#scrubmask

Scrubmask was scheduled for a border patrol at sunhigh, so she went for a walk in the morning. It was now late afternoon, and she had not returned to camp. For most cats, Clammask would have waited a while, wondering what mischief they got up to in their free time that kept them from their duties. But Scrubmask? No. Something was wrong.

Downstar sent out three patrols. Waspdawn led Tempestshade, Mosspounce, and Darkkick south. Weedfoot took Wildclaw, Elmsprout, and Drumpaw into the heart of the territory. Downstar’s patrol, which included Carnationspeckle, Halibutdusk, and shockingly, James, headed for the river. That left Clammask and the rest of her kits to wait in camp, stomachs twisted and claws itching.

“We should have our own patrol looking for Ma!” Leatherpaw snapped as he paced around the apprentice’s den. “Why does Drumpaw get to look for her, but we have to stay home?”

“Because your mentors are still in camp,” Clammask reminded her son. She sat in Drumpaw’s nest, giving her three sons extra company in the dreadful wait.

“Weedfoot’s on patrol,” Splashpaw pointed out, batting at the purple ribbon he chose to keep around his neck after his escapade.

“You’re still in trouble for disappearing, regardless of who you brought to camp,” Clammask huffed with a hard look.

“Hasn’t StarClan said anything, Honeypaw?” Leatherpaw huffed, turning to his lanky brother in the corner of the den. 

“Troutpool hasn’t taught me how to petition StarClan directly yet,” Honeypaw sighed. He laid on his side, tail flicking absent mindedly. “I’d go out if I could be any help, but I don’t think Ma wants us to see whatever problem she’s in.” 

“That’s right,” Clammask said. “Your mother wouldn’t want all four of her kits roaming the forest looking for her.”

“But Drumpaw gets to go,” Splashpaw muttered, getting to his feet and mimicking Leatherpaw’s pacing. 

Clammask gave up trying to steer her sons away from their doomed thinking. Instead she set her head on the edge of Scalepaw’s empty nest and studied the den. She hadn’t been inside the apprentice’s den since she graduated. She thought back to those first two moons, before Halibutdusk, Shadowdrop, and Wildclaw were apprenticed, the nights when it was just Clampaw, Burdockpaw, and Locustpaw, the first born to RippleClan, ready to make history. How many nights did Burdockcreek keep her and Locustseeker up with a new amazing story about the other Clans? How many pranks did Locustseeker scheme over when Clammask wasn’t looking? How different would it have been if Twinekit made it to that den as well? Oilstripe had told Clammask that all three were watching over her during the birth of her kits… were they there now, reminiscing with her?

A tortoiseshell pelt shifted outside the apprentice’s den. Clammask hurried to her paws. Downstar! She slipped around her impatient sons and joined her leader outside. Downstar, Carnationspeckle, and James all lingered near the entrance, exhaustion pulling at their pelts. Where was Halibutdusk?

“You haven’t found Scrubmask?” Clammask asked. Downstar started to say something, but she swallowed hard instead.

“Carnationspeckle,” Downstar muttered quietly to the brown ticked molly (whose fur had finally recovered from all the mats of her imprisonment), “find two cats to fetch the other patrols.” Carnationspeckle nodded, her stance stiff and paws uncertain as they led her to the warrior’s den.

“You’re stopping the search?” Leatherpaw launched out of the apprentice’s den, lips curled. “That’s our mother out there!”

“Leatherpaw,” Clammask growled, heart aching at the fear in her son’s eyes.

“We found your mother, Leatherpaw,” Downstar said softly. Clammask looked back to her leader. The world became just the two of them alone on the sand.

“I don’t…” Clammask gulped. “I don’t understand.” James whined softly and shook his head, retreating to the elder’s den.

“We found her in the river,” Downstar said. Her tail slipped under her. “She was muzzle-first in the water. I don’t know if someone held her under or smashed her head against the rocks–“

“Someone?” Leatherpaw yowled, his long pelt shaking and standing on end like Downstar was about to attack. “You said someone. You, you think a cat did it. You think a cat killed my mother!” Downstar flinched at the words. Splashpaw and Honeypaw stood in quiet horror in the mouth of the apprentice’s den.

The peaceful and content future Clammask imagined with her mate crumbled around her.

(Clammask: 53, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Leatherpaw: 7, male, warrior apprentice, vengeful, avid play-fighter, confident with words)

(Splashpaw: 7, male, historian apprentice, bold, never sits still, lover of art)

(Honeypaw: 7, male, cleric apprentice, daring, has lots of ideas)

(Downstar: 118, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Carnationspeckle: 61, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(James: 135, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

An injured LynxClan warrior limps into camp, begging for sanctuary.

[Image ID: Leatherpaw, Honeypaw, and Trumpetspore watch a brown tabby enter camp. Trumpetspore yowls, “Spirit of Shadow!” Under the brown tabby, it says NEW PLAYER: RAPIDLEAF, 77, FEMALE, LONESOME, PROPHECY INTERPRETER, + CONDITION: WATER IN LUNGS.]

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RippleClan had been through hard times; the war with AshClan, freeing Carnationspeckle… Scrubmask’s death, her murder, it was different. The confusion, grief, and rage that covered the Clan was different than anything Downstar had felt since founding the Clan. Scrubmask’s vigil was as noisy as a Gathering, with everyone arguing and debating what exactly happened to Scrubmask and if anyone could have prevented it. Leatherpaw was outright yowling at Trumpetspore, demanding someone, anyone, go out there and find his mother’s killer. Paleseed had to drag him back. Honeypaw was absorbed in weaving a vine necklace with Rabbitjoy, performing his duty as a cleric with unnatural solemnity. Splashpaw, idly rubbing his ribbon against his shoulder, would not leave his mother’s side. Drumpaw could not leave either cat alone.

Downstar didn’t want to think about Clammask.

When Puddlewhisper and Waspdawn returned from their investigation with Scrubmask’s body, they confirmed the patrol’s suspicions. The death blows matched that of a cat, but they were sloppy, lucky strikes. The river washed away the killer’s scent, and Scrubmask had no clumps of fur in her claws to narrow down the killer’s appearance. Both theorized that it was a Witch Hunter, some disgruntled member of the group who disapproved of the uneasy truce and decided to continue the killing. Yet Honeypaw, with a look in his eyes that screamed of wisdom older than he was, simply shook his head and returned to work.

Downstar couldn’t leave her den. First Fennelspot, her most loyal friend, with her since her first moments, gone in a ridiculous accident. Then Rustshade, her staunch supporter and former mate, taken by an oh so deadly disease. And now Scrubmask, the loyal young warrior who wanted something new. Downstar had only managed to drag herself out of camp with the news of Scrubmask’s disappearance. Now? Now it would take an act of StarClan to get her outside. 

She could not see her friend’s body again. She refused.

There was a place between sleep and consciousness that restored little energy and left the mind in a haze. That was where Downstar laid, quiet in her nest, when there was a shift to the chatter outside. Confused and angry mutters turned into sharp and shocked yowls.

“Spirit of Shadow!” Trumpetspore screeched. Downstar forced herself to her paws, heart pounding.

“Ya need your eyes checked, Ms. Trumpetspore,” Parsley scoffed. “That’s a cat.” Downstar hurried out of her den. Water dripped off short brown fur. Soaked paws caught the sand and left deep pawprints. Bleary cyan eyes bounced unfocused inside a large, gaunt skull. RippleClan hissed and instinctively gathered around Scrubmask’s body, despite there being nothing left of her to protect. Downstar recognized the enemy warrior. How could she not? In the days when she was Downdapple and RippleClan was but a dream, Scrubmask frequently appeared at Gatherings with her cousin, born at the same time as her, closer than cousins almost ever were; Rapidleaf.

Rapidleaf shook and coughed, water spilling out of her mouth. She blindly stumbled on, unaware of the angry cats around her. Honeypaw crept closer as Rapidleaf’s steps grew more and more unsteady. Honeypaw reached a paw out to Rapidleaf. Her eyes dilated, wide as the full moon. Rapidleaf swiped at Honeypaw. Her claws barely missed her eyes. Leatherpaw and Clammask, who suddenly snapped out of her spot beside her mate, grieving, tackled Rapidleaf. She shook and spluttered under their combined weight.

“How did a LynxClan warrior get all the way here?” Drumpaw gulped, sharing a scared glance with Splashpaw. 

“Perhaps she came here with a message from Mistlestar,” Spikecrash hummed, carefully approaching the trapped warrior. Darkkick, however, stood in front of her daughter and shook her head. 

“She’s half-drowned,” Troutpool huffed, weaving through the shocked crowd. “I don’t think she even knows where she is.” Rapidleaf panted hard, wild eyes glaring at Troutpool with a killer’s lust. Clammask shoved Rapidleaf’s face in the sand. Her shaking slowed and her eyes dropped. Leatherpaw froze.

“Mom, did we just kill her?” he gulped, turning to Clammask.

“She’s only unconscious,” Troutpool sighed, gently nudging Leatherpaw off. “StarClan only knows what she’s been through. Honeypaw, we need to bring her into the medicine den.”

“During Scrubmask’s vigil?” Trumpetspore huffed. “Shouldn’t we send her back to her Clan?”

“As though she could make it that far,” Honeypaw snapped, nosing Rapidleaf. Sand coated half her body. Troutpool would usually remind her apprentice to respect his elders, but Troutpool stayed silent and got Rapidleaf onto her back. In the confusion of the moment, Weedfoot slunk up to Downstar. Downstar startled at the sight of her loyal deputy.

“If I need to argue with Troutpool, I can,” Weedfoot muttered. “We can send a patrol to bring her home as soon as Troutpool treats her.”

“I’m not sending someone out to die,” Downstar snapped. She was so loud, nearby Clanmates turned their attention from the drowned newcomer to their angry leader. Weedfoot didn’t flinch at the sudden yowl, however. She kept a cool gaze. 

