers would be so mad when he finally got home.

“I should make my way back,” Lemmy muttered, but she did not get up.

“And break Mosspounce’s heart?” Splashpaw scoffed. “You do realize he is in love with you, don’t you?” Lemmy blinked, her emotions well hidden behind her calculated gaze.

“He does remember I tried to kill him, doesn’t he?” Lemmy said.

“I think that’s part of why he likes you,” Splashpaw admitted. “It’s a little gross to me, but you shouldn’t keep him waiting. He told the Clan you would make a great codekeeper. I think it’s like what you used to do with the Witch Hunters, but you’re enforcing the warrior code rather than what the Witch Hunters follow. The Witch Hunter Code? I don’t know.” Lemmy stared at Splashpaw for a while. She stared for so long that his long fur started to burn. Eventually, Lemmy got to her paws with another cough.

“I can at least get my cough cured, I suppose,” Lemmy sighed. Splashpaw couldn’t hide his glee as his tail rose high. Lemmy shook her head, but there was no longer any malice in her face.

“Then I’ll lead you home, new Clanmate,” Splashpaw chirped. 

As Splashpaw and Lemmy stalked into the trees, making their way toward their new shared home in the dimming light, Lemmy asked, “Do you know the way back?”

“I’m trusting my instincts!”

“So you don’t know?”

“...no.”

“This will be a long night.”

(Splashpaw: 6, male, historian apprentice, bold, never sits still)

Fennelspot was a cleric; he was supposed to heal others, not get them sick. He had dealt with yellowcough like a true warrior, carefully avoiding his Clanmates and comforting Troutpool, insisting that she could handle the Clan on her own. But now he was walking out of the quarantine den and leaving Rustshade behind, hacking up his lungs. Even now, as Fennelspot settled Rustshade into his new nest, he couldn’t turn around and leave. His paw lingered on the edge of the nest. 

“Fennelspot, go,” Rustshade huffed through his coughs. “I’m just gonna sleep. You get to leave. Enjoy the rest of winter. The new year will be here before we know it.” Fennelspot groomed Rustshade’s head. With one last lingering look, he left his patient and walked around the shipwreck. 

Snow covered camp that morning, but busy paws melted most of the snow into the sand, leaving just the dens and shipwreck covered in snow patches. Fennelspot took a deep breath of crisp winter air, tinted by salt. He’d never been happier to step into a cold winter’s day.

A golden face smacked into Fennelspot’s leg and almost took him down. He looked down to see Honeykit, slightly dazed from the impact. Fennelspot was about to ask what game the young tom was playing, but then he saw Honeykit’s littermates. Splashkit and Drumkit carefully danced around Leatherkit, who had a large scrap of leather covering his eyes. Ahh. Fennelspot understood now. It was a game of Night Hunt. Fennelspot and Downstar played that game many times as kits (and perhaps more than they should have as a young caretaker and cleric).

“Your brother won’t smell you in the medicine den,” Fennelspot purred quietly, nodding toward the medicine den. Troutpool would make sure Honeykit was good. Honeykit nodded and hurried into the den. 

“You won’t get him out of there for a while.” Scrubmask trotted up to Fennelspot from the nursery where Clammask watched over the kits. “He wants to be a cleric when he is apprenticed. He likes the idea of brewing medicine.”

“We’d be happy to have him,” Fennelspot purred, gently bunting his friend. “Have you seen Oilstripe today?”

“She was arguing with Downstar about her bodyguard,” Scrubmask huffed. “She went to the beach to calm down. Trumpetspore is watching her.” Fennelspot nodded and touched noses with Scrubmask.

“Let Troutpool know I’ve gone to see her,” Fennelspot sighed. He brushed his tail against Scrubmask and made his way out of camp. While Fennelspot was only sick for a moon and a half, he still purred deeply when he stepped out of camp and got a better view of the sea that soothed him to sleep every night. It was hard to believe that he had lived by that sea for half of his life, that he had once lived in the muddy territory of SlugClan. It felt like he had always belonged beside the sea with the Clan he helped found.

Fennelspot followed Oilstripe and Trumpetspore’s scent trail down to the southern beaches. The sea spray made him shiver and breathed life back into him. He could see Oilstripe walking along the coastline in the distance. Trumpetspore sat at the edge of the grass, watching. She noticed Fennelspot’s approach well before he got to the young warrior.

“She’s not doing well,” Trumpetspore muttered. Fennelspot touched his tail to Trumpetspore’s shoulder and headed down the beach. Wet sand stuck to Oilstripe’s paws. Her gaze stayed stuck to the sea. It wasn’t until Fennelspot was a few fox-lengths away that she actually noticed him. 

“You’re better,” she gasped softly. “I thought you were still in quarantine with my dad.”

“Troutpool cleared me last night,” Fennelspot explained. “Is there… anyone comforting you?” Oilstripe bristled and sat at the edge of the water. It was high tide, leaving only a tail-length of sand dry when the water stretched as far as it could go. 

“Applepelt talks to me a lot,” Oilstripe admitted. “They won’t tell me about Carnationspeckle. She says the rules on what she’s allowed to say around me are hazy.” Fennelspot sat beside Oilstripe. The lapping of the waves nearly drowned out Oilstripe’s words. “I don’t know what they’re doing to her, Fennelspot. Lemmy doesn’t know, Troutpool’s scared, and now my dad is sick… can you stay with me a while?” 

Oilstripe scooted closer to Fennelspot. She leaned against his shoulder. Fennelspot put his chin on her head and let the waves soothe them both.

(Fennelspot: 113, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Rustshade: 100, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Honeykit: 4, male, kit, noisy, has lots of ideas)

(Splashkit: 4, male, kit, noisy, never sits still)

(Drumkit: 4, female, kit, quiet, moss-ball hunter)

(Leatherkit: 4, male, kit, impulsive, avid play-fighter, confident with words)

(Scrubmask: 73, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Trumpetspore: 17, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter, good storyteller)

(Oilstripe: 60, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

Paleseed makes no progress on a recent border dispute with WheatClan. She believes she is meant for something greater.

[Image ID: Paleseed and Spikecrash walk away from a WheatClan warrior. Paleseed says, “Do you ever feel like there’s something more you could be doing?”]

(Paleseed: 22, female, mediator, insecure, incredible runner, steady paws)

(Spikecrash: 31, female, mediator, wise, good speaker, lore keeper)

Lavendertwist fights a rogue. While he drives the Witch Hunter off, he must be rushed to the medicine den.

[Image ID: Trumpetspore, Scrubmask, and Scalepaw watch Lavendertwist fight Achilles. Lavendertwist yowls, “Where is she? Tell me where she is!” Under him, it says + CONDITION: CLAW WOUND. Under Scalepaw, it says - CONDITION: SENSORY OVERLOAD.]

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According to Lemmy, the Witch Hunters were preparing another ambush. They had their eyes on Oilstripe, constantly searching for signs of her fiery ginger pelt, but they had other names too; Troutpool, Downstar, Fennelspot, all those closest to Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle. Downstar outright banned her clerics from visiting the river after that, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t use the Witch Hunters’ plans against them.

Lavendertwist, Scalepaw, Trumpetspore, and Scrubmask hid in the trees on the other side of the river. Trumpetspore sat lower than the rest, better shrouded in the pine needles with her black fur. Scalepaw stayed away from the others, more at home with his pelt against the bark than against others. Although he often didn’t speak in crowded situations, he was growing into a fine young warrior. Scrubmask, meanwhile, lounged on the branches like she was cuddled in her nest. All in all, Downstar and Weedfoot picked a good patrol for the assault; except that Lavendertwist was antsy.

“Lavendertwist, if you don’t stop fidgeting, the Witch Hunters will bolt as soon as they arrive,” Scrubmask grumbled as Lavendertwist scratched his bare neck.

“I can’t help it,” he groaned. “We’ve been sitting here all day!”

“This is the best lead Lemmy’s given us,” Trumpetspore reminded him. “I don’t want anyone else to die because we didn’t stop these cats.”

“I’m as dedicated to getting Carnationspeckle back as anyone else!” Lavendertwist huffed, glaring down at Trumpetspore. “Sorry I can’t stay still all day!”

