#pwarriors

WindClan cats tend to muted colors, with the brightest being the ginger in tortoiseshells. Ginger by itself is unheard of on a cat with pure WindClan blood, and black is only slightly more common. Unique among the Clans is WindClan’s ability to have brown non-tabby cats, as many of their cats either are or carry chocolate. 

There are two choices for a WindClan cat: dilute or chocolate. Gray cats and chocolate cats are very common, but tortoiseshell and lilac are not uncommon. Striped and spotted tabby are rare on WindClan cats. Around 25% of the Clan shows tabby, and those who do are ticked tabby. Other warriors show faint ghost markings. 

White markings are uncommon, less than half the Clan will show them. Bicolors are extremely rare, but show up perhaps once in a generation. Those cats who do show white will generally have minimal markings, often on their paws or belly. While hunting, warriors will muddy these markings to hide them if they must.

ShadowClan cats are always dark. It does not matter if they are ginger, gray, brown, or black, they are nearly always dark. The Clan as a whole tends toward non-dilute colors. Dilute cats are usually toms, and almost always a very dark shade of gray. Mollys are often ginger or tortoiseshell, while ginger toms are rarer.

Tabby is seen slightly more often than solid, and equally spread among genders. All tabbys are spotted tabbys unless outside blood is introduced, and even then a cat will prefer a spotted tabby mate. White spottingis uncommon in ShadowClan, with most cats having none at all. The few who do have minimal white. Bicolors are rare.

Among the Clans, the pointing gene is unique to ShadowClan. This gene is recessive, thus the parents of a kit do not need to display the gene for the kit to have it. The torso of the cat is a shade of cream or ivory, while the true color shows only on it’s legs, face, and tail. 

Rusty attention was caught by the sound of leaves rustling on the forest floor.

He opened his mouth to scent the air, ears pricked as he sought the scent of the little creature crawling through the grass. The brush surrounding him made it impossible for him to see the creature, but it’s behavior also gave it away. It did not know it was being hunted as it scurried among the roots of the great oak, seeking its own food.

Stomach aching, Rusty resisted the urge to rush his hunt. His movements were smooth as he lowered himself into a low crouch. As he eased himself forward, one pawstep at a time, soundless as he moved over the ground, he kept his eyes locked on the place when the mouse’s scent came from. Once he was close enough, he stilled, all four paws on the ground, carefully measuring the distance between himself and the hapless mouse.

Then he launched himself forward.

At the sudden movement, the mouse started. It fled, dove for it’s tunnel just ahead of his claws, but Rusy was faster. He trapped the mouse under his claws and sank his teeth into its neck. The mouse squeaked, squirming in his grasp, and as it did so Rusty’s concentration was broken by a strange rattle. Ears twitching, Rusty looked up from his hunt. Familiar, but just out of reach, the sound only grew louder. While he was distracted, the mouse tore itself from his grip and fled.

A helpless fury rose up in him, and he bounded forward to give chase, only to watch his prey disappear into the roots of the oak tree. Rusty turned back toward the sound, determined to discover what had interrupted his hunt. He ducked into the thick brush, closing his eyes to ward off the brambles, and pressed his way through the bush.

Rusty blinked awake, the light blinding.

Baffled, he sat up. He lay on the soft pillows on the couch, the voices of his housefolk bubbled in the background, and the sound that had woken him emanated from the kitchen. When he turned to look, he found that his housefolk was filling his bowl with the round pellets that they fed him at night.

Rusty shook himself free of the blanket, the bell on his collar ringing obnoxiously, and lept to the floor. He trotted into the stifling kitchen to sniff at the bowl. Above him, the housefolk cooed, but the scent of mouse was still fresh from his dream. He paused at the water the housefolk had set out for him, lapped at it, before turning toward the door flap.The housefolk called after him, and he knew that if he turned back now they would greet him with gentle words. They would caresses his fur and welcome him onto their bed, where he would curl, warm, in the crook of a bent knee.

Rusty did not want warmth and care. He did not want to purr as his housefolk picked him up. He wanted to run and hunt. Without so much as looking back, he ducked through the door flap and ventured into the garden.

Outside, the moon was bright and the rain was beginning to slow. He padded down the tidy garden path, the stones sharp and cold under his paws, to the tall fence that marked the limits of his garden. One of his favorite places to sit was one of the many posts in the fence, placed so he could see into the neighboring gardens as well as into the dense green forest on the other side of his fence.