“The last few moons have hurt,” Weedfoot reminded her leader, “but don’t forget you still have a whole Clan at your side, Downstar.” Weedfoot brushed her tail against Downstar’s shoulder and followed Troutpool and Honeypaw into the medicine den. Downstar stared at her Clan. Her outburst was quickly ignored as her friends and family returned to mourning their first warrior. 

And Downstar? Downstar returned to her den.

(Downstar: 118, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Leatherpaw: 7, male, warrior apprentice, vengeful, avid play-fighter, confident with words)

(Honeypaw: 7, male, cleric apprentice, daring, has lots of ideas)

(Splashpaw: 7, male, historian apprentice, bold, never sits still, lover of art)

(Drumpaw: 7, female, caretaker apprentice, loyal, moss-ball hunter) 

(Trumpetspore: 20, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter, good storyteller)

(Rapidleaf: 77, female, warrior, lonesome, prophecy interpreter)

(Clammask: 53, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Spikecrash: 34, female, mediator, wise, good speaker, lore keeper)

(Darkkick: 119, trans female, warrior, talented swimmer, understands nature)

(Troutpool: 20, female, cleric, insecure, ghost sense

(Weedfoot: 108, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

Lavendertwist heals with a deep scar. He makes sure his collar covers it.

[Image ID: Lavendertwist has a big pink scar across his throat, covered by his black collar. Under him, it says LEVEL UP! GOOD SINGER -> GREAT SINGER, - CONDITION: CLAW WOUND.]

---

“Three—” Lavendertwist began to sing before a cough quickly took over. The sound grew muffled in the hum of the ocean at his paws. His stiff collar acted as a comforting weight against the large scar across his neck. Oh how he had missed his collar over the long season. He didn’t feel like a slab of leather anymore since Troutpool removed those stitches. 

“Three little kits—” Stars damn it! Another awful cough shook through Lavendertwist’s body. He had to get his voice back. He’d explode if he couldn’t talk! The last season of silence had been awful as it was! He slashed at the water with a hiss that made his wound ache.

“There you are!” Elmsprout trotted down the beach, squinting against the morning glow along the water. “From the way you’ve been eyeing the ocean from camp the last few moons, I knew you’d wander out here when you got the chance.” Lavendertwist’s grumpy mood softened as the friend who’d stuck with him throughout his healing journey took a spot beside him (although she refused to touch the salty waves; what a drypaw!). “I told Weedfoot I’d join you for a hunting patrol, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“I’m trying to sing,” Lavendertwist suddenly croaked, the words escaping before he finished his thought. His voice was so ragged! Troutpool insisted it would heal, but the thought of waiting another season to get his voice back made him grit his jaw tight.

“I could use a good song right now,” Elmsprout sighed. “I left AshClan to escape the stress and gloom being the leader’s daughter would bring about, and I didn’t join RippleClan to see everyone chase their tails over Scrubmask and Rapidleaf.” Lavendertwist brushed his paw against his neck, thinking.

“I taught her kits this song,” Lavendertwist said softly, so as to soothe his throat. “She and I weren’t the best mentor and apprentice, but I appreciate everything she did for me back then.”

“From what I know about StarClan,” Elmsprout hummed, “Scrubmask is probably listening now. She’d love to hear your songs, even if she never would have admitted it in life.” Elmsprout giggled as she insulted the dead, and that made Lavendertwist giggle too. He coughed again, swallowing hard. 

“I don’t think I can yet,” he muttered. Elmsprout stared at the blinding light on the ocean, eyes squinting as she thought up a solution.

“I’ll sing it for you?” she said, phrasing it like an uncertain question. “I’m not a good singer, but I can try. What’s the song?” Elmsprout’s gray fur glowed in the ocean’s salty spray, brightened by the simple kindness she likely didn’t realize she was showing.

“Three Little Kits From Camp,” Lavendertwist gulped, blinking wildly.

“I think I know that one,” Elmsprout said. She cleared her throat and sang, “Three little kits from camp are we, pert as a little kit can be, filled to the brim with youthful glee, three little kits from camp.” Elmsprout was right; she was not a good singer. She sounded more like a crow than a songbird.

But Lavendertwist didn’t care. He still loved it.

(Lavendertwist: 25, male, warrior, playful, great singer, good speaker)

(Elmsprout: 26, female, caretaker, charismatic, helpful insight)

Mosspounce and Lemmy really think the Clan doesn’t notice how the pair look at each other? No one is shocked when they announce they are mates.

[Image ID: Mosspounce and Lemmy sit together. Under Mosspounce, it says + MATE: LEMMY. Under Lemmy, it says + MATE: MOSSPOUNCE.]

---

Yellowcough truly was awful. Sure, Lemmy was no longer trapped in a tiny human den filling up with her own sick and waste, she got the Clan’s strange medicine that helped her breathe, and Tempestshade would visit with whatever meal the artisans and caretakers had cooked that day. But she was still alone in the back of a shipwreck while everyone else in her new home tried to figure out who drowned Scrubmask in the river.

This was the sort of task Lemmy excelled at when she was with the Witch Hunters. It was why Madeline had trusted her to become an enforcer, someone who could protect the housecats and strays of the area under a shared leadership and set of rules. At least Puddlewhisper and Waspdawn were acknowledging her shared status as a codekeeper by filling her in on their investigation. If she had gotten to see the scene of the crime, Lemmy was certain she would know if the killer was a Witch Hunter or not. Alas, she would never know.

Couldn’t the clerics cure her already? She was supposed to be starting a life somewhere where she didn’t have to worry about everyone she slept beside turning on her for dreams she couldn’t control (thanks StarClan). She still had a foggy image of RippleClan in her mind. She should get to know her Clanmates!

“Food delivery!” Mosspounce carried a dried fish into the quarantine den, tail high. Lemmy had been finishing the last of her medicine when the black tom arrived. She swallowed the bitter medicine as Mosspounce set her food in front of her. Mosspounce then loafed a tail-length away with a stupidly happy expression on his face.

“You could get sick if you stay in here,” Lemmy pointed out as she bit into the fish.

“Troutpool says you’ll be better in less than a moon,” Mosspounce explained. “You probably aren’t even infectious anymore!”

“And yet I still feel like I’m breathing rocks,” Lemmy scoffed. Mosspounce chuckled, even though Lemmy wasn’t joking. Her pain eased slightly. 

“Well, um…” Mosspounce laughed, settling deeper into the den, “there was something I wanted to ask you.”

“Lemmy, did you finish your medicine?” Honeypaw poked his head into the quarantine den. “Oh, hello Mosspounce. Are you two finally mates now?” Lemmy stopped breathing. Mosspounce laughed again, this time with more strain in his voice as he kept his gaze away from the other cats in the den.

“I, uh,” Mosspounce coughed, “I was, uh… about to ask that. Actually. Thought, uh… since you helped me so much, Lemmy, and you know, left your home for us and all that… maybe we could be mates?” By the crows, the hope in Mosspounce’s face hurt. Why wasn’t Lemmy breathing? If she didn’t like Mosspounce, she would have been able to say so with ease. So why weren’t her words coming to her?

“Alright,” she said, despite herself. Mosspounce’s face glowed.

“Really?” Mosspounce gasped. “Thank you, Lemmy! I promise I’ll make you happy here.” He jumped to his paws and ran to Lemmy, but both Lemmy and Honeypaw hissed at him.

“She’s still sick!” Honeypaw reminded the eager new mate.

“Right, right,” Mosspounce gulped, backing up. His paw slipped on a clump of moss from a forgotten nest and his legs flew out from under him. 

In yet another awfully uncharacteristic moment for Lemmy, the young tortoiseshell laughed.

(Lemmy: 35, female, codekeeper, cold, deep StarClan bond)

(Mosspounce: 20, male, caretaker, adventurous, talented fire-starter)

(Honeypaw: 7, male, cleric apprentice, daring, has lots of ideas)

James can hardly believe how quickly time has passed since Scalepaw was a kit. It feels like just yesterday he was tumbling around the nursery after a moss-ball. Full of pride and joy, James throws his head back and yowls the loudest as his son is named Scaleripple.

[Image ID: Scalepaw, now Scaleripple, stands as a long-furred adult with fully developed vitiligo. Under him, it says LEVEL UP! SCALEPAW -> SCALERIPPLE, AVID PLAY-FIGHTER -> FORMIDABLE FIGHTER.]

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Scaleripple. Scaleripple. The white-speckled tom silently toyed with the new name as the final moments of his vigil crept to an end and dawn held the world tight. Had Downstar named him after the Clan? After his sister? Was the name based on him alone? He didn’t feel like the sign of change the suffix suggested. He felt rather dull, all things considered.

Although the view from the camp entrance did not allow Scaleripple to see the ocean, he could still hear the waves mix with the song of the morning birds. It was the world’s way of saying, “Hello, new warrior. You might be odd, but we are happy to have you.” It may have just been his own thoughts trying to comfort his strange habits, but it was a comfort nevertheless.

“Guess who gets to sleep!” Lavendertwist poked his head out of camp, beaming. His voice had lost some of the hoarseness from losing his stitches, but it wasn’t back to the bright ringing tone Scaleripple was familiar with.

“I’m not that tired,” Scaleripple noted, surprised at himself.

“The exhaustion will come on later,” Lavendertwist promised. “I was the same way after my vigil!” He sat next to his brother. “Just wanted to let you know before you go to sleep, I’m really proud of you! I know it was probably weird to have your brother as your mentor, especially when I couldn’t complete half of your training, but you turned out fine! You’ll be able to handle whatever comes your way.” Scaleripple dipped his head, warmth filling his chest. “Now, I mean it, go sleep! At least see your new nest.” 

Scaleripple’s tail perked up. He’d grown up with his older siblings telling him about when they came off their vigils and found tiny presents in their new nests. Lavendertwist was lucky; he got a small drum so he could make a beat to the artisans’ performances, singing along. What would Scaleripple’s gift be? 

The new warrior stood, muscles sore from sitting through the night. He followed Lavendertwist back into camp and, with a wave of his tail goodbye, entered the giant warrior’s den. Everyone was up and ready to start the day with the sun, leaving the den an empty field of nests. Well, save for one soul.