“Down there!” Scalepaw whispered. Now that made Lavendertwist shut up. All eyes focused on the ground. A few moments later, figures shifted between the trees, leaving light prints behind them. Four cats slunk along the forest floor, eyeing the river. A brown tom with a large scar across his side led them closer to RippleClan territory. Lavendertwist recognized him from Mosspounce’s accounts; that was Achilles, essentially the deputy of the Witch Hunters.

“He’ll know where Carnationspeckle is,” Lavendertwist whispered, nodding at Achilles. He, Scalepaw, and Scrubmask snuck further down the tree to join Trumpetspore. It was all body language from there. Scrubmask flicked her ears at Scalepaw, then at the Witch Hunter in the far back of the group. It would be up to the growing apprentice to keep them from running. Trumpetspre claimed a scrawny white molly to the side. Scrubmask met Lavendertwist’s eyes, and nodded. Achilles was his.

Lavendertwist crouched along the thin branch. His eyes followed Achilles as he moved slow and steady. Scrubmask raised her tail high. Lavendertwist held his breath. Scrubmask dropped her tail. 

Four warriors fell from the trees, landing square on their targets. The Witch Hunters yowled as sharp and angry fangs dug into their pelts. Achilles spun and tore his claws down Lavendertwist’s shoulder. The white-patched warrior grabbed Achilles by the ear and tore at the fragile flesh with all his might. Achilles kicked his back leg and squirmed out.

“Where is she?” Lavendertwist yowled, pouncing back onto Achilles. “Tell me where she is! Where are you keeping Carnationspeckle?” Achilles, however, was not as chatty as Lavendertwist. 

He shoved Lavendertwist into the writhing mass of warriors and Witch Hunters behind him. If it wasn’t for RippleClan’s strong scent of sand and salt, Lavendertwist might have struck a Clanmate in the confusion. Back paws smacked his jaw. His teeth clung to someone’s tail. Scalepaw’s white-speckled pelt flung past Lavendertwist. He spun back to his feet with exceptional skill and was back in the horde before Lavendertwist could call out.

“My friends and family will never be able to rest while you witches play with their souls like mice!” Achilles screeched. He tumbled out of the fight, claws entangled with Trumpetspore. Black paws pushed a furious brown muzzle away from a vulnerable throat. Scrubmask and Lavendertwist kicked off their assailants. They threw themselves against Achilles’ side. The three spun into a tree. Shards of bark clung to Scrubmask’s fur.

“StarClan is its own system,” Scrubmask growled. “They have no quarrel with your Other Side.”

“If Madeline and the crows say you endanger their peace,” Achilles huffed as Scalepaw scrambled away from the three other Witch Hunters, “then I must protect them.” One of the Witch Hunters dragged Scrubmask back behind the tree. The others targeted Trumpetspore. The young warrior kicked them off and ran to Lavendertwist. She ricocheted off the tree and smacked back into her assailants with a powerful wail. Scalepaw regrouped beside his brother and mentor. 

“Back strike,” Lavendertwist panted, unable to hold back a slight purr at putting his brother’s training to the test. Scalepaw nodded, battlelust burning his blue eyes. Lavendertwist and Scalepaw ran at Achilles, yowling their throats raw. Achilles braced himself, eyes locked onto Lavendertwist. Scalepaw suddenly darted to the side. He looped around the brown Witch Hunter. Achilles couldn’t focus on both of them at once. He left his flank exposed to the younger tom, locking claws with Lavendertwist. Scalepaw dug into Achilles’ scar. Achilles shrieked and kicked Scalepaw square in the chest. A clump of Achilles’ long fur clung to Scalepaw’s tooth. 

Lavendertwist reared onto his back legs. Achilles was stunned. This was his moment! Achilles would be the perfect prisoner. They could trade the Witch Hunters for Carnationspeckle, use him to prepare some sort of assault! That would teach them to… to….

Lavendertwist wasn’t sure what happened. A flash of claws. A yowl of pain. Chunks of fur and flesh stuck in his paw. Scalepaw, Trumpetspore, and Scrubmask were all on top of Achilles, dragging him away. Lavendertwist had him, why were they… no, there was a reason. Air seeped out of Lavendertwist and he could not get it back. His front paws gave way. He crumbled onto the tan grass, wishing for cold, soft snow to break his fall. His neck burned. Blood pooled under his chin. 

Oh. Achilles slashed his neck open. What a dramatic blow. It seemed like the sort of killing strike he would have described in a story to the kits. Rabbitjoy and Rattlepelt would likely have called it overly dramatic and overused. After all, most warriors who died in battle didn’t die from such an unlikely and well-placed hit. Fangs were better for ripping someone’s throat open than claws, after all. Would anyone believe future historians when they described how Lavendertwist died?

Lavendertwist wondered if Rippleferm felt something similar when she died. The inability to breathe. The clear and short future ahead. Lavendertwist missed his sister. She would have had something kind to say to bring him to StarClan. Would she be there as a Fetcher to escort his soul to Silverpelt? Lavendertwist wondered if the Judges would try him for anything. He’d lived a good life, hadn’t he? He supposed they would just let him in without fuss.

One thing deeply surprised Lavendertwist about dying. He thought that when someone died of a wound like his, all they could do was focus on the pain and their thoughts. All of his musings flew past in the span of a moment. After that, Lavendertwist was left without thoughts, only a deep and unending awareness of everything around him. Every sight, every sound, every agonizing and terrifying sensation flowing from his open neck.

The Witch Hunters had run off in the moment that lasted a lifetime. When Lavendertwist could no longer think, only sense, his Clanmates had gathered around him, covered in scratches and fear scent.

“Lavender, Lavender, Lavender!” Scalepaw wailed. His paws fidgeted, reaching out toward his brother and mentor only to pull back. Trumpetspore shook, a mournful cry flowing out. Scrubmask was the opposite. Scrubmask slid Lavendertwist onto her strong back. Lavendertwist cried out, but only managed to gurgle and bubble as his death blow shrieked.

“Back to camp, right now!” Scrubmask ordered. No one dared disobey her. They ran toward the stepping stones. The cold spray off the river stun Lavendertwist’s eyes. Trumpetspore helped Scrubmask stay balanced as they waded through the low current. As soon as Scrubmask had all four paws on solid ground, she was off. Trumpetspore could only just keep up with her. 

The territory flew by, the grass brushing Lavendertwist’s whiskers. Scrubmask’s cream and white side turned red. His eyes were frozen, unable to blink, processing the sensation of life draining out of his throat. Scalepaw’s cries rang through the trees. Grass shifted to sand. Although he was looking away, Lavendertwist could still hear the ocean’s crashing waves behind him. He caught a glimpse of RippleClan’s glorious shipwreck before Scrubmask turned and ran along the walls of camp.

“Fennelspot, Troutpool!” Scrubmask cried, bursting through the entrance. Lavendertwist’s face scratched on the brambles clinging to the rocks. Fennelspot and Troutpool were already outside the medicine den, having prepared themselves to welcome injuries home from the patrol. Elmsprout had been tending the stove when the patrol entered camp. No one had to order her; she ran beside Scrubmask and gently set Lavendertwist’s dangling head on her back.

“I have you, Lavendertwist,” she promised. “You’ll be okay.”

“The Witch Hunter slashed his neck open!” Trumpetspore wailed as the clerics escorted Scrubmask, Lavendertwist, and Elmsprout into the medicine den. “He’s barely breathing!” Was that true? It seemed true. Lavendertwist wasn’t able to ponder on that. He wasn’t able to think of anything, merely glancing past the unfolding scene before moving onto the next painful sensation. His Clanmates cried out and gasped at the sight of him. James lunged toward his son, but Weedfoot, wide-eyed, kept him back. Scalepaw ran into camp and into the embrace of his parents, whimpering.

“Troutpool, cover the wound in a witch hazel salve,” Fennelspot ordered. “Scrubmask, Wildclaw finished cleaning her wraps this morning, fetch them, they can help stem the bleeding.” Lavendertwist found himself in a soft, down-lined nest. Ah. That was nice. A good place to die.