The gardens were bathed in moonlight, but beyond him the woods were darkened by shadows. Rusty inhaled deeply, the crisp smell of the woods fresh after the rain filtering through the cloying smell of the flowers behind the fence. He shifted slightly, tensing his muscles as he debated leaping down the fence.

“You shouldn’t go in there.” Rusty started, turning to find a familiar black-and-white cat dragging himself up the fence to join him.

“That’s what you always say,” Rusty replied, standing to move closer to the other cat, who dug his claws into the fence as Rusty’s weight caused it to tremble ever so slightly. He carefully turned atop the fence to face him, slipped, and only barely caught himself.

“And I’m right. It’s dangerous!”

“You don’t know that.” Rusty scoffed. “You’ve never been into the woods, Smudge.”

“Henry went into the woods once.” Smudge retorted, flicking his tail uncomfortably. “He said that there were tufts of fur and bones everywhere, left by huge wildcats who eat live rabbits for breakfast and sharpen their claws on old bones”

“He also said he caught a robin.” Rusty pulled his gaze from the forest to his friend, laughing softly. “He’s fat and lazy, I don’t think he’s ever so much as left his garden.”

“Violet said so too.” Smudge continued as if Rusty hadn’t spoken. “She said that the cats in the woods are dangerous. Tigger said he’s even seen them!”

“Tigger’s younger than us, he can barely make it up his fence! And even Violet never lived in the woods. What do they know?”

Smudge scowled, turning his amber eyes to the woods. “You’ve asked every cat in this neighborhood about the woods, even Bella in her house, and they all agree. The cats in the woods are dangerous.”

“Not one cat we spoke to said they’ve seen these forest cats, just that they somehow know they’re dangerous. Why would I believe cats who have never been into the forest?”

“They haven’t been into the forest because it’s dangerous, Rusty! Violet says that the cats in there use the bones of cats to file their claws!”

“File their claws on the bones of cats? They can’t be very large forest cats, then.” Rusty huffed. He peered down at the ground and leapt down in one movement, landing neatly at the base of the fence, bell jingling with every movement. Then he turned to look at Smudge. “Look, I just want to take a look around. Henry made it back, didn’t he?”

The forest was quiet tonight, broken only by the soft sounds of the patrol as they made their way along the border. Tigerclaw’s ears could catch nothing but the gentle meows of the tortoiseshell and tabby conversing a tail-length behind him. At his side, a white warrior lowered his head to scent the ground, but Tigerclaw had already gone still.

He lifted his tail, and the warriors behind him quieted instantly.

For a moment, no one moved. The forest was achingly quiet, the only sound the faint ripple of the dark River beyond the stones turned silver by the half-moon. Tigerclaw tilted his ears, searched for the slightest sound of mice in the undergrowth or birds waking from their sleep or the chirp of insects, and heard nothing. He opened his jaws, scenting the air coming off the River, ruffling through his fur, and was hit with the stink of fish.

The tortoiseshell behind him trotted two quick steps to catch up, his fluffy tail caught by the breeze, and the white warrior began to crouch low. Tail curling around him, he turned to the small tom at his side and spoke in a low tone. Redtail peered through the brush, looking for the cause of the scent, his eyes wide in the moonlight.

And then Tigerclaw’s young, stupid apprentice decided to step through the brush barrier to follow the scent. Before he could hiss at her, a yowl came from the River. Tigerclaw’s hackles went up on instinct. From the water came dark silhouettes, still dripping with water from their swim. With every pawstep, the enemy warriors gained speed, unsheathed claws gleaming in the moonlight. Sandpaw stood alone for a moment; she slithered to the ground in fright. Tigerclaw hissed, dug his claws into the earth, and then forced himself through the thorns to reach the tiny cream cat.

Thorns caught on his pelt, sending lines of fire across his skin. He tore his fur off the thorns just in time to meet the first warrior. The black cat had been aiming for Sandpaw. Tigerclaw used his surprise to bowl him over and dig his claws into the smaller cat’s pelt. A flash of white caught his eye as Whitestorm pelted past him and full battle was joined. Tigerclaw raked his claws across the tom’s muzzle, but the shriek the cat let out was not from that. Tigerclaw released him, surprised, and the warrior scrambled to his paws to flee. It was then that he realized: Sandpaw had caught the warrior’s tail in her teeth and bitten as hard as she could.