“Over here, Scaleripple!” Tempestshade chirped from beside the eastern wall. They kneaded the edge of a fresh nest, eyes sparkling. Scaleripple’s tail lifted higher, and he stepped into the den. His paw touched the soft pelts lining the floor. A painful shiver rattled through him. Oh, wonderful. It had taken him moons to grow used to the pelts of the nursery, then of the apprentice’s den, and how he would have to tolerate the pelts lining the warrior’s den. Yet Tempestshade, unlike so many others, noticed this.

“Hop on the other nests,” they suggested. “I won’t tell.” Tempestshade’s chuckle spurred Scaleripple on. He jumped onto Trumpetspore’s nest, then bounded across Elmsprout and Waspdawn’s nests to get to Tempestshade.

“I asked Rattlepelt if I could help her with your graduation gift,” Tempestshade said. “I hope you like it.” Scaleripple looked down. A small rattle sat amongst the moss and down. Scaleripple took it in his jaws and gently shook it. It wasn’t the loud clatter of many rattles, but something softer, like waves.

“I suggested she fill it with sand,” Tempestshade explained. “I know you tend to hide away during meetings and whatnot, the sound gets to be a lot for you. So, when that happens, you can shake your rattle and focus on the soft sound! It’s just like the ocean, isn’t it?” 

Scaleripple almost wanted to cry. He’d never talked about how peaceful the ocean sounded. He wasn’t much for words, after all. Yet Tempestshade knew. They knew, and Scaleripple didn’t have to explain himself.

“It does,” he said very, very softly, placing the rattle between his paws.

“I’m glad you like it!” Tempestshade cheered. They trotted out, but a moment later backed up into the den. “Uh, I’m glad you don’t leave when you’re alone with me. It… means a lot.” Scaleripple cocked his head. Omen or not, Tempestshade was lovely! Why shouldn’t others be alone with them?

“Alright,” he said. He and Tempestshade couldn’t look away for a while. Eventually Tempestshade licked their chest and hurried out. Scaleripple purred softly and curled up around his new rattle.

It was the best graduation gift ever.

(Scaleripple: 12, male, warrior, lonesome, formidable fighter)

(Lavendertwist: 25, male, warrior, playful, great singer, good speaker)

(Tempestshade: 20, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

Deeply depressed over the loss of her old friends, Downstar almost lets herself be taken by humans on a walk, but regains her spirit and fights back. The humans kill her in the struggle. While in StarClan, Fennelspot, Rustshade, and Scrubmask encourage her to push on; she still has many moons left to go.

[Image ID: Downstar faces Fennelspot, Rustshade, and Scrubmask. Under Downstar, it says - CONDITION: GRIEVING, LIVES LEFT: 5.]

(Downstar: 118, female, leader, wise, trusted advisor, very clever)

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

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

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.]

---

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)

Scrubmask was not a showy warrior by any means. She kept to herself and her small circle of friends (Fennelspot and Downstar, to name her closest companions). So for her to invite Clammask on a stroll under the light of the half moon was certainly out of character for her. It felt right to do, however. In Scrubmask’s mind, this was the only way she could ask such an important question.

“Scrubmask, where are you taking me?” Clammask sighed. She watched the thick dark leaves dancing overhead in the soft wind. The hum of bugs acted as a quiet backdrop to the gentle walk. 

“Just wait,” Scrubmask said. She reached her tail to touch Clammask, who walked behind her. That was all Clammask needed to quiet her mind and continue on.

Eventually Scrubmask stopped at the base of a beech tree. The moon poured through the thick leaves. Although the summer had been full of rain, if Scrubmask took a deep breath, she could still smell blood and fear. Clammask gasped softly when she realized where they were.

“This is where we found Mousesong,” Clammask mumbled. She rubbed a paw into the grass. “Why would you bring me here?”

“I’ve been thinking about Mousesong a lot as of late,” Scrubmask admitted. She rubbed against the beech tree’s bark. She sat beside the trunk. “She wasn’t close to many cats, but she was good at her job, and she was learning to trust. I respected her. She could have had a long and joyful life. She could have found a mate and begun a family, something to tie her into the bloodline of the Clans.”

“I wish she told someone where she was going,” Clammask sighed. “I wish we understood why this happened.”

“That’s the nature of the world,” Scrubmask said. “We can all die anytime we leave camp. We don’t even have to leave camp, in some cases.” Scrubmask caught Clammask’s eye, deep blue digging into silver with a level of fear Clammask never saw in her friend’s eyes. “Clammask, I don’t want to leave the world without knowing I started a family. I want descendents in RippleClan. I don’t know if the Clan will remember Mousesong in a few generations. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

“So you want me to help you find a sire.” Clammask guessed. She moved to Scrubmask’s side, placing her bulky tail over Scrubmask’s feathery one. “I would love to help, Scrubmask. You’ll be a good mother.”

“That’s not it,” Scrubmask said, shaking her head. “The idea of being pregnant unnerves me. I want you to find a sire, Clammask. I want you to be my mate.” That deep, intense look poured out of Scrubmask once more.

“I don’t understand,” Clammask muttered breathlessly.

“I believe,” Scrubmask explained, pausing every few words, as though second-guessing herself, “that the two of us would make good mothers. I… want to be your partner in growing our Clan. I don’t want to die without leaving someone else in my stead.” Her paw touched Clammask’s. 

“I really wasn’t expecting this,” Clammask gasped, barely able to speak.

“I want to go out and find a sire you’re comfortable with,” Scrubmask explained. “We’ll check with Fennelspot in a quarter moon and see if you’re pregnant. I’ll take care of your duties when you can’t work anymore.”

“How long have you been thinking about this?” Clammask muttered. Scrubmask’s thoughts slowed and stuttered. An owl hooted somewhere overhead.

“Is it too much?” Scrubmask asked. The fur around her neck fluffed up and her face sunk into it. 

Clammask thought for a moment. She brushed  paw over her slim belly. What would her littermates think of her? She steadied herself, pressing into the cool grass. She wasn’t a codekeeper, she didn’t do well dwelling on things for a while. She needed to choose.

“If you want to find a sire tonight,” Clammask declared, bunting Scrubmask’s shoulder, “then I’m with you. I’ll do this if you’ll do it with me.” Scrubmask leaned into Clammask’s warmth. The two pushed against each other, finding oneness in separation.

(Scrubmask: 67, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Clammask: 44, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

Lavendertwist disappeared for a few days only to return with a collar. He decides to keep it to honor his father.

[Image ID: Lavendertwist reunites with Weedfoot, James, and Paleseed, wearing a black and gold collar. Weedfoot says “Lavender, where have you been?” Lavendertwist replies “Humans caught me, but I found my way home. Look at what they gave me!” Under Lavendertwist, it says + ACCESSORY: BLACK AND GOLD COLLAR.]

(Lavendertwist: 16, male, warrior, playful, good singer, good storyteller)

(Weedfoot: 99, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(James: 126, male, elder, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

She saw him. Oilstripe saw her father, a glimmering ghost standing between the trees, heather blue eyes coldly watching as she ran towards him. Why wouldn’t he visit? Why did he have to so coldly reject his own daughter? Downstar told her she saw Rustshade in StarClan when she lost her life to the humans, a soft comfort to ease an awkward relationship, so why, why would he see Downstar and not Oilstripe? Why was he always a bit too far away for Oilstripe to reach him? He didn’t need to speak! He didn’t need to do anything! He just had to be the quiet, comforting backbone Oilstripe grew up with. She needed her father!

Oilstripe woke up in the earliest moments of the new day with a lump in her throat. The dull embers of the campfire glowed against the edge of the den. Oilstripe’s Clan was still asleep, piled on one another in peaceful dreams. Clammask and Halibutdusk were awake, tucked into the same nest, muttering to one another. Oilstripe and Halibutdusk made eye contact, but Oilstripe quickly looked away, trying to breathe., She crawled out of her nest. She tiptoed around Wildclaw and Rattlepelt, gently tucked under their fox pelt. Oilstripe stepped into the cool, salty night.

Scrubmask’s ghost laid just outside the warrior’s den, startling Oilstripe. The dead warrior did not move, ears still turned to the den. Her eyes passed over Oilstripe and her raised fur. Scrubmask scoffed.

“You’re so distracted by your dream,” she said, “I would bet you didn’t notice your mate was gone.” Oilstripe looked back inside. Sure enough, Carnationspeckle’s spot by Oilstripe’s nest was empty. Oilstripe sniffed. Her mate’s scent was fresh, and still close by. She followed the scent out of camp. 

Carnationspeckle was on guard duty. Her fur drifted in the soft breeze. When she saw Oilstripe, it was like her soul returned to her body, her usual soft glimmer sparking in her eyes once more. Oilstripe curled up beside Carnationspeckle.

“You look tired,” Carnationspeckle whispered.

“I am,” Oilstripe mumbled. “I’m not having good dreams.”

“Have you talked to Paleseed?” 

“She’s been… I don’t know, distracted. Besides, I feel stupid for not knowing how to deal with this. Everyone else is able to grieve. I get to see other spirits all the time, and it might still hurt to know they’re not here anymore, but I can check in on them. My dad… he doesn’t want to see me. He’s making the active decision to not be involved in my life anymore.”

“He wouldn’t be able to see Clammask whether or not he visited. Maybe he wanted to be fair to both of his daughters. Maybe he knew Scrubmask was going to die, and didn’t want to make his own passing any worse for Clammask.” Carnationspeckle whimpered a bit as she said Scrubmask’s name. Oilstripe sat up.

“Life’s been hard for us lately, hasn’t it,” Oilstripe sighed. Carnationspeckle leaned against Oilstripe.

“I don’t like being alone in dens anymore,” Carnationspeckle muttered. “I get nervous, no matter how much I talk myself down. I get nauseous when I eat prey as-is, no matter how well-cooked it is. My mind thinks it’s raw, like it was with the Witch Hunters. I got so sick with them.”