“The wound looks deep, Fennelspot,” Troutpool gulped as she shuffled through her jars of salves and ointments along the wall. “I think we need to stitch it.”

“Bring in Rabbitjoy,” Fennelspot huffed as Scrubmask ran from the den. “She’ll make the process easier.”

“Lavendertwist isn’t a piece of leather!” Elmsprout cried, grooming Lavendertwist’s head. “How can you stitch him?”

“It’s something we try to avoid,” Fennelspot sighed. He groomed the blood flowing from Lavendertwist’s neck and held a paw to the throbbing wound. “I had to stitch Parsley’s tail when I tried to save it. I have a specialized sewing claw from my days in SlugClan that will let me weave sutures through the wound and close it. It’s Lavendertwist’s best chance to survive.” Scrubmask returned and shoved freshly washed bandages onto the wound. It did nothing for the pain that began to overwhelm Lavendertwist’s senses. “Elmsprout, I need you to help keep Lavendertwist still while we do this. With the placement of the wound, I can’t give him painkillers.”

“I’ll try,” Elmsprout gulped. She laid over Lavendertwist, purring as hard as she could. Fennelspot fetched a gaudy leather contraption from a corner of the den; a curved, pointed piece of bone that would soon pierce through Lavendertwist’s skin again and again.

Lavendertwist would survive, but as Rabbitjoy and Fennelspot sewed his neck shut, no matter how much Elmsprout and Scrubmask comforted him and kept him still, he would wish he hadn’t.

(Lavendertwist: 22, male, warrior, playful, good singer, good storyteller)

(Scalepaw: 9, male, warrior apprentice, lonesome, avid play-fighter)

(Trumpetspore: 17, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter, good storyteller)

(Scrubmask: 73, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Achilles: 84, male, Witch Hunter second, daring, eloquent speaker)

(Elmsprout: 23, female, caretaker, charismatic, helpful insight)

(Fennelspot: 113, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Troutpool: 17, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

As Darkkick helps Troutpool restock on betony, she realizes she isn’t a tom anymore.

[Image ID: Darkkick says to Troutpool, “It wasn’t something I felt a proper cleric could admit to when I was younger.” Under Darkkick, it says LEVEL UP! MALE -> TRANS FEMALE.]

(Troutpool: 17, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

Weedfoot leads a patrol to track down the Witch Hunters and free Carnationspeckle, once and for all.

[Image ID: Weedfoot leads Wildclaw, Waspdawn, Puddlewhisper, Darkkick, Mosspounce, and Trumpetspore.]

---

Lemmy knew where they were keeping Carnationspeckle.

Madeline and Achilles finally welcomed Lemmy into the inner circle of enforcers after she caught a scout stealing prey set aside for the pregnant and nursing queens of the community. According to her, they let her spend the night guarding Carnationspeckle near somewhere she called the Singing Place. She’d told the entire Clan as soon as she could cross the river. Today was the day to act. Today was the day RippleClan would get their beloved Carnationspeckle back.

Weedfoot led a large patrol across the river. Wildclaw had fully recovered from her dog bite and sported a bright scar to remember the moment by; despite having only just been cleared to fight, she was determined to rescue her old mentor. She swam right at Weedfoot’s side, a deputy’s deputy in the coming conflict. Darkkick and Trumpetspore brought along a warrior’s combat skill, sticking by one another’s side as they followed the stepping stones across. Weedfoot had to keep reminding Mosspounce to stick behind her while Waspdawn and Puddlewhisper were stoic and prepared to do whatever it took to rescue their dear friend.

They had a plan to rescue Carnationspeckle, and a plan to get the Witch Hunters off their backs. Weedfoot just had to pray that Oilstripe and Troutpool could find success with their side of the attack.

It was a long and quiet walk in the earliest glimmers of dawn. When Weedfoot glanced back at her patrol, most of them were dark shadows walking through the wet grass. There was still some snow on the ground, but it clung in patches under the cool shade of giant trees. Blooms were beginning to grow on the twigs, telling the RippleClan cats that something new was on the horizon. A new year meant a new freedom from the chaos the Witch Hunters had wrought on the Clans.

The human settlement was like a slice of Silverpelt on the ground. The small, flickering lights within the dens gave every home a feeling of warmth and nourishment that made Weedfoot’s stomach growl. The humans could not be trusted, however; James’ stories warned her of the fickle and unpredictable nature of their kind. Yet, oddly enough, it would be the humans and their odd rituals that would prove Carnationspeckle’s salvation.

“Mosspounce, you’ve been here before,” Weedfoot whispered as they neared the settlement. “Did you see the Singing Place during your visit?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t know it,” Mosspounce said. “Lemmy said it wouldn’t be hard to hear when the humans arrived. It’ll be a few hours, though. They don’t wake up until late in the morning.”

“We should wait somewhere outside the settlement,” Puddlewhisper said with a shiver. “I don’t trust this place. It feels hostile.”

“Then we’ll camp here,” Weedfoot said, stopping by the remnants of a dead monster, all shards of wood and leather, never able to make it home. “Wildclaw, pass out the pemmican.” Wildclaw had a leather pouch wrapped around her torso; she reached around and tugged off the strap, letting the leather drop. She passed small chunks of pemmican out to each member of the patrol, who gratefully held it between their paws as they nibbled. They saved a large chunk for Carnationspeckle; she would need the nourishment when she was free.

Weedfoot watched the sun rise. She could not see the ocean from where she sat, but she felt its presence in the air, another quiet comfort of RippleClan in hostile territory. The patrol shared tongues and stretched as they waited, unable to stay still. Puddlewhisper kept her eyes out for Witch Hunters or any other cats who could warn Madeline and her lackeys of their approach. Wildclaw and Waspdawn discussed strategy. Darkkick was the only one able to nap, for reasons Weedfoot could not understand. Everyone was ready to bring their friend home.

Some time later, Weedfoot held a paw to the horizon. The entire sun rested on top of her paw. She steadied herself. If Lemmy was right, now was the time to strike. Weedfoot jumped onto the dead monster and raised her tail. Puddlewhisper nudged Darkkick awake. The patrol focused on their deputy. Just as Weedfoot was about to lead the patrol toward the human settlement, a massive bang rang out from the tall dens. Trumpetspore and Waspdawn hissed, flinching at the loud sound.

“That’s the sound of the Singing Place!” Mosspounce gasped. “Lemmy told me they make a loud sound to summon other humans. They’ll be starting soon!”

“Then we need to hurry,” Weedfoot huffed. “Stay to the shadows between the dens. Do not let any cats see you. We don’t know who may recognize us.” Weedfoot hurried toward the clanging sound, ears ringing as her patrol of loyal friends and family followed.

According to Lemmy, humans gathered at the Singing Place four or five times a moon in some sort of grand Gathering of music and community. The tall white den was so busy and loud that few cats could stand to live there, and even fewer would stay while the humans sang. Someone (hopefully Lemmy) would be forced to stay and guard Carnationspeckle through the clamor, but they wouldn’t be able to stand up against seven angry Clan cats.

Weedfoot would not call the sound echoing through the settlement “singing”. It was more like wailing, the sort that pierced the patrol’s ears. Weedfoot had no desire to understand their definition of music. She was more focused on rescuing the kind little kit she once found sleeping in the shipwreck, unaware of the loving family she would build.

The singing made it easy to find the Singing Place. Even if the den had been quiet, it would have stood out for its peaked roof and snow-white walls. Weedfoot didn’t know it was possible to find wood that white. The walls seemed to shake with the force of the humans’ sound. Weedfoot held her tail up. The patrol pressed into the stone wall of a human den, hidden in darkness. 

“Wildclaw, Waspdawn,” Weedfoot whispered. The pair slipped next to her. The rest of the patrol waited by the den as Weedfoot, Wildclaw, and Waspdawn crossed the empty horse path to the Singing Place. The den rose out of the ground, leaving a small hill around it. While stones lined the foundation, sometimes the earth slipped deeper, leaving small gaps underneath the Singing Place. Weedfoot pressed against the vibrating white walls and snuck along the den.