“Stay close to me!” Tigerclaw commanded. His apprentice was only barely out of kit-hood, and still painfully thin from leaf-bare. Two of her siblings had died from hunger. In his distraction, he had not noticed the gray tom before him. The warrior slashed at his face. Tigerclaw reared back to retaliate, but his opponent was gone in an instant. Mousefur yowling as she pushed him back toward the River.

Beyond her, Redtail fought two cats at once. Tigerclaw charged toward them, the air a flurry of fur and screams. They had not seen his approach. He knocked the tom off his paws with his momentum. Briefly, they were locked together in a ball of limbs. Tigerclaw screeched in pain when the cinnamon tom’s claws raked across his face. His opponent was large for his Clan, but even so Tigerclaw’s sheer size was enough to keep him on his paws. He pushed past the sharp claws and pinned him to the ground.

“Oakheart.” He hissed, claws drawing blood where they dug into his enemy’s chest. “Was leaf-bare so harsh that RiverClan can no longer feed themselves in their swamp?”

The RiverClan deputy bared his fang, confidence almost alarming. “After tonight, Sunningrocks will belong to RiverClan!”

Fury pulsed through him. Tigerclaw lifted a paw to score his claws across the warrior’s face, but before he could a warning yowl sounded from the shore. He recognized Ravenpaw’s shaking voice before he processed the words.  “More warriors from the River!”

When Tigerclaw turned to look, Oakheart renewed his struggles, but he wasn’t going anywhere with Tigerclaw’s full weight on him. Out of the River came another patrol, four or five more warriors, with a short furred blue molly at the head. The newcomers flung themselves into battle without so much as pausing to shake the water from their fur. During the brief pause, Tigerclaw realized that his heart was pounding in his ears. His wounds were burning. He glared down at the smaller tom, spitting his rage. “You and your warriors do not belong in this forest!”

He bared his fangs, meaning to hurt the RiverClan warrior enough that he would be forced to retreat. Before he could strike, the desperate shriek of a ThunderClan cat pierced through the caterwauling around them. Tigerclaw looked up to see a brown molly flat on her belly. A RiverClan tom stood above her, his pelt red with her blood. As Tigerclaw watched, he lowered his jaws, still dripping with water from his swim, toward her throat.

Tigerclaw hurtled himself across the clearing. The cuts from Oakheart’s claws seared white hot with pain, his muscles ached with stress, but he hooked his claws into the enemy’s pelt and threw him bodily aside. He pressed his square head to the molly’s shoulder and pushed her to her feet. “Mousefur, run! Tell Bluestar!”

She staggered, leaning on him as she panted with exhaustion. Blood from the deep wound on her shoulder was already dripping down her pelt and across the ground. Once she was steady, she hared away. Tigerclaw turned back to the tom. He was too late, for all he saw was a blur of claws and fur before fire spread through his face. On instinct, he rose up to meet the warrior. They battled on their hind legs for a moment, before he overpowered his opponent. Pure adrenaline drove him past thorn-sharp claws to dig his teeth into the other cat’s throat.

The taste of blood spread over his tongue as the smaller warrior thrashed. Then the warrior wailed. His struggles turned from furious to frantic, and Tigerclaw let go. Once free, the tom scrambled toward the River, his blood joining Mousefur’s on the ground.

In the brief pause between cats, Tigerclaw could see that the warriors in both Clans were dwindling. Tigerclaw batted at a particularly small apprentice, and the smaller cat fled from him in fright. He could make out Redtail and Whitestorm nearby. He did not see his apprentice. He was about to go to Redtail when he heard a terrible shriek. Tigerclaw twisted to find Sandpaw abandoning Ravenpaw to rush a warrior twice her size. Tigerclaw charged after her, but her target did not fight. When the warrior pulled away from Sandpaw, Tigerclaw could see the source of his apprentice’s distress: a gray tabby lay lifeless on the forest floor.

“Brindleface!” Redtail had been struggling with a leopard-spotted warrior, but with one movement he threw her off. The deputy forced himself through the battle and rushed toward his mate. Tigerclaw stopped as the deputy darted past him, to see if he would be pursued, but the RiverClan warrior was as surprised as they were.

As he slowed, a shriek sounded from his left. Ravenpaw was backed against a rock by a ginger-and-white warrior. Together with Sandpaw, he had been formidable, but alone he stood no chance against a fully trained warrior. Tigerclaw leapt forward, and slammed a paw over the RiverClan cat’s ears. Ravenpaw slid around the cat’s paws and joined him in the fight. The cat would have had trouble with Tigerclaw alone. With the apprentice behind her she knew she was beaten.