“You haven’t told me that before.” Oilstripe nuzzled Carnationspeckle’s shoulder.

“Spikecrash has been helping me. I didn’t want to give it power by mentioning it to anyone else. I thought it was getting better, and then Scrubmask… do you think it was a Witch Hunter? Do you think we’ll ever know? I’m terrified, Oilstripe. I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“Me neither.” 

Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle buried their faces in one another’s fur, breathing in the other’s warm scent. All Oilstripe could hear was Carnationspeckle’s soft whimpers.  and the breeze in the trees. All they had lost in the past few seasons, friends and family and sleep and normalcy, bit at Oilstripe like a pack of rats. Rustshade was not there, but Oilstripe could feel her father in her heart, his voice springing to life. You’ll lose a lot more before your journey’s done. Find something to fill the space around that void.

“We need a fresh start, Carny,” Oilstripe sniffled, stepping back. “We’ve been chasing one tragedy after another, we need something new.” Her words got stuck in her throat. She forced them out like a cough. “We were trying to get pregnant when you were kidnapped. Let’s try again.” Carnationspeckle stared at Oilstripe like she said the ocean was made of bone broth.

“Now?” Carnationspeckle asked. “I… Oilstripe, I don’t know if we’re in the right place to do that.”

“And I don’t know if we can wait!” Oilstripe groaned. She leaned her head against Carnationspeckle’s head. “Raising Troutpool with you has been incredible. She’s so much like you, clever and caring and good at what she does. I’d like a kit or two like me!”

“Troutpool does have your eyes,” Carnationspeckle pointed out, a bit of laughter breaking through her sorrow and shock.

“She and Rattlepelt are great daughters,” Oilstripe chuckled, mind fuzzy with Carnationspeckle’s scent. “Maybe we can add a son to the pot. We can teach them all about Scrubmask and my dad and, and anyone else we may lose. I want to keep going with you.” Carnationspeckle took a moment. Her breath caught. Her nose touched Oilstripe’s.

“Let’s find a suitor somewhere beside the human settlement,” Carnationspeckle gulped, a sob mixing with her joy. Oilstripe laughed, love pressing against the hole in her life as she pressed against Carnationspeckle.

Yes. This was what they needed. A fresh start.

(Oilstripe: 66, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Halibutdusk: 54, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Scrubmask: 76, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Carnationspeckle: 64, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

Halibutdusk has been a comforting presence in Clammask’s life for as long as she can remember, and with Scrubmask gone, she decides to commit herself to them.

[Image ID: Halibutdusk and Clammask have + MATE: CLAMMASK and + MATE: HALIBUTDUSK written under them respectively.]

---

Clammask’s shifting and muttering woke Halibutdusk up. It had been a dreamless sleep, easy to disturb and hard to return to, which meant the rest of RippleClan was left in their peaceful slumber despite Clammask’s state. Halibutdusk had moved their nest closer to Clammask after Scrubmask’s death, giving them a perfect view of how Clammask’s back leg twitched and the tip of her claws peeked out of her paws. Halibutdusk scooted to the side of Clammask’s nest. They quietly watched their friend’s tremors. Their soft breath stirred Clammask’s whiskers. The golden molly opened her eyes partially, the faint embers outside catching her irises.

“Halibut?” she grumbled, throwing a paw over her muzzle.

“Sorry,” Halibutdusk whispered, giving Clammask room to breathe. “I wanted to check on you. Your dreams seemed cruel.”

“In a way,” Clammask yawned, slowly blinking. She sat up, prompting Halibutdusk to their paws. She hesitated as she spoke. “You’re a warrior, Halibutdusk. Do you ever dream about killing other cats in battle?” Halibutdusk wondered if the truth was appropriate in Clammask’s situation. It was Clammask, though; she would understand.

“Do you remember when my littermates and I snuck out of camp to reclaim territory from AshClan?” they asked.

“Of course I do,” Clammask whispered. “Downstar was so scared when my father brought you home.” Halibutdusk felt younger for a moment, an apprentice once more, wrapped up in Wildclaw and Shadowdrop’s antics, pulling them into their own. Shadowdrop clawed at Halibutdusk’s heart, sticking to them like bitter honey.

“I blinded Heronflank,” Halibutdusk said. “I could have killed him. It was the first serious wound I inflicted on another cat. Outside of a few fights with rogues, I haven’t hurt anyone else like that since. Sometimes, when I’ve had a difficult day, Heronflank sneaks into my dreams, and this time, I don’t just blind him.” Clammask nodded softly. As she did, Halibutdusk noticed Oilstripe on the other side of the den, bright blue eyes wide. They stared at each other for a moment before Oilstripe slipped out of the den. It seemed Clammask wasn’t the only cat having a difficult night.

“So you regret it in your dreams, then,” Clammask muttered. Her shoulders tensed. “Am I wicked for not feeling regret until I wake up?”

“Only the dead can control their dreams,” Halibutdusk reminded her. “Dreams just happen. You can’t be blamed for what your heart does when you’re not in control.”

“Will you judge me if I tell you what I dreamed of?”

“Never.”

“I killed the Witch Hunter that killed Scrubmask.” So it was about Scrubmask. Just not in the way Halibutdusk assumed. Clammask stared at the wall as she spoke. “I know we aren’t sure it was a Witch Hunter, but who else could it have been? I dreamed I drowned them like they drowned her, and I didn’t regret it.”

“I miss her too.” Halibutdusk laid back down, tucking their paws under them. “How are the toms taking her death?”

“They have been asking Rapidleaf for stories of when Scrubmask was an apprentice,” Clammask said. “They don’t have much else to do since three of them are still recovering from that bad rabbit. They’ll be okay. I’m proud of them! They’re strong toms. They have Scrubmask’s spirit.”

“And you?” Halibutdusk wondered. Clammask was not as quick to reply this time around.

“It feels wrong to feel better,” she eventually muttered. “I’m always going to miss her, but I don’t want her death to be something that keeps me down forever. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to be like Downstar when her mood sours.”

“You didn’t offend me,” Halibutdusk promised. “My mother knows it’s hard to be around her when she’s struggling. She doesn’t want to be like that either.”

“I never want to let Scrubmask go,” Clammask gulped, fur bristling, “but I don’t want her to keep me stuck, either. I want to carry her with me and start my life again. I want to grow closer to Oilstripe. I want to see my sons through their apprenticeships. I want to fall in love again!” Nearby warriors stirred slightly at the emotion in Clammask’s voice. Clammask flinched and leaned closer to Halibutdusk. “Is that wrong?”

“Why would it be?” Halibutdusk asked. Clammask’s eyes softened. Her breath grew so slow and soft, Halibutdusk could not see her body move.

“Can we go on a walk together?” Clammask asked. Halibutdusk was about to agree when Clammask quickly muttered, “Not as friends.” Halibutdusk cocked their head. Clammask took a giant breath. “I jumped right into having kits with Scrubmask because she won me over so quickly, and I love her, but I want to see what it feels like to flirt and let a relationship grow like Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle did, or like Weedfoot and James, so if you’re interested we can see what it’s like to look at each other as mates rather than friends.” She panted as she finished her anxious rambling. “Sorry. I… really needed to say that.”

Halibutdusk’s mind was still behind. Mates? Romance? With them? Halibutdusk didn’t consider themself a handsome or even good looking cat; dusky gray fur without any special markings, about as bland as a tabby could look. They had friends, there wasn’t a reason they wouldn’t, but for someone to actually take a romantic interest in them… especially Clammask, of all cats! This gorgeous golden molly who helped all the caretaker apprentices with their chores and helped Halibutdusk tell stories… what else could they say but—

“Where do you want to go?”

(Halibutdusk: 54, nonbinary (they/them), warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Clammask: 56, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Oilstripe: 66, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

Parsley wanders out into the territory. She is later found dead, a peaceful expression on her face. Carnationspeckle is hit hardest.

[Image ID: Carnationspeckle and Oilstripe face Parsley’s ghost.]

---

If RippleClan had not known about Oilstripe’s wonderous ability, they would have called her mad as she yowled at nothing, demanding that Parsley, whose gray-speckled body laid in camp, explain why “in the Dark Forest would you leave camp like that without a word to Carnationspeckle?” Carnationspeckle loved her mate and how fiercely she fought for her, even if a new part of her soul felt empty without the confident former loner in her life. Even though she was sluggish with her recently developed pregnancy, even though she still wasn’t sleeping well, Oilstripe insisted she join Carnationspeckle, Rabbitjoy, and Trumpetspore in burying Parsley beside Scrubmask and Fennelspot. If Oilstripe wasn’t encouraging her, Carnationspeckle wasn’t sure she would have been able to make the journey to the graveyard.

Rabbitjoy had a sense of humor with Parsley’s burial accessory. She found some parsley leaves and wove them into a wrap around the small remnant of her tail. Parsley’s ghost was likely laughing at that. Carnationspeckle could hardly imagine Parsley with her tail, and the wrap would have been painfully tight had she been alive. 

Had she been alive.

Burying Parsley was a quick affair. Her body had been blessed, her memory honored, and all that was left was to put her old, frail form in the dirt. Rabbitjoy and Trumpetspore took up the bear’s share of digging. Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle sat to the side, too tired to contribute. It was just after sunhigh, and it seemed like the sun wanted to treat Parsley’s body like prey on a fire, cooking everyone else with her. They buried her in the shade, all four mollies silently noting that Parsley would have been upset if she was buried in the middle of the hot sunshine.

According to Oilstripe, Parsley agreed with that. The awkward expressions on Rabbitjoy and Trumpetspore’s faces silenced any further ghostly discussion.

“StarClan, that took a while,” Rabbitjoy sighed as she kicked the last of the dirt over Parsley’s body. “Enjoy your rest, Parsley. RippleClan is glad to have met you.”

“I know I have no say in tonight’s meal,” Trumpetspore said, grooming clumps of dirt off her paws, “but I remember Scrubmask telling me how she convinced Parsley to stay in RippleClan. I believe she won her over with some pemmican. Could we make that for the Clan in Parsley’s honor?”