Weedfoot looked around a sharp corner. A light brown torbie sat beside a large hole under the Singing Place, seemingly unbothered by the noise. So they wouldn’t be dealing with Lemmy; no matter. This is what RippleClan cats trained for. Weedfoot looked to Waspdawn and twirled her tail high. Waspdawn nodded and trotted the other way, looping around the back half of the den. Wildclaw readied herself at the corner, eyes locked on the Witch Hunter guard. A short time later, Waspdawn poked his head around the other side of the wall. Weedfoot raised her tail high. All three cats held their breath.

Weedfoot dropped her tail. Waspdawn and Weedfoot sprinted out of cover. They tackled the Witch Hunter at the same time, dragging her to her belly. Their claws and fangs tore through her bicolored pelt. The Witch Hunter yowled as the Clan cats drew blood. Wildclaw gave her a good strong kick. The Witch Hunter, tail between her legs, tumbled down the hill and scrambled away from the Singing Place. She would be back with reinforcements soon, Weedfoot was certain. They had to be quick.

“Carnationspeckle!” Weedfoot cried. She stuck her head into the dark hole. A shadowy mass sat in the back of the den. Tired blue eyes shone in the morning light. Carnationspeckle limped into view. Her long and fluffy coat was matted and tangled. Her strong swimming muscles had eroded and allowed her bones to press against her skin. Rage once again sparked through Weedfoot. Madeline and her Witch Hunters would be receiving too light a punishment if this was how they treated dear, gentle Carnationspeckle.

“Weedfoot,” Carnationspeckle gasped. Carnationspeckle scrambled out of the hole. Weedfoot grabbed her scruff, helping her weak paws to solid ground. Wildclaw, blood covering her claws, pressed so hard into Carnationspeckle that she almost knocked her former mentor over.

“Did Oilstripe make it home?” Carnationspeckle asked as Waspdawn propped her back up.

“She’s safe and waiting for you,” Weedfoot promised. Wildclaw looted through her leather pouch and pulled out the pemmican. Carnationspeckle took a huge bite and purred deeply.

“We don’t have time to eat,” Waspdawn reminded the pair. That was when a yowl bounced around the stone dens. It came from the shadowy path where the rest of the patrol lay hidden.

They had been found out.

[Image ID: Mosspounce says to Weedfoot, “Weedfoot, I still haven’t found Lemmy. She was supposed to be here.” In the back, Carnationspeckle reunites with Troutpool, Rattlepelt, and Oilstripe.]

Weedfoot knew Madeline by description alone, but it was not hard to identify the crow-loving molly among the other Witch Hunters assaulting the patrol. Darkkick and Trumpetspore tore into a gray tom while Puddlewhisper had her fangs deep into Madeline’s shoulder. A giant red molly pounded Mosspounce’s face into the dry ground. More Witch Hunters hurried over, darting past a human riding a horse. The horse shrieked and bucked, making the human yowl.

“Protecting Carnationspeckle is your top priority,” Weedfoot barked at Wildclaw and Waspdawn. “We are not leaving anyone here, understood?” Weedfoot didn’t wait for an answer. She charged into the foray, her teeth quickly finding a target.

The Witch Hunters shoved Weedfoot against the hard stone walls of the human den. Her skin burned. Sharp teeth clacked together, trying to get at her throat. That was when Darkkick thundered in, knocking the Witch Hunters back with a blow from her shoulder.

“Thank you!” Weedfoot panted, shoving off the wall.

“I’m just making up for what I couldn’t do before,” Darkkick huffed, smacking a Witch Hunter aside. 

At the other side of the skirmish, Madeline and Puddlewhisper had each other by the throat, rolling about and smacking into the walls. Weedfoot spun and jumped off the wall, flying into Madeline. They flung one over the other, tumbling through the battle. Weedfoot kicked Madeline in the stomach. The Witch Hunter General stumbled.

“Weedfoot, there are more coming!” Mosspounce yowled. Sure enough, a swarm of Witch Hunters, led by the torbie guard from earlier, hurried between the dens, teeth glistening.

“Fall back!” Weedfoot ordered. She scrambled over stunned Witch Hunters and ran for Wildclaw and Waspdawn, who had chased off a Witch Hunter trying to claw at Carnationspeckle. Darkkick, Trumpetspore, Mosspounce, and Puddlewhisper shoved off their opponents. They grouped around Carnationspeckle with arched backs and deep growls.

“We have to split up,” Wildclaw huffed. “We can’t escape them all as one patrol.”

“I won’t risk losing anyone!” Weedfoot yowled as the Witch Hunters gathered along the edge of the Singing Place’s hill. Their growls and hisses were muffled by the singing still ringing out from behind the white wood walls. Weedfoot’s flank met Waspdawn and Puddlewhisper, instinctively gathering around their mother for the coming battle.

A shadow flickered over Weedfoot’s eyes. A loud and violent caw broke through the hissing cats and yowling humans. A crow looped over the crowd. The Witch Hunters froze, staring at the feathered beast. More crows fluttered onto the high roof of the Singing Place as their leader landed on Madeline’s head. It cawed once more, wings flapping. Madeline’s blue eyes grew wide.

“What?” she gasped, eyes straining to see the crow. “Let them go?” 

“That’s exactly right!” Weedfoot’s heart soared as a ginger tabby, a cream and white molly, and a furless gray cat bolted into view, panting hard. Had they run all the way from the Clans? The Witch Hunters yowled in outrage, eyes narrowing and tails flicking. The crow hopped off Madeline and stood by her, cawing softly. The Singing Place grew quiet.

“Oilstripe!” Carnationspeckle cried, utter relief breaking her voice. “Troutpool! Rattlepelt!”

“Mom!” Troutpool and Rattlepelt cheered. Weedfoot’s patrol made way for the enthusiastic pair. Their faces dug deep into Carnationspeckle’s long fur. They cried as they purred, drawing sobs from their mother’s throat as well. 

“You,” Madeline growled, focused on Oilstripe. “The ghost seer. The worst of the witches.”

“I know,” Oilstripe huffed, eyes darting about. “You and the… many, many spirits around here have made your hatred very clear. I can understand where that hate comes from, considering how differently we view death. That’s why I went over your head. They call you the Crow Speaker, after all. I thought maybe you would listen to them.”

“Blasphemy!” a Witch Hunter yowled.

“Only Madeline can understand the crows!” screamed another.

“I never said I understood what they said,” Oilstripe pointed out, moving between the RippleClan patrol and the Witch Hunters. “I just talked to them. In the Clans, some of our famous dead are considered Celestials who wield power over elements of the natural world. My daughter over there? She’s a cleric. She helped me pray to Feathertongue, Celestial of Crows, for help in finding your friends here. He answered. He led us to where the crows were gathered and I made my case.” In the bright morning glow reflected off the Singing Place, Weedfoot thought her old apprentice looked like a leader, encouraging her Clan through the hard times ahead.

“You only learned about StarClan recently,” Oilstripe explained. “We had no idea about your Other Side until you declared war on us. Our beliefs, our worlds, they don’t have to interfere with one another. We won’t disturb the rest of your dead anymore. We’ll even avoid hunting crows! But you have to understand that we don’t speak with the Other Side, we speak with StarClan. How can we be witches if our worlds don’t interact? We can keep living the way we’ve always had, keeping out of the others’ affairs. That’s what I told the crows, and it seems that’s what they’re telling you.” The crow beside Madeline cawed again, and Madeline lowered her ear to better hear. Weedfoot squirmed as Madeline listened to her feathery leader. Madeline growled softly, but sheathed her claws.

“I want all of you out of our home, now,” she hissed. “Our war is over. Our affairs will be our own. Make sure all of your kind know that we will no longer harp over what you do with your own ancestors, but may your Celestials help you once more if you harass ours.” The Witch Hunters began to complain, but the crows on top of the Singing Place screamed and flapped their wings wildly, shutting their mouths.

Oilstripe hurried to Carnationspeckle’s side. She stood strong for her mate, grooming the mats that would have to be cut out. Mosspounce crept closer to Weedfoot.

“Weedfoot, I still haven’t found Lemmy,” he whispered. “She was supposed to be here.”