“Sunstream!” The golden spotted molly rushed toward them, and Tigerclaw turned to meet her. Ravenpaw hassled the ginger warrior away from his flank. Claws unsheathed, the molly battered his muzzle, yowling defiance as he knocked her paws aside with one blow. She sprang at him. He fell backward with her. As they tumbled, he brought his hind paws up and kicked upward into her belly with all his strength, feeling a rush of pride as she shrieked in surprise as she was thrown over his head.

In that instant, the air filled with a deep, earth-shaking rumble that made Tigerclaw’s every instinct scream to run. Sunstream fled past him, back toward the water, and Tigerclaw rolled to his paws as the rumble turned into a roar. Ravenpaw wailed. As the earth shook under his paws, he looked up just in time to see two cats fall over the far edge of Sunningrocks: Redtail and Oakheart. Still locked in battle.

                                Patchpelt (top left) - Rosetail (top right)

                           Dustpelt (bottom left) - Ravenpaw (bottom right)

They consider no difference between male and female cats. Both can hunt, fight, and care for kits. Some mollys wouldn’t set foot in the nursery for all the prey in the forest, and some have been known to give birth and almost immediately resume their warrior duties. Some toms love kits above all else and prefer to spend their days in camp caring for the kits. Any gender of cat is capable of caring for the Clan. No one skills set is more important than the others.

Nor do they consider LGBT cats unusual. A cat is free to love whoever they wish once they are a warrior. Surrogate parents are not uncommon in same-sex couples. If the surrogate wishes to be involved they are welcome to, but if they do not wish to be the Clan would consider the kits related to their bio-parent only in the loosest sense.

Likewise, trans cats have but to inform the Clan and immediately all cats consent to their wishes. Once a cat is aware that another cat is trans, they would not even consider misgendering the trans cat, it would not even cross their mind, even if the two are long-time enemies.

Blind, deaf, or mute cats are treated respectfully. As cats use body language and words to communicate, adaption is quick and efficient. This is a Clan, they survive by supporting each other. Around blind cats, the Clan will speak more rather than relying on body language, while with deaf cats they’ll rely on body language to communicate. Cats with injured limbs or wounds are nursed back to health by the Clan. Few injuries are so serious to prevent a cat from being a warrior.

For cats with mental illness, they are supported by their friends. Any cat may hold a private audience with a medicine cat at any time. The medicine cat would never reveal what they had been told without good reason, and doing otherwise would be a serious crime. A Clan does whatever it must to protect its members.

To be clear: kits don’t need this explained to them. This is just how cats are. All cats. Cats don’t judge.

However the Clans do discriminate based on lifestyle choices.

The Clans dislike one another, not on an individual level but in general. It’s commonly said - and somewhat true that a cat of one Clan could not manage life in another Clan. WindClan mocks RiverClan. ThunderClan distrusts ShadowClan. They have unique identities as groups which both hold them together and apart. But there is no one Clan at the bottom of this. The Clans regard the other Clans in more or less the same way. WindClan may call RiverClan fish-eaters but in the same breath they speak of ShadowClan and frogs.

ThunderClan cats tend strongly toward black, and it’s dilute gray, as a base color. Tortoiseshells are uncommon, but not rare. A few cats also display the Clan-specific shade amber. Ginger or cream alone are very rare.

Tabby is extremely common in ThunderClan, with around 75% of the Clan displaying it at any given time. Mackerel tabby is the most common, while spotted tabby is rare, but not unheard of. As a rule, ThunderClan toms are nearly always non-dilute, with a dilute tom appearing perhaps once in a generation. The likelihood for tabby cats combined with the likelihood for black toms had lead to ThunderClan being well known for it’s brown tabby toms. Non-tabby black cats are rare. Interestingly, mollys tend to go the opposite way, with most of them being dilutes.

Around half of the Clan displays some white, but only a rare few will be bicolors. Those who do display white will most often show it on their chests or feet. Solid white cats are extremely uncommon.

Amber is a mutation unique to ThunderClan. This gene is recessive, and will occasionally pop up in kits. It’s considered a sign of good luck when a kit with this coloration is born to two non-amber parents. Amber causes black pigment to be restricted, leaving behind a reddish cat. These cats are born looking like any other kitten, but around three moons a patch of amber forms on their back. Eventually it covers the entire cat. All amber cats appear tabby.