“Mosspounce and Wildclaw are on stove duty tonight,” Rabbitjoy sighed, “but if you mention that idea, they should agree. We just have to check the ingredients. What do you think, Carnationspeckle?”

“I like that,” Carnationspeckle said, a bit of life returning to her voice.

“Let’s head home, then,” Rabbitjoy said, patting Parsley’s grave.

“Actually,” Oilstripe said, nuzzling Carnationspeckle, “we may stay here a while longer.” They would? Carnationspeckle looked back at her mate. Why linger in the loss? Hadn’t they promised each other only half a moon before that they would work to grow around the holes in their spirits? But Oilstripe placed her tail over Carnationspeckle’s, and the brown ticked molly remembered how much she trusted her star-sighted mate.

“If you need to,” Rabbitjoy said. She touched noses with each molly and said, “We’ll be sure to save you both some pemmican. We’ll see you back at camp.” Rabbitjoy flicked her ears at Trumpetspore. The black molly nodded to Oilstripe and Carnationspeckle, then followed Rabbitjoy out of the graveyard, bugs singing them home.

“What are you thinking?” Carnationspeckle asked when Rabbitjoy and Trumpetspore were out of earshot.

“The better question would be, what is Parsley thinking,” Oilstripe awkwardly admitted, laying on her side. Carnationspeckle looked around, as though she expected to develop Oilstripe’s gift and see her tortoiseshell friend standing at her own grave. “It turns out that my little outburst in camp gave her a few things to say to you before Applepelt takes her away.” 

“Applepelt’s here?” Carnationspeckle gasped. “How are they?”

“As silly as usual,” Oilstripe chuckled. She gave a performative gasp and scoffed, “Don’t make that face at me! You know I’m right!” 

Carnationspeckle purred at that. It was hard to picture Applepelt’s brown face and friendly eyes, but knowing she did her best to stay a part of her friends’ lives eased the loss a bit. Truthfully, the more Carnationspeckle embraced Oilstripe’s sight, the weaker death struck her vigil after vigil. In some ways, they weren’t dead at all; they were just across the border, or on a quest, their reunion with Carnationspeckle guaranteed.

“So what’s about to happen?” Carnationspeckle asked, laying next to Oilstripe. 

“I’ll tell you what Parsley says,” Oilstripe explained. Carnationspeckle nodded and closed her eyes. The warmth of the sun acted like a fire on a chilly night. The buzzing bugs quieted the sorrow in her heart and her many questions. “What are you doing?”

“If I don’t close your eyes, I’ll just hear you, not Parsley,” Carnationspeckle explained. Oilstripe hummed and scooted closer to Carnationspeckle. To Carnationspeckle’s ears, it was not Oilstripe that spoke next, but Parsley.

“Hello again, stranger.”

Carnationspeckle couldn’t help it; she gave an undignified, snorting sort of laugh.

“Is that what you think she sounds like?” she laughed, staring at her flushed mate.

“You all need to stop laughing at me, that is an accurate accent!” Oilstripe whined, her whiskers giving away her shared laughter. The bugs almost sounded like Applepelt and Parsley, laughing at Oilstripe’s odd attempt to translate for Carnationspeckle. Carnationspeckle rested her head in the direction of Parsley’s grave and closed her eyes once more, purring.

“Hi, Parsley,” she said.

“I suppose Ms. Oilstripe was right,” Parsley sighed. “Knowing how the Clans work, I probably shouldn’t have just wandered off to die like that. You gotta understand though, Carnationspeckle, some cats… we just wanna be alone in our last moments. You can feel death coming up on you, and you don’t want everyone crying and screeching over you. It’s a natural thing, you know. Most cats are solitary folk. Death, it makes you scared. You feel weak, knowing you can’t protect yourself. Don’t get me wrong, I felt as safe as can be in RippleClan, but it’s not the sort of instinct you can easily ignore.”

“I just wish you went to fetch me, instead,” Carnationspeckle muttered. “You were old enough to be my mother many times over, but ever since you came to RippleClan, I considered you one of my closest friends. Why else would I trust you to watch Troutpool when she was a kit?”

“And I loved that, don’t misunderstand me,” Parsley said. “I wasn’t seeing clearly. Literally, the world looked covered in fog, and my ears felt like they were full of bugs! You try to think logically when you feel like that.”

“But if you had been thinking clearly, would you have let me know? I could have been with you. Wasn’t it lonely, dying outside of camp like that?”

“Oh, it wasn’t so bad. I felt a bit better curled up in a bush like that. It was what I needed. But yes, to answer your question, I would have let you know. I might have still wanted to go out on my own, though.” Carnationspeckle’s body tightened. 

“All I thought when I was with the Witch Hunters was, I don’t want to die away from my family.” She couldn’t help it, she was crying again, shaking despite Oilstripe’s pressure on her side. “I hate thinking you might have felt like that. I don’t want anyone to feel like that.”

“And I didn’t, Carnation. I really didn’t. I know I’ll be the wild old molly in a lot of cats’ memories, and I’m happy with that. Don’t feel bad for me, really. I’m excited to see what your afterlife is all about, what with all the recent noise around death and ghosts we’ve been through. And apparently, I can come visit whenever I’d like, so I’ll be doing that a bit. I’ll be lingering around the nursery once your next litter is born, I can promise you that. Now, I know you can’t feel it, but I’m pressing my nose against your head. Just imagine it for me, alright? And don’t feel too bad for old Parsley. She’s got it under control.” 

A cool nose touched Carnationspeckle. She gasped, eyes flying open, only to find it was Oilstripe’s nose on her head, not Parsley’s. Carnationspeckle leaned into it, purring through her pain.

(Oilstripe: 66, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Carnationspeckle: 64, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Rabbitjoy: 99, female, artisan, charismatic, master weaver)

(Trumpetspore: 23, female, warrior, nervous, excellent potter, good storyteller)

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

(Parsley: 156, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

Paleseed and Darkkick discuss Terracottafoot’s proposition.

[Image ID: Darkkick says to Paleseed, “Why do you think you have to live up to anyone?”]

---

Darkkick did not want to be alone with Tempestshade. The cursed caretaker was an incredible cook and could stir a purr out of even Darkkick’s grumpy old heart with their kit-like antics, but, at no fault of their own, they were still cursed, and Darkkick didn’t trust that she would make it home if she left camp with just Tempestshade at her side. So, when Tempestshade invited her to collect a few fresh herbs for a heart-strengthening stew, Darkkick casually dragged Paleseed with her.

Tempestshade trotted ahead with a basket, leading the pair through the humming mid-morning forest toward their favorite herb patches. They sang under their breath, seemingly happy just to have some company as they hunted down fresh thyme. Darkkick and Paleseed walked beside one another, enjoying the sunshine through the trees and the warm dirt under their paws.

“We don’t need you destroying any of these roots, remember that!” Darkkick called to Tempestshade.

“I know better than to do that!” Tempestshade laughed, spinning around and walking backwards. “Besides, who wants thyme roots in their stew? No thank you!” They spun back the right way and continued their happy trot.

“I don’t think thyme strengthens the heart,” Paleseed whispered to Darkkick.

“Whatever they have planned, it should taste good at least,” Darkkick sighed. Paleseed hummed in agreement. Her tail twitched with unspoken nerves. Her chin drooped and her eyes grew lost in thought. 

“Harvest Moon is less than a moon away,” Paleseed muttered. She glanced Tempestshade’s way, but the young caretaker was too absorbed in their task to hear. “My mom and I spoke with Terracottafoot, and we agreed to help them with the Autumnstar situation.”

“Really?” Darkkick scoffed, unable to stop the ice in her voice. “That Clan was going to let Weedfoot die, and now she wants to help them?”

“You didn’t hear her at the Gathering,” Paleseed huffed, head rising to contest Darkkick’s ire. “She talked to a lot of the AshClan cats there. They’re so apologetic. Whether they were alive back then or not, most of the Clan regrets what they did to my mother and her friends. She won’t let Autumnstar hurt more cats.” Darkkick’s pace slowed. Paleseed sounded more like her namesake than herself for a moment. The summer sun’s glimmer on her pelt reminded Darkkick of Paleshade’s ginger patches.

The moment faded as quick as it came. Paleseed ducked her head once more, her moment of confidence come and gone.

“And you?” Darkkick sighed. “You’re no fighter, Paleseed. I don’t know what StarClan expects you to do in the Dark Forest.”

“I don’t know either,” Paleseed admitted, “but I want to be brave. I want to do my part to make a difference in someone’s life.”

“You do that just fine already,” Darkkick scoffed, stopping altogether. Tempestshade didn’t notice, continuing through the trees without them. Paleseed stood in front of her, confused. “You don’t need to give up your life for a Clan that never wanted you born.”

“Maybe I’m not just doing it for AshClan, then,” Paleseed suddenly snapped, her tail bristling. “Maybe I want to do more than help grieving cats. How am I ever supposed to live up to Paleshade if I can’t do what StarClan asks of me?” Darkkick’s scarred tail pointed down. Her small ears tilted to the sides. 

“Why do you think you have to live up to anyone?” Darkkick growled. “You think you have to be a hero to be important? You think you have to be Paleshade? If you weren’t aware of it, you aren’t Paleshade. You’re your own cat, you can do nothing else with your life and still be as important as she was.” Paleseed’s frustrated warped to shock as her bristling tail slid between her legs. “By the stars, don’t be scared! You think I’m mad at you? I’m just trying to tell you that forcing yourself to live up to what others want of you will just make you miserable. Being a cleric, a tom, an AshClan cat, that was what everyone else wanted for me. My family, Autumnstar, even StarClan! If I don’t have to be those things, what makes you think you have to be Paleshade? Do you think Waspdawn believes he has to live up to a long dead apprentice? Does Lavendertwist have to pretend to be the molly Rabbitjoy fell in love with? You shouldn’t be going on a dangerous quest like this just because it’s what Paleshade would have done!” 