“You’ll have to pray you see her again,” Weedfoot sighed, shaking her head. “It’s time for us to go home.”

(Weedfoot: 106, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Wildclaw: 49, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor, good fighter)

(Darkkick: 117, trans female, warrior, lonesome, talented swimmer, understands nature)

(Trumpetspore: 18, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter, good storyteller)

(Mosspounce: 18, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Waspdawn: 23, male, codekeeper, strict, learner of lore, clue finder)

(Puddlewhisper: 23, trans female, codekeeper, righteous, natural intuition, ghost sense)

(Carnationspeckle: 59, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Madeline: 105, female, Witch Hunter General, faithful, omen sight)

(Oilstripe: 59, female, historian, charismatic, ghost sight)

(Troutpool: 17, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

“So you’re…” Mosspounce said, “...an enforcer?”

“It’s a position of some authority with the Witch Hunters,” Lemmy explained. “I’m responsible for carrying out the plans of our higher ranking members and managing the day to day activities of some of our community. I make sure they’re following the rules of our home.”

“Like a codekeeper?” Mosspounce asked.

“Do you think I know enough about Clan culture to say?” Lemmy scoffed. With cold weather slamming into the Clans early, Mosspounce met his friend on her side of the river that day, beside a small fire. Mosspounce caught a small fish and staked it beside the fire to cook. Lemmy’s fur looked yellow in the firelight and the dull morning haze that broke through the thick clouds.

“Well that meeting of yours looked a lot like one of our Gatherings,” Mosspounce sighed, poking the fish. “Maybe you know more than you let on.” 

“Mosspounce—” Lemmy groaned.

“No, please don’t tell me to let it go,” Mosspounce snapped, his tail smacking the ground. “This is the third time I’ve seen you since then and you still won’t explain what in StarClan your friends are doing. You promised we would talk about it later, Lemmy. I need you to tell me the truth, were you one of the cats who killed Bubblemoon?”

“No,” Lemmy growled, lips curling. Mosspounce forced himself to relax. He stared at the fire to cool the flames itching in his blood.

“You have roles and leaders and faith, just like we do,” Mosspounce huffed, “so why try to kill us?” Lemmy tucked her tail over her paws. She stared at the fire as well. It was easier than one of them meeting the other’s eye. The smoke blew over Mosspounce’s head.

“Do you know what I mean when I discuss the Other Side?” Lemmy sighed. “Most of the loners and house cats of the land believe that after a year in the mortal world settling our affairs, we will all go to the Other Side to play out our own eternal peace. Good or bad, we all go to the Other Side. The crows guide us there when our time comes, and they protect its denizens.”

“Can your leader really speak to crows?” Mosspounce asked. He glanced up, half expecting to see a beady-eyed crow watching from the trees, ready to fly back and report.

“It’s the other way around,” Lemmy explained. “Madeline would not understand the crows if they did not want to speak to her. The peace of the Other Side is more sacred than anything else. We call those who disturb that peace witches. It’s the job of the Witch Hunters to make sure no one is disturbing the dead. Madeline became the Witch Hunter General about a year ago, and that’s when she started learning more about the Clans. We didn’t know about your StarClan until she heard a story from a housecat. She believes you are the worst witches to ever wander near our home. She believes killing you all will protect the peace of our dead. She’s been studying you and strategizing how to pull you apart ever since she declared war in the name of the Other Side.”

“StarClan chooses to talk to us,” Mosspounce huffed. He couldn’t help but grit his teeth as he spoke. “They want to be involved in our affairs. We aren’t disturbing anyone! How is that any different from your crows?”

“Madeline either does not know,” Lemmy muttered, “or does not care. She and many of the Witch Hunters believe they are securing their eternal peace by ambushing who they can by the borders. They hope to find your weaknesses and tear into your camps. They’ll kill most of you and rescue the young cats to save them from witchcraft.”

“That’s what you wanted me to do.” Mosspounce pulled the cooked fish away from the fire. He stared into its dead eye. “You wanted me to leave my family to die. Is that what you still want, Lemmy? I may like you, but I’m not letting you do that.” Even though he laughed through it, shock slipped between the cracks in Mosspounce’s anger. Did he just say he liked Lemmy? Out loud? He waited for Lemmy to mock him. He needed her to mock him for that, to ease the strain in the air. Mosspounce dared to look at Lemmy. She was staring at him, expressionless.

“Mosspounce, why do you think I visit you?” Lemmy asked. Mosspounce wanted to say “Because you like me too,” but found his words dead well before they reached his mouth. Lemmy walked up to the river. She stared downstream, toward the ocean stretching out into infinity in the distance. “I dream of rock-lined shores and strangers sitting beside me, offering me suggestions. It’s usually a black kit, encouraging me to listen to my deepest curiosities. I know I’ve never met her before.” Lemmy looked back to Mosspounce. “She told me she was a member of StarClan.”

“Not many cats get visited in their dreams,” Mosspounce mumbled. He joined Lemmy along the river. “Usually they visit leaders and clerics. You… you must be pretty special if StarClan speaks to you.”

“No, Mosspounce, I can’t be special,” Lemmy insisted. “I can’t be speaking to the dead. I’m a Witch Hunter! It is my job to protect the dead, not to cavort with them!” She sat with a huff, staring at her rippled reflection in the rushing river. “I tried to ignore the dreams, but after Madeline ordered us to attack a Clan patrol and gauge their strength, they started coming every night. They’re constantly asking me to see you, of all cats. It’s why I didn’t kill you last summer. The Witch Hunters are trying to do what they think is right, I can’t—”

“Mosspounce!” Mosspounce nearly choked. Lavendertwist stood on the other side of the river, collarless. Mosspounce turned to Lemmy, but she hurried back through the trees.

“Wait!” Mosspounce yowled, but it was of no use. Lemmy would not be coming back that day. Lavendertwist waded across the river, watching the fire and the cooked fish. Mosspounce groaned and braced himself.

“Mosspounce, were you cooking this fish for your runaway friend?” Lavendertwist asked. Mosspounce’s stomach clenched. He didn’t know who Lemmy was. Mosspounce liked to say he had his father’s charm; now it was time for him to inherit his father’s skillful lying.

“She was hungry,” Mosspounce gulped, slowly joining Lavendertwist by the fire. “She was thinking about joining the Clan. There’s so much prey at camp, I thought it would be alright to cook something for her.”

“I’m not mad, don’t worry,” Lavendertwist sighed, tail touching Mosspounce’s side comfortingly. “Glad you have a friend, but really, Moss, you know we can’t be sharing prey with cats who aren’t in the Clan. We gotta feed Clammask’s kits.”

“I’m sorry,” Mosspounce chuckled awkwardly, giving his chest a lick.

“Make sure everyone else eats today, and we won’t tell my mother,” Lavendertwist purred with a wink. He kicked dirt over the fire and dug a hole for the code-breaking fish. Mosspounce nodded along. Better to not eat than tell Lavendertwist who Lemmy really was. Still, he couldn’t help but glance the way Lemmy ran and wonder, how much longer would she be safe with the Witch Hunters?

(Mosspounce: 14, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Lemmy: 29, female, Witch Hunter enforcer, cold, deep StarClan bond)

(Lavendertwist: 19, male, warrior, playful, good singer, good storyteller)

Even though he is excited to be an apprentice, Scalekit still needs coaxing from James to step up for his ceremony. He is named Scalepaw and is apprenticed to Lavendertwist.

[Image ID: Scalepaw is now an apprentice, and is clearly developing white spots of vitiligo. Under him, it says LEVEL UP! SCALEKIT -> SCALEPAW.]

(Scalepaw: 6, male, warrior apprentice, lonesome, avid play-fighter)

Rustshade gives Leatherkit a task.

[Image ID: Rustshade says to Leatherkit, “Leatherkit, fetch Carnationspeckle for me. I need to ask her something.” Under Leatherkit, it says + NEW SKILL: ACID PLAY-FIGHTER, + NEW SKILL: CONFIDENT WITH WORDS.]

(Rustshade: 97, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Leatherkit: 1, male, kit, impulsive, avid play-fighter, confident with words)

Tempestshade goes on trial to determine her responsibility for Ripplefern’s death.

[Image ID: Puddlewhisper stands with Tempestshade while Troutpool speaks. Under Troutpool, it says + GUIDANCE FROM STARCLAN: LIVING DEATH OMEN.]

---

“This collar is killing me,” Tempestshade groaned into Puddlewhisper’s ear, one paw digging under the tight leather around her neck.

“Tempestshade, please,” Puddlewhisper muttered. She eyed the cats gathered around her, engrossed in Tempestshade’s trial. She rubbed the band around her paw. Only one other cat had ever worn the band in RippleClan’s history; Puddlewhisper’s mentor, and the cat in charge of finding Tempestshade guilty of deadly recklessness. Rustshade took this trial as seriously as he took Shadowdrop’s trial over a year ago. How ironic, then, that it was one of Shadowdrop’s kits on trial.

Save for Weedfoot’s statement of the accident’s aftermath, there weren’t exactly other witnesses to Ripplefern’s death. It made it hard to disprove anything Tempestshade claimed (she had spoken first in the trial, fervently defending the sudden and accidental nature of the incident). Most of Rustshade’s argument, therefore, was based on Tempestshade’s character. He actually called Oilstripe to testify as a historian, relating Tempestshade’s personal history to the Clan. Puddlewhisper flinched for Tempestshade’s sake with each new descriptor thrown out. Kit-like. Reckless. Irresponsible. Selfish. 

“Downstar, at this point, Rustshade is bullying my charge,” Puddlewhisper finally snapped midway through Oilstripe’s testimony. “None of this changes the facts of the event. Tempestshade could be StarClan’s shining example of responsibility, and Ripplefern would still be dead!” Nausea almost overcame Puddlewhisper. Ripplefern had loved the ocean. She loved swimming with Carnationspeckle. If she hadn’t been with Tempestshade that day, would she still be with her littermates? Puddlewhisper glanced toward her surviving family. Waspdawn was as stoic as ever, watching the trial intently from in front of the medicine den. Scalepaw watched from behind him. Paleseed and Lavendertwist leaned into each other, with Elmsprout occasionally licking Lavendertwist’s ear. James sat as close to Weedfoot as he could without disrupting her role. How badly did Puddlewhisper’s mother want to slip into the comforting embrace of her family?

“I would appreciate it if I could continue laying out the basis of my argument, Puddlewhisper,” Rustshade huffed. 

“Alright,” Downstar snapped with a wave of her tail. “Let’s try to finish this statement and move on with this trial, shall we?”

“Lucky for us, I’ve asked all of my questions,” Rustshade sighed. “Thank you for your time, Oilstripe.” Oilstripe glanced awkwardly toward Tempestshade and Puddlewhisper. She bowed her head and scurried back into the crowd, settling next to Carnationspeckle and Troutpool.

“Puddlewhisper, you haven’t had much to say,” Downstar said. “Do you have a witness to call or evidence to present?”

“Actually, Downstar,” Puddlewhisper huffed, getting to her paws, “I don’t have anything else to present. Because there is nothing I could present to you. This was a sudden, unexpected accident. There was nothing else Tempestshade could have done to save Ripplefern’s life. Even if you truly suspect that she, she abandoned my sister to the waves to save herself, there’s no way to prove that. Weedfoot and Troutpool found Tempestshade after the accident, the raft has nothing to tell us… Rustshade’s argument is baseless.” Would Ripplefern agree? Puddlewhisper could almost feel her sister rubbing against her in silent support (yet did not notice Oilstripe staring her way, seeing something Puddlewhisper could not).

“And yet I direct you back to Oilstripe’s official summary of Tempestshade’s life in the Clan,” Rustshade interrupted. He had the gall to block Puddlewhisper’s view of Downstar. “Tempestshade’s kithood mischief led to the death of her father. She was an ornery apprentice. She has put herself above her Clanmates many a time. What is more realistic? That Tempestshade fought to save Ripplefern and risked her own life? Or that she left Ripplefern attached to the raft and saved herself?”

“Hold on!” Troutpool squirmed away from her mothers and marched into the clearing. “Hold on, please. I have something to say about all this.”

“Is this as a witness, or as a cleric?” Downstar asked.

“A cleric,” Troutpool gulped. “Tempestshade technically is at fault for the accident, but not in any way she could control.” Tension rippled through RippleClan. Puddlewhisper dug her paws into the sand.

“You say that like I caused the wave,” Tempestshade scoffed. Troutpool flinched, whiskers twitching in pained sympathy. Tempestshade’s bravado faded, slowly replaced with horror. “That is what you’re saying.”

“Shortly before the trial, I was checking the gardens,” Troutpool explained quietly. “A cloud passed over the sun and covered the garden in shadow. When that happened, I couldn’t breathe. My whole pelt itched and burned. For a second, I thought StarClan was striking me dead. But then the cloud moved away from the sun. As soon as the light touched my fur, I could breathe again. I needed time to understand what that sign meant, but after listening to my mother’s summary of Tempestshade’s life, I think I understand.” Troutpool turned away from Tempestshade and Puddlewhisper. “Tempestshade was born to a dying queen. I believe that this event… infected her on a spiritual level. We saw it with Shadowdrop and one of Downstar’s lives, and now we see it with Ripplefern. Being alone with Tempestshade risks death. She is a walking omen of death.” The Clan was eerily silent.

“That’s a lie,” Tempestshade growled, lips curled. “That’s a lie! I’m not an omen! Tell them, Puddlewhisper!” Yet Puddlewhisper was as silent as everyone else. Tempestshade stepped away from her, eyeing her Clanmates like they were ready to attack. She left long claw marks in the sand. Puddlewhisper flinched away from her charge, staring at Troutpool.

You couldn’t call someone guilty for being born an omen. You could, however, feel guilty when said omen ran out of camp the moment the innocent verdict came back, and no one dared to follow her.

(Tempestshade: 14, female, caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

(Puddlewhisper: 18, trans female, codekeeper, righteous, natural intuition, ghost sense)

(Rustshade: 97, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Downstar: 112, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Troutpool: 14, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

Halibutdusk spars with Splashkit while James looks after Honeykit and Drumkit.

[Image ID: Halibutdusk plays with Splashkit while James sits with Honeykit and Drumkit in the back. Under Splashkit, it says + NEW SKILL: NEVER SITS STILL. Under Honeykit, it says + NEW SKILL: HAS LOTS OF IDEAS. Under Drumkit, it says + NEW SKILL: MOSS-BALL HUNTER.]

(Halibutdusk: 45, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Splashkit: 1, male, kit, noisy, never sits still)

(James: 129, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Honeykit: 1, male, kit, noisy, has lots of ideas)

Clammask suckles a litter of four kits in the nursery with Scrubmask watching over her, purring so hard her body vibrates.

[Image ID: Four newborn kits sit in nests with introductory text under them. The first, a white tom with a golden head and tail, reads NEW PLAYER: HONEYKIT, 0, MALE, NOISY. Next is a white splashed golden tom with the text NEW PLAYER: SPLASHKIT, 0, MALE, NOISY. Above him is a brown masked tom with a white underside who reads NEW PLAYER: LEATHERKIT, 0, MALE, IMPULSIVE. Lastly, there is a black tabby molly, with the words NEW PLAYER: DRUMKIT, 0, FEMALE, QUIET underneath.]

---

There were originally five kits in Clammask’s litter.

The fifth kit was a golden molly who looked like the perfect blend of Clammask and Scrubmask, despite her loner sire. She had seemed so strong next to her brothers and sister. Clammask wanted to give her a strong, powerful name when the quarter moon came. Troutpaw predicted that she would be a mighty warrior, as strong as a cougar.

She passed on the third night of her short little life.

Clammask, like most Clan cats, believed in the idea that young deaths like these were not the deaths of unique souls, but rather StarClan spirits who journeyed back to guide the newborns into the world, only to return soon after. That didn’t mean the little kit’s passing did not hurt, however. That did not mean Clammask did not mourn what could have been, or that Scrubmask’s typical gloomy attitude did not grow darker as the quarter moon passed. Troutpaw outright avoided the nursery after her prediction proved false.