By the end of it all, Darkkick was out of breath. Paleseed’s eyes were huge, staring at the old molly as she panted and tried to smooth her pelt. Paleseed gulped, forcing her tail out from under her. Darkkick sat, the rain-hungry trail exploding in dust and coating her flank.

“Mediators would call that a breakthrough,” Paleseed muttered, slightly out of breath. 

“Well,” Darkkick huffed with a lick of her chest, “it needed to be said.”

“I still want to do it,” Paleseed said. “I promised Terracottafoot I would help. I think you should help too.”

“You think you can convince me?” Darkkick sighed.

“It’s not exactly the sort of reason a mediator should give for something like this…” Paleseed groaned, tail circling overhead as she approached, “but spite. Do it out of spite.”

“Spite,” Darkkick said, monotone.

“Autumnstar hurt you,” Paleseed said, sitting. “It might help you if you got to show him how much you’ve grown since then.” Darkkick thought it over, rolling the word on her tongue. Spite. Spite.

“You should have someone else go with you anyway,” Darkkick conceded. “If I need to go with you—”

“What’s slowing you down?” Tempestshade trotted back down the path, ears tilted down. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Sorry, we got distracted,” Paleseed said, slinking to Tempestshade’s side. “We just… had to talk something through. I think we’re in agreement now.” 

That they were.

(Darkkick: 122, trans female, lonesome, talented swimmer, understands nature)

(Tempestshade: 23, nonbinary (they/them), caretaker, childish, incredible cook)

(Author’s note: the following scenes involve allusions to traumatic childbirth. Please read with caution. All will be revealed in time.)

Palekit and Ripplekit have recovered from heat exhaustion.

[Image ID: Palekit and Ripplekit face each other. Under Palekit, it says - CONDITION: HEAT EXHAUSTION, + NEW SKILL: NEVER SITS STILL. Under Ripplekit, it says - CONDITION: HEAT EXHAUSTION.]

(Palekit: 5, female, kit, impulsive, picky nest builder, never sits still)

(Ripplekit: 5, female, kit, know-it-all, avid play fighter, splashes in puddles)

Wildclaw’s sprain has healed.

[Image ID: Wildclaw follows Shadowdrop, calling “Shadow, where are we going?” Underneath her, it says - CONDITION: DISLOCATED PAW. Waspkit watches from the back. Underneath him, it says + NEW SKILL: EYE FOR DETAILS.]

---

The past Harvest Moons were exciting times for RippleClan. As they got more and more members, their contribution to the holiday grew bigger and better. This year they got to talk about darkhounds, and Wildclaw had every intention on teaching little apprentices how to protect their friends and family from the dangerous beasts. After all, her paw was all better, and Rattlepelt had a great show planned (even though talking to her still hurt a bit, no matter how much Wildclaw ignored it). The problem was, she didn’t account for one thing; guard duty.

“Mom, you know I like guarding camp,” Wildclaw stammered as Downstar checked the baskets and pots the Clan would bring to Harvest Moon, “but on Harvest Moon?”

“We can’t have everyone at the celebration,” Downstar sighed, not looking at her daughter. “Weedfoot needs to be there as deputy, which means we need more paws in camp watching over our kits and injured. Carnationspeckle is still exhausted from birthing Troutkit, she needs all the support she can have while we’re out.”

“Troutkit?” Wildclaw said. “They finally named the little sprout?”

“They picked a name this morning,” Downstar explained. “Carnationspeckle needs good food to build her strength, and you’re a good cook when you’re not itching to patrol.”

“It’ll be lonely with just us here,” Wildclaw huffed.

“Shadowdrop volunteered to stay behind,” Downstar said, finally facing Wildclaw, “and Parsley will be watching Weedfoot’s litter. It won’t be too bad.” Downstar touched her nose to Wildclaw’s forehead. 

Only the tip of the sun glimmered over the ocean’s horizon. All around the mother and daughter duo, the rest of RippleClan prepared to head out for Harvest Moon. Oilstripe helped Fennelspot put on an elaborate tail wrap Rattlepelt made for when Fennelspot needed to flaunt his authority as a cleric. Weedfoot’s kits pestered their parents about what Harvest Moon was like, even though they were old enough to know better. Scrubmask and Clammask shared tongues with Halibutdusk while Rabbitjoy placed a necklace around Rattlepelt’s neck. 

“Everyone carry a load!” Downstar called, slipping a basket around her neck. “We have a lot to bring today.” Downstar patted Wildclaw with her tail and joined Rustshade and Mousesong. Soon the whole Clan was on the move, save for Wildclaw, the silent guardian in the heart of camp.

“I’d be better off keeping them safe at the holiday,” she muttered, rubbing a paw into the sand. Parsley strolled past her and slid between Weedfoot’s kits, all of whom stared out at camp at their slowly vanishing Clanmates.

“You five are old enough to entertain yourselves today,” Parsley said with a twitch of her stub. “I’m sure we can have our own Harvest Moon here if you want.”

“I could tell some stories,” Ripplekit suggested.

“Or we could tell our own!” Lavenderkit suggested, wiggling his flank high. “Let’s be artisans and put on our own show!”

“That sounds fun!” Palekit chirped.

“You four go ahead,” Waspkit huffed, lifting his leg. “I’m going to groom myself. I don’t think putting on a show like this is what a real codekeeper would do.”

“We won’t get to play around like this when we’re apprentices,” Puddlekit whined, nudging his golden brother. “Mom said even Grandfather enjoyed being a kit when he was one! And Dad says you’re just like him.”

“You’re the one they named after him, shouldn’t you be like him?” Waspkit huffed. “Carnationspeckle says Puddlespeckle was a mean old tom. I don’t want to be like him.”

“Then don’t act like a codekeeper and act like a kit!” Palekit huffed. She nibbled Waspkit’s ear, and the bossy kit’s stoic expression broke. He laughed and shoved his sister. He joined the rest of his littermates by the Shiprock, chatting about their show.

“That takes care of that,” Parsley yawned, stretching. “I’m going to share tongues with Carnationspeckle for a while. You and your brother enjoy a quiet camp.” Parsley headed for the nursery. 

As she left, however, Wildclaw realized she didn’t see Shadowdrop anywhere. Curious, Wildclaw peeked into the dirtplace. No Shadowdrop. She checked the warrior’s den. No Shadowdrop. She even checked the medicine den, but unsurprisingly, Shadowdrop wasn’t inside. Where did her brother go? Did he slip off to Harvest Moon? Lately, it felt like Wildclaw could never find the black codekeeper. Did he expect her to guard camp alone?

In a moment of shockingly coincidental timing, Shadowdrop entered camp. He lingered by the entrance, eyeing the empty camp. When he saw Wildclaw, he flicked his tail for her to join him. He was stiff and inched toward the exit with every moment Wildclaw lingered. Wildclaw glanced around her, like she was still a wild apprentice trying to sneak out of camp. The kits were absorbed in their plans, save for Waspkit, who eyed Shadowdrop as the others chattered on. Wildclaw jogged toward Shadowdrop. She barely got close before he started to lead her out of camp. 

“Shadow, where are we going?” Wildclaw whispered, unsure why she chose to whisper. Shadowdrop’s tensed shoulders and stiff movements shut Wildclaw up. Something was happening, something Shadowdrop wanted to wait to discuss. But what?

(Wildclaw: 31, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Downstar: 98, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Parsley: 133, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Ripplekit: 5, female, kit, know-it-all, avid play fighter, splashes in puddles)

(Lavenderkit: 5, male, kit, noisy, likes to sing)

(Palekit: 5, female, kit, impulsive, picky nest builder, never sit still)

(Waspkit: 5, male, kit, bossy, interested in clan history, eye for detail)

(Puddlekit: 5, male, kit, polite, morbid curiosity, oddly observant)

(Shadowdrop: 31, male, codekeeper, sneaky, good teacher, eloquent speaker)

When the Clan returns from Harvest Moon, there are three new kits in camp. Shadowdrop and Wildclaw claim a wild queen gave them up. Shadowdrop has adopted them.

[Image ID: Three black newborn kits sit in moss nests. The kit in the upper left has text under them saying NEW PLAYER: TEMPESTKIT, 0, FEMALE, TROUBLESOME. The kit in the middle says NEW PLAYER: MOSSKIT, 0, MALE, BULLYING. The kit on the right reads NEW PLAYER: TRUMPETKIT, 0, FEMALE, NERVOUS].

---

The deep dark could do nothing to stop the rush of warmth and laughter flowing off the returning RippleClan cats. Clammask was in the thick of it, squished between Rustshade and Downstar as she carried an empty basket home. Everyone’s stories had been excellent. It was a wonderful start to the new season, and there was no Shadowdrop around to glare at Oilstripe.

And now Shadowdrop was back in Clammask’s mind, how wonderful. Why the tom couldn’t let go of a simple crush, Clammask would never understand. If she were leader, she would smack some sense into him. Ever since Carnationspeckle got pregnant, he was barely around, only returning after a long hunt or patrol. Maybe with Troutkit’s birth, Shadowdrop would mellow out. Or maybe he would get worse. Whatever the case, Clammask had her eye on him.

“We’re back!” Downstar called as she led RippleClan into camp. Clammask’s Clanmates pushed past her, yawning and chattering about everything their friends in the other Clans had to say. Parsley sat outside the nursery with Ripplekit, Lavenderkit, and Palekit. Parsley shot up at the Clan’s arrival. 

“Mom, Dad!” Lavenderkit called. Lavenderkit raced toward Weedfoot and James, who pushed into camp with Oilstripe and Halibutdusk. “Mom, Dad, Shadowdrop brought kits home!” Clammask’s feet dug into the sand as she turned to face the excited kit. 

“What was that?” James scoffed, turning his head as though he didn’t hear his son well. Palekit and Ripplekit joined their brother.

“Shadowdrop and Wildclaw came into camp and they had kits!” Lavenderkit said again.

“They’re cute,” Ripplekit noted as though that was the important part of the story. The whole Clan stared at Lavenderkit, the excited conversation dying down as the strange and sudden statement rippled through them.

“Parsley…” Downstar said as the tortoiseshell elder approached.

“We didn’t want to make a scene at Harvest Moon,” Parsley sighed. “It’ll be better if you hear your son’s story.” Downstar hurried past Parsley and to the nursery. Halibutdusk and Clammask ran after her.

The nursery was dark and cool when Clammask stepped inside. Waspkit and Puddlekit watched the shocking scene silently from their nest. Shadowdrop sat next to Carnationspeckle, head tall as his mother and leader entered. Carnationspeckle slowly pulled herself from sleep, shifting to face the crowd. Carnationspeckle had more kits at her belly than she started the day with. Troutkit was sound asleep, tucked into her mother’s fluff, but three black kits squirmed in Carnationspeckle’s embrace. Clammask knew in an instant they belonged to Shadowdrop.

“What did you do?” Clammask hissed.

“Clammask, he doesn’t have to explain himself,” Halibutdusk reminded her, blocking her path to Shadowdrop. “The code protects him.”

“I don’t have anything to hide, Halibut,” Shadowdrop huffed. Downstar crouched beside the three new kits. All three were blind to the world, but Troutkit seemed to sense the presence of her leader and mewed softly.

“Two mollies and a tom,” Downstar muttered. Shadowdrop stood behind Carnationspeckle and studied the three kits.

“Wildclaw and I went hunting,” Shadowdrop said. “We found a molly nursing these three. She was a kittypet whose humans planned to kill her kits. She had been hiding in the forests outside our territory for a few days nursing them, but had to return to her humans. She asked us to take them in.” Clammask’s gray eyes burned like boiling water. These kits were Shadowdrop’s by blood, they looked just like him and his littermates. There was no way under Silverpelt that these kits did not have RippleClan blood. Clammask was certain of it.

“Did she name them?” Downstar asked softly. Clammask’s glare turned on Downstar. Did she really believe Shadowdrop?”

“She asked us to pick names with her,” Shadowdrop explained. He walked back around Carnationspeckle and touched his nose to each kit as he said “Tempestkit… Mosskit… Trumpetkit.” He turned back to Downstar and said, “I want to raise them, Mom. I’ll be their father.” He already was their father, did no one else see it?

“I have the milk for them, luckily,” Carnationspeckle purred. “They’ve latched on well.”

“Thank you, Carnationspeckle,” Shadowdrop sighed. “I couldn’t do this without your help.” He touched his nose to Carnationspeckle’s forehead. Bile crawled up Clammask’s throat.

“Welcome to RippleClan, little ones,” Downstar purred, voice cracking as she licked each small kit. She then groomed her son’s cheek and Shadowdrop leaned into his mother.

“Where’s Wildclaw?” Clammask finally snapped. “I want to hear her side of this story.”

“You know how deeply she sleeps,” Shadowdrop sighed, rolling his eyes. “She probably isn’t aware you’re back at all.” A good excuse to keep the story straight, Clammask thought.

“Clammask, can you leave us?” Downstar asked, finally noticing someone other than her kin. “Let Fennelspot know we have new members of the Clan to care for.” Clammask nodded slowly and backed out of the den. She knew when her words would go unheeded. 

StarClan, what was Shadowdrop doing? Clammask was certain he still liked Carnationspeckle, she could see it in his eyes. So why have kits with someone else? Shouldn’t he be fighting for her attention, like in Rabbitjoy’s stories of the tormented lover in the flames? Why go about it like this?

“Clammask?” Clammask had stopped a few tail-lengths away from the nursery, unable to obey her leader’s request. She turned to find Waspkit standing behind her. He looked more like an apprentice than ever before, searching for answers in Clammask’s eyes.

“What is it?” Clammask asked. Waspkit glanced toward the rest of his family, all focused on Lavenderkit’s retelling of the day’s events.

“When I was younger, and I caught Ripplekit in Downstar’s den,” Waspkit muttered, “I told on her, because Mom said we weren’t allowed in there. My littermates got mad at me and said I was trying to show off to the adults. If I tell you what I saw tonight, will Shadowdrop say I’m messing with something that doesn’t involve me?” 

“Waspkit, there is a difference between trying to get someone in trouble and knowing something bad has happened.” Gray eyes tore into gray eyes as Clammask thought through each word. “If you think Shadowdrop has done something that could hurt someone, it’s important to tell someone you trust so we can help fix it.” Waspkit nodded.

“I saw Shadowdrop and Wildclaw leave camp this morning,” Waspkit whispered into Clammask’s ear. “It didn’t look like a hunting patrol. Shadowdrop looked nervous. And, and the kits look really little, like when Troutkit was just born. They smell weird, too. I don’t think Shadowdrop is telling the truth.”

“I don’t either, Waspkit,” Clammask said. “We’ll keep this to ourselves for now, alright? Try and get some sleep. Thank you for trusting me.” She touched noses with Waspkit. The young tom nodded stiffly and scurried back to the nursery.

Clammask had to do something, and she had to do it soon.

(Clammask: 33, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Downstar: 98, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Lavenderkit: 5, male, kit, noisy, likes to sing)

(James: 115, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

(Ripplekit: 5, female, kit, know-it-all, avid play fighter, splashes in puddles)

(Parsley: 133, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Shadowdrop: 31, male, codekeeper, sneaky, good teacher, eloquent speaker)

(Carnationspeckle: 41, female, caretaker compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Troutkit: 0, female, kit, insecure)

(Tempestkit: 0, female, kit, troublesome)

(Mosskit: 0, male, kit, bullying)

(Trumpetkit: 0, female, kit, nervous)

(Waspkit: 5, male, kit, bossy, interested in clan history, eye for detail)

Scrubmask, Clammask, and Fennelspot go in search of the mother.

[Image ID: Scrubmask, Clammask, and Fennelspot face Froggy, who says “You’re all too late.”]

---

“Scrubmask, you know he’s lying,” Clammask hissed, crouched beside her friend in a quiet corner of camp. Most of RippleClan had retired for the night or continued ooing and awwing at the three new kits in the nursery. Clammask and Scrubmask were largely ignored, which worked in the younger molly’s favor.

“Do I?” Scrubmask sighed, resting her chin between her paws. “All I see is a tom who decided to do the right thing and raise some kits he found.”

“Kits that look just like him,” Clammask groaned.

“If he lied, we can’t ask him,” Scrubmask reminded Clammask, watching her from the corner of her eye. “You know the code.”

“Yes, yes, but there’s something that might trump the code in this situation,” Clammask huffed. “Someone gave birth to those kits, and whether Shadowdrop is telling the truth or not, that someone is in trouble.”

“How so?” Scrubmask sat up.

“If he’s telling the truth, which I know he isn’t,” Clammask huffed, “there’s a kittypet stuck in an awful situation that she has the opportunity to leave, if we find her. If he’s lying, there is a loner or Clan cat or someone out there who has recently given birth and needs help. Carnationspeckle was exhausted giving birth to a single kit. Do you want to imagine what a lone mother could be going through?”

“We could be bringing trouble on these kits’ heads,” Scrubmask sighed. “Your arrival wasn’t that different from theirs.”

“Don’t remind me,” Clammask grumbled. When she learned who her mother was, she couldn’t help but think, what if she had grown up with Sunstrike? What if she had gotten the chance to have two parents rather than one? Would Twinekit and Locustseeker still be alive?

“We’ll be making a big fuss if we try to find the mother,” Scrubmask said. “Are you sure you want to go through with it?”

“If anyone can find her,” Clammask insisted, “it’s you and your nose. You always bring back prey, finding a strange cat shouldn’t be much different. Besides, I think I can get someone else to help.”

And get someone she did. Fennelspot was rightly distracted by the new kits, but he saw all the details Clammask and Waspkit noticed earlier. It didn’t take much to get him to pack a basket with a few medical essentials and follow Clammask and Scrubmask out of camp.

Perhaps it was the leftover gloom of Harvest Moon’s scary stories. Perhaps it was Clammask’s own nagging worry about the story behind those three black kits. Whatever the case, RippleClan territory loomed around her as she and Scrubmask tried to pick up the hours-old trail of the unknown queen.

“Clammask,” Fennelspot gulped as the night pressed on, “there may not be a good trail left to find. It could be lost in old scents. StarClan knows where Shadowdrop and Wildclaw encountered the kits.”

“We can’t go back yet,” Clammask groaned. “Those kits need their mother.”

“All I’m saying is that we may not find her tonight,” Fennelspot pointed out. “It’s been well over half a day since the kits arrived at camp. It’s late, we’re tired, and Scrubmask still hasn’t found a scent.” Fennelspot motioned toward Scrubmask, who had gone ahead of the pair to better find a scent, but the cream and white molly was gone. “Scrubmask?”

“I found something,” Scrubmask called. Clammask and Fennelspot jogged through the thick tree lines and through the scrub. Scrubmask crouched beside a small nook at the base of a fir. Clammask could smell it now; the thick and heavy scent of birth. Carnationspeckle reeked of it for days after her kitting. 

“You scared me for a moment, Scrubmask,” Fennelspot gulped. “I thought a Shadow claimed you! It is still technically Harvest Moon, don’t forget that.”

“I got distracted by the scent,” Scrubmask huffed, sniffing the ground around the tree. “There’s no mistaking this smell.”

“I was right!” Clammask cheered. “The kits are newborn! I knew they weren’t a few days old.”

“Neither of us disagreed,” Scrubmask pointed out. “You may be better off restraining your excitement. This has made things much harder for those kits.” Clammask settled down, clearing the cheer from her throat. 

“The scent heads south,” Fennelspot pointed out.

“The queen could be making camp near our territory!” Clammask jogged along the scent’s trail. “Hurry!” Trying to outpace the fastest cats in RippleClan was a fruitless venture, but Scrubmask and Fennelspot matched Clammask’s speed, hurrying alongside her, tasting the air.

Before long, the southern horse path came into view. A distant monster thundered toward WheatClan territory. The soul-shaking shriek of the poor horse trapped by the monster may have been dulled by distance, but it still made Clammask shiver. A figure shifted in the quiet dark on the other side of the horse path. Their fur was so dark, Clammask couldn’t make out their features in the night.