Scalekit looked a lot like the child Clammask lost. It made it hard for her to share a den with the pale-colored kit. At least he would be an apprentice that time next moon. For now, Clammask would focus on her kits while he was in the nursery, and her kits alone.

Two of them looked just like Clammask and Scrubmask. Just like their lost sister. The oldest tom looked like he had dipped his white body into a pot of honey, leaving just his head and tail colored. The other had his birth mother’s fur and his other mother’s white markings. The youngest tom was different, more of a golden-brown color, but Clammask could still see the familial resemblance. She had no idea why her only surviving daughter was black, though. The magic of StarClan’s Blessed Ones, she supposed.

Although she was still sore from her kitting, when the faintest shimmer of light graced camp on the seventh day, Clammask crept out of the nursery and toward the entrance. Scrubmask had been on guard duty most nights since the kitting. 

Scrubmask stared ahead when Clammask stepped out. Only a twitch of her whiskers let Clammask know her mate saw her.

“Come to the nursery,” Clammask whispered. “It’s time to name them.” Scrubmask stiffened. Her gaze drifted to the side. “Scrubmask, this is the family you asked for. Don’t let the kit that didn’t make it keep you from the rest.”

“I won’t,” Scrubmask promised, bristling. “It’s just hard to see them when… when there should be five.”

“I know,” Clammask said. She rubbed against Scrubmask. “Our four are healthy and beautiful, though. I want you to help choose names.” Scrubmask swallowed hard. She touched noses with Clammask, and entered camp.

The four kits were still asleep as Clammask and Scrubmask crept in. Weedfoot and Scalekit, sleeping closer to the front of the nursery, left when they saw the couple arrive. Clammask curled back around the four kits. Scrubmask wrapped herself around Clammask, head resting on her back.

“I already have a name for this one,” Clammask said, nosing the gold-dipped tom. “Honeykit.”

“Cute,” Scrubmask hummed. She studied the other golden tom, whose fluffier fur predicted a pelt as long as Scrubmask’s some day. “…Goldenkit. No. Fuzzykit. Too cute. No one will treat him seriously. Dandelionkit. No, I don’t like flowers.” Clammask nuzzled her mate, hiding a laugh. “Alright, this is the last name. Splashkit.”

“Splashkit it is,” Clammask purred. Her tail brushed against the soft pelts lining the floor of the nursery. She flipped over the corner of a rabbit pelt and studied the brown leather on the other side. “I like Leatherkit for the brown tom. Now you get to name our daughter.”

“Drumkit,” Scrubmask said quickly.

“Where did that name come from?” Clammask asked.

“It just feels right,” Scrubmask said. She reached a paw over Clammask to gently touch Drumkit’s head. It was not enough to wake the sleepy kit up. Scrubmask sighed and laid back down beside Clammask, purring.

“I’m glad I get to be a mother with you,” Clammask hummed, resting her head.

“So am I,” Scrubmask purred.

(Clammask: 46, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Honeykit: 0, male, kit, noisy)

(Splashkit: 0, male, kit, noisy)

(Leatherkit: 0, male, kit, impulsive)

(Drumkit: 0, female, kit, quiet)

(Scrubmask: 69, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

Having reached the end of her apprenticeship, the newly named cleric, Troutpool, feels there is so much left to learn, and frets about whether or not she is ready. With twitching whiskers, Fennelspot assures her that StarClan will always be there to guide her.

[Image ID: Terracottapaw and Fennelspot cheer “Troutpool! Troutpool!” From the corners. Troutpaw, now Troutpool, sits as a long-furred adult. Under her, it says LEVEL UP! TROUTPAW -> TROUTPOOL, COMPASSIONATE -> INSECURE, MORBID CURIOSITY -> GHOST SENSE.]

(Troutpool: 13, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense)

(Fennelspot: 109, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

Paleseed visits AshClan, but only makes things worse between the Clans.

[Image ID: Eelstar stands in front of Terracottapaw as Paleseed watches them both.]

---

Fennelspot had dreamed of a glowing ash tree during his visit to StarClan’s Shrine, apparently, with Mousesong standing underneath. In his eyes, that meant they needed to speak to AshClan. In Downstar’s eyes, that meant Paleseed had to speak to AshClan. They weren’t about to send Spikecrash into AshClan territory, not when they were carefully concealing her relation to Darkkick. Paleseed was the only one who could do it, but she refused to go alone. Not when she was a spitting image of her mother, named after the cat that Eelstar… that Eelstar…

“Paleseed,” Waspdawn said. He gently batted Paleseed’s ear, drawing her back to the present. The pair sat at the edge of AshClan territory. Morning sun beamed through the colored leaves and tinted everything red and orange. Despite the warm colors, Paleseed felt cold.

“Sorry, Waspdawn,” she gulped, rubbing her face. “Were you saying something?”

“I just want you to pay attention,” Waspdawn reminded his sister. “It’s not safe to be absent minded around AshClan right now. I don’t like how thin their numbers have been at recent Gatherings.”

“I suppose that’s all the more reason to check in on them,” Paleseed said. The wind carried fresh AshClan scent to Paleseed’s nose. A moment later, a small AshClan patrol slipped between the thinning shrubbery. “Hello! Excuse us!” Bright eyes stared at the two littermates. It was Frogbelly, Eveningshade, and Brackenpaw (one of Terracottapaw’s littermates, if Paleseed recalled correctly).

“Oh, Paleseed!” Frogbelly gasped. “Hello! You check the borders for visitors so often, sometimes you forget to see if anyone is really there!” He led Eveningshade and Brackenpaw to the border. 

“Hi, Frogbelly,” Paleseed sighed. “I’m afraid I have an official request. Would you take me to your camp?” Frogbelly’s cheerful expression stiffened, trying to stick around despite the sudden chill in the air.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea at the moment,” Eveningshade said. “There is a lot of disease in camp right now. We wouldn’t want RippleClan to get sick.”

“I’m sorry, but we have to be blunt about it,” Waspdawn huffed, angling himself in front of Paleseed. “Fennelspot received a vision that may link your Clan to the death of one of our codekeepers.”

“What, Mousesong?” Eveningshade scoffed. “Didn’t your leader say she was killed by a dog?”

“StarClan sent Fennelspot a vision, and it’s our job to follow up on it,” Paleseed gulped. “Please, Frogbelly?” Frogbelly squirmed under Paleseed’s pleading gaze.

“Maybe we can take you to camp for a short visit?” Frogbelly suggested, staring at Eveningshade. Eveningshade sighed, but flicked her tail for Paleseed and Waspdawn to cross the border.

There was an eerie familiarity to AshClan territory that Paleseed could not get over. Maybe it was all in her head, a fusion of the many stories her mother told her of her old life, but the way the trees grew thicker and seemingly every tree bore marks of harvest… Paleseed wondered if her namesake walked at her side, quietly giving her the strength to step into the camp where Weedfoot nearly died.

AshClan’s camp was surrounded by thickly woven walls, a symbol of AshClan’s determination to carve a new place in the land after the great fire that forced them into creation. Two cats sat tall on either side of the tight entrance. Paleseed and Waspdawn had to walk single-file between the AshClan mediators as they made their way into camp. Paleseed instantly understood why the plan to break Weedfoot out of the camp had been so difficult to undertake. Each den in camp was constructed from branches, twigs, bark, and any other chunk of wood the Clan managed to find, tied and stuck together to form giant dens. Each den had its own lovely decor dangling from the walls; dried flowers and necklaces and other beautiful things. There weren’t many cats wandering around that morning, but those that did basked in the dappled light of the thick canopy overhead. Those cats turned their heads at the sight of RippleClan cats entering their quiet camp.

“I’m hoping to discuss the vision with Newtstream or Eelstar,” Paleseed said, her voice struggling to break free.

“I’m afraid they’re both busy,” Eveningshade said. “Deputy Barkfur is in camp, however. Brackenpaw, please fetch him.”

“Yes, Eveningshade,” Brackenpaw gulped, bowing to Eveningshade. He skittered off into one of the strange, human-like dens. 