“Hello?” Clammask called. “We’re from RippleClan. Did you just give birth?” 

“Clammask, careful,” Scrubmask groaned as the younger molly hurried toward the horse path.

“We have your kits,” Clammask yowled, “We can reunite you! We brought our cleric, he can help you recover!” The figure stepped into better view. However, it was not the face of a tired queen, but rather an oh-so-familiar black kittypet.

“Froggy?” Scrubmask huffed, appearing at Clammask’s side. Froggy crept to the edge of the horse path. His paws were coated in dirt.

“You’re all too late,” Froggy growled. “She’s… she’s gone.” A mound of dirt rose up behind Froggy. The old kittypet stumbled back to the mound and laid on top of it. He turned his back to the group, his cheek pressed into the ground.

“I don’t understand,” Clammask muttered, mindlessly approaching the grave. “The trail… we followed it all the way from our territory. How could she get here if she…”

“Clammask,” Fennelspot whispered. He brushed against her and approached Froggy. He sat beside the kittypet and put his tail over Froggy’s back. “What was her name, Froggy?”

“Cinderella,” Froggy grumbled, turning away from the Clan cats. “Her name was Cinderella.”

“How did you know her?”

“She and her sister were born not far from my home. I’ve known her since she was a kit. I wasn’t going to let her waste away by the roadside.”

“That’s very noble of you.” Fennelspot looped around Froggy so he could meet his eyes. “Did you know Cinderella was expecting? Do you know what happened to her?”

“We think we have her kits,” Clammask huffed. “We think Shadowdrop is the father.”

“Shadowdrop?” Froggy’s head shot up. “He… that… that fox-hearted, manipulative…” Froggy shoved himself to his paws and glared at Clammask, sneering as he said, “He was the sire?”

“What do you know?” Scrubmask asked. She stood close to Clammask as Froggy’s fury smoked and sparked before them.

“She wanted to learn Clan skills,” Froggy growled, tail thrashing. “She knows you Clan cats can start fires and cure disease, she wanted to do those things too. She told me a Clan tom said if she had his kits, he would teach her anything she wanted to know. I only found out a few days ago. She wasn’t herself when her labor started. She ran off. Her sister asked me to find her, and when I did… I don’t know what went wrong, but Cinderella was in pain. She was trying to get home, and she only got so far…” Clammask’s fur burned with the same anger flowing through Froggy. 

“Tell us everything you know,” Clammask growled. “If Shadowdrop and Wildclaw left your friend to die, I’ll make sure they’re punished.”

(Clammask: 33, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Scrubmask: 56, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Fennelspot: 96, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

Lavenderpaw was curious about Spike. Why wouldn’t he be? Shadowdrop, who had only recently come back from his punishment for causing one molly’s death, saves the life of another? A molly that most likely knew Cinderella?  Lavenderpaw was no historian, but it was quite the story! Of course he wanted to know more!

Despite that curiosity, Lavenderpaw didn’t get much of a chance to see Spike. Scrubmask loved to keep him busy. StarClan, that warrior was tighter than a leather strap! Every day, it was “Lavenderpaw, here’a why we patrol” and “Lavenderpaw, warriors help where needed”, there was no time for fun! Lavenderpaw’s littermates seemed to enjoy their apprenticeships. Palepaw learned from everyone she could about being a meditator. Wasppaw and Puddlepaw got to have fake arguments and pick apart famous trials of the past. Ripplepaw had a mentor that could interview ghosts! What could Scrubmask do? Snap at Lavenderpaw for humming?

Lucky for Lavenderpaw, his mother was deputy. While Weedfoot was still sick, she could boss cats around again. That’s how Lavenderpaw ended up Fennelspot’s apprentice for the day.

“Bubblemoon and I are some of the only living clerics to have dealt with broken backs,” Fennelspot explained as he darted about the medicine den. “We’ll be talking at the half-moon meeting for a while about Spike’s condition. I need to know that you can handle any sniffles or complaints the Clan may bring up while I’m gone.”

“You’ve given me a lot of medicine to help,” Lavenderpaw said, eyeing the vast assortment of ointments and powders along the walls. “If I have any questions, I can ask Palepaw.”

“And if it’s a true emergency, send Scrubmask to collect me,” Fennelspot reminded him. He placed a small jar into a leather pouch, tightened the twine around it, and slid it around his neck. “Carnationspeckle should be coming in sometime tonight for something to stop her milk. The kits stopped nursing a while ago, but Carnationspeckle’s still producing milk. I have a sage and parsley she needs to add to her next meal, give her the small pouch next to Spike.” Fennelspot and Lavenderpaw glanced Spike’s way. The loner spent most of her days lying quietly in her nest, silently watching visitors or turned to the wall. The latter was true that day.

Lavenderpaw leaned close to Fennelspot and whispered, “Should I do anything with her?”

“Just keep your eye on her and get her anything she needs,” Fennelspot said. “Spike? I’ll be back early in the morning. Lavenderpaw will help you while I’m gone.” Spike shifted her paw, the only sign she heard Fennelspot at all. Fennelspot sighed. He touched noses with Lavenderpaw and trotted out into the chilly winter sunset.

Lavenderpaw examined the den. Being cleric for a day would be fun! Just looking after the Clan, just like he already did. He had to admit, all the medicines were certainly interesting. He trotted up to Carnationspeckle’s prepared bundle and studied each herb and concoction. As his thoughts drifted, he settled on a song.

“Come join claw in paw, brave warriors all,

And rouse your bold hearts at fair liberty’s call;

No tyrannous acts, shall suppress your just claim—”

“Or stain with dishonor the dear Ripple’s name.” Lavenderpaw’s head spun toward Spike.

“You know The Movement’s Call?” Lavenderpaw gasped. Spike grew still. “Don’t go quiet on me! I love The Movement’s Call! How does a loner know that song?” Spike sighed deeply.

“Help me face you,” Spike muttered. Lavenderpaw bolted over. He carefully helped Spike stand on her front paws and, keeping her back straight with the brace, slowly spun her around. Lavenderpaw could smell the infection in Spike’s heavily covered wound. He wondered if Spike could groom herself with her injury. Surely Fennelspot was grooming her. So why was her fur so rough and ragged below her wound?

Lavenderpaw set Spike down with a thud. Lavenderpaw flinched as Spike hissed. 

“Sorry!” Lavenderpaw gulped. “Let me find something for the pain.”

“No, it’s fine,” Spike groaned, waving Lavenderpaw off. “I’ll tell you if it gets worse.”

“How do you know a Clan song?” Lavenderpaw asked, sitting beside the injured loner.

“Because, long ago,” Spike sighed, “my father lived in the Clans.” Lavenderpaw scooted closer. “I don’t know what else you expect from me. He knew the song, so he taught it to me.”

“Who is he?” Lavenderpaw asked. “Is he still alive? What Clan did he come from? Were you coming to join us when the horse trampled you?”

“You’re asking too many questions,” Spike huffed, her body tensing.

“You turned to talk,” Lavenderpaw pointed out. His smugness was as strong as the horse’s blow.

“My father is still alive,” Spike said, rolling her eyes. “He and my mother raised me until I was six moons old, at which point he went back to wandering. He stops by our den a couple times each moon to see how my aunt, mother and I are faring. Were faring. Until my aunt got pregnant and started bringing back all these Clan teachings my father never thought to share with us.”

“Cinderella was your aunt,” Lavenderpaw gasped. “We thought you were related!”

“And now I’m in the Clan that caused her death,” Spike muttered. She placed her head between her paws.

“In our defense, Shadowdrop got Cinderella pregnant. We had nothing to do with it. We helped you, didn’t we? We aren’t so bad.”

“You helped a dead cat. You have many skills in the Clans, but even you and your ancestors can’t fix an infected spine. I don’t get the dignity of dying around my kin, just like Cinderella.”

“You’ll see your parents again. I promise.”

“And who are you to make that promise?” Spike’s cold eyes hardened Lavenderpaw’s resolve.

“The deputy’s son, thank you very much.”

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Lavenderpaw stuck out his tongue. For the first time since he met Spike, the injured loner chirped softly, whiskers twitching in a quiet mirth.

“Oh, when my sisters were sick,” Lavenderpaw explained, “we visited all the time to keep their spirits up. Fennelspot said it helped them recover faster. Maybe if we spend some time together, your infection might go away.”

“I don’t believe that’s how infections work.”

“Please? I want to hear stories from a real loner, someone who knows what life is like out there right now.” Lavenderpaw couldn’t help but wiggle his flank in anticipation. Spike sighed once more, stretching out the breath until Lavenderpaw thought he would explode from the wait.

“What else do you want to know?” Spike groaned.

“Truthfully,” Lavenderpaw chuckled, sitting in a loaf in front of Spike, “I want to continue singing The Movement’s Call with you. You have a good voice!” Spike rolled her eyes, but cleared her throat.

“In freedom we’re born, and in freedom we’ll live;

Our hearts are ready,

Steady, Friends, steady.”

(Lavenderpaw: 8, male, warrior apprentice, bold, likes to sing)

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Spike: 17, female, loner, wise, good speaker, lore keeper)

Scrubmask can’t imagine what her life would look like without Downstar. They both spend time with Mosskit, who has greencough.

[Image ID: Scrubmask and Downstar face Mosskit, who has + CONDITION: GREENCOUGH written under him. Downstar says “Tell us that story you were so excited about, Moss.”]

(Scrubmask: 59, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Mosskit: 3, male, kit, bullying, stares at fire)

Tempestkit disappears from camp as a blizzard begins to pick up. Downstar leads a patrol after the wayward kit.

[Image ID: A patrol marches through the snow. From left to right, the patrol includes Rustshade, Fennelspot, Wasppaw, Mousesong, Puddlepaw, Shadowdrop, and Downstar.]

---

Fennelspot predicted it the day before; a massive blizzard tearing into the territories, cursed by Stormfoots, those twisted Spirits of Shadow born from their namesake in the Dark