“Paleseed,” Waspdawn whispered into her ear. “Take a look at the cats around camp.” There were a few small groups of cats scattered about. A gaggle of apprentices watched Paleseed and Waspdawn from what Paleseed assumed was the apprentice’s den. Newly named warriors groomed squirmy kits. A young caretaker stoked the flames of a huge oven in the center of camp.

“What’s wrong?” Paleseed whispered back.

“Where are the elders?” Waspdawn asked. “Where are the senior warriors? Paleseed, I don’t think anyone we see is more than a few moons older than us.” Paleseed looked about a third time and realized her brother was right. Yes, a lot of cats would be out of camp at this time of day, but the elders would be relaxing on the warm boulder that acted as the back wall of one of the dens. The queens would be grooming the kits, not the young cats Paleseed saw.

Barkfur broke the pattern as Brackenpaw led him out of one of the dens near the camp wall. From Weedfoot’s stories, Barkfur had been one of Autumnstar’s most loyal warriors and bestowed the killing blow on Sprucespring, one of the Ashes in the Water. Paleseed quietly thanked StarClan that she didn’t have to talk to Eelstar.

“Mediator Paleseed,” Barkfur said with a short bow. “Codekeeper Waspdawn. Brackenpaw told me you’re following up on a vision.” He dismissed the young apprentice with a quick flick of his tail. Brackenpaw hurried over to the other apprentices.

“During the half-moon meeting, Fennelspot dreamed of Mousesong, one of our dead Clanmates, standing under a glowing ash tree,” Paleseed explained, her training taking over her insecurities. “Although we confirmed she was killed by a dog, the arrival of the vision has given us cause for concern. Do you know something about Mousesong’s death?” Barkfur stared at Paleseed, as though deciding how much to say. Paleseed’s jaw tightened. She couldn’t look at Barkfur like someone who killed her mother’s friend. She had to approach him like a reasonable tom who wanted the best for his Clan. “This isn’t an accusation of anything, sir. We just want the truth. If StarClan thought it apt to direct us here, surely they want us to know the truth.”

“I don’t know the full story,” Barkfur admitted. He leaned a bit closer and whispered, “Your Clanmate died on the first moon of summer, yes?”

“We found her under a beech tree, sir,” Paleseed gulped. 

“Then you’ll need to speak to Cleric Apprentice Terracottapaw,” Barkfur sighed, standing straight.

“Aren’t they a bit, uh, busy, Deputy Barkfur?” Frogbelly stammered. Paleseed had almost forgotten he and Eveningshade were still there.

“They can take the time to speak to our guests,” Barkfur said. There was a weight to his words that made Paleseed cold. She often took the opportunity to speak with Terracottapaw at Gatherings, and even saw them during a special mediator/cleric Gathering the moon prior. Every time she saw the young apprentice again, they seemed just as nervous as the first time the pair met. “Take our guests to the meeting den, and I’ll fetch Cleric Apprentice Terracottapaw.” Frogbelly and Eveningshade bowed to Barkfur, then nudged Paleseed and Waspdawn across camp.

As the group made their way to a small den, half bush and half wood, they passed by the mouth of a larger den. Paleseed glanced inside. AshClan cats sat huddled in their nests, shivering. Many had wrappings over their ears and noses and leather thrown over their backs. The very air within the den made Paleseed shiver. She ducked her head and tried to pretend she had seen nothing.

The meeting den was small, but there were a few leather pelts for the siblings to lounge on while they waited for Terracottapaw. Paleseed tucked her paws under herself and sat on a soft vole pelt.

“We’ll be nearby if you need anything,” Frogbelly promised. He gave a quick, awkward bow to the pair while Eveningshade left, then hurried to catch up to his friend. When they were gone, Waspdawn turned to Paleseed, eyes wide.

“Did you see all those sick cats?” Waspdawn hissed.

“They seemed more injured than sick,” Paleseed groaned.

“With bandaging on their extremities…” Waspdawn mumbled. “If I didn’t know better, I would say it was frostbite. But that many cats, at this time of the year?” Waspdawn sat next to Paleseed.

“Something is very wrong here,” Paleseed whined. “We… Downstar and Fennelspot should know about this.”

“I agree, but Paleseed, you have to remember, we aren’t here to fix AshClan’s problems for them.” Waspdawn examined the wooden walls, sneering. “The only reason we should be concerned about them is if they’re threatening our family.” Waspdawn was about to say more, but at that moment, Terracottapaw entered the den. They would have been taller than Paleseed if they would stand straight. They walked in a constant crouch that made Paleseed’s spine hurt.

“Hello, Mediator Paleseed,” Terracottapaw gulped.

“You don’t have to be formal with me,” Paleseed insisted. “We just have a few questions about a vision Fennelspot had at the half-moon meeting.”

“Terracottapaw,” Waspdawn said. His voice was taut and hard. Terracottapaw struggled not to sink deeper under his gray gaze. “Do you know something about Mousesong?” Terracottapaw dug their gaze into the leather-lined floor.

“I was collecting herbs when a dog came at me,” Terracottapaw muttered, fur prickling. “It chased me up a tree in RippleClan territory. Mousesong scented me. I swear, I tried to get her to run, but…” Their words died out. 

“Why did you leave, Terracottapaw?” Paleseed asked softly. She tried to meet the apprentice’s eyes, belly almost flat to the ground in an effort to look up at Terracottapaw’s downward gaze. “You weren’t there when the patrol found her. Why didn’t you explain yourself?”

“I was scared,” Terracottapaw mumbled. “It was my fault.” The sentence ended quickly as Terracottapaw stopped themself from going too far.

“I believe you,” Paleseed said, “but I think there’s something else happening. Terracotta, why are so many cats sick? Why has Eelstar missed so many Gatherings? Why can’t your mentor meet us?”

“Paleseed,” Waspdawn snapped quietly, ears tilting back. “What did we talk about?”

“I can’t let this go, Wasp,” Paleseed groaned, eyes shifting between Terracottapaw and Waspdawn. “Look how ragged they are! What if StarClan sent us here to help?”

“Another of StarClan’s messages Newtstream would ignore, if what Darkkick told us is true,” Waspdawn grumbled. Terracottapaw lifted their head. They looked out of the den, studying the figures on the other side of camp. They glanced at Waspdawn, shrinking again under his glare. Then they crept up to Paleseed and whispered in her ear.

“You can’t tell anyone else,” Terracottapaw said. “We’ve been cursed. Cats keep freezing, even in summer. Newtstream performs rituals to help us, and cats start to recover, but then they’ll get sick again. Eelstar’s lost a few lives already. We can’t stop it.” The hopeless fear in the apprentice’s voice stilled Paleseed’s breath and froze her paws.

“Cleric Apprentice Terracottapaw.” A thin figure stood in the den entrance. The old burn scars covering his paws were now coated in another layer of fresh wounds; blistering skin, eaten by a chill only he felt. He held his black tail low and, with only a hard gaze, drew Terracottapaw to his side.

“Eelstar,” Paleseed gulped. “Barkfur told us you were occupied.”

“I became unoccupied,” Eelstar growled. Terracottapaw bowed to their leader and crept back and out of the den. “What happened with your codekeeper was a horrible accident, but one that occurred as a result of an apprentice fleeing for their life. Does that satisfy your inquiry?” Paleseed tried to answer, but found her voice die well before she could make a sound.

“It does,” Waspdawn said, nodding deeply to the burnt leader.

“In that case,” Eelstar said, “I’ll have a patrol escort you back to RippleClan.” He stepped to the side so Paleseed and Waspdawn could leave. Paleseed squirmed. She pushed against her brother, who returned the gesture with a comforting lick. Waspdawn nudged Paleseed on. Paleseed slunk past Eelstar. She could only stare at his injured paws. 

Terracottapaw lurked beside one of the dens when Paleseed and Waspdawn emerged. Their eyes dripped with sympathy, but despite the chill that seemed to envelop the camp, Terracottapaw said nothing as Paleseed and Waspdawn left AshClan’s camp.

(Paleseed: 18, female, mediator, insecure, fast runner, steady paws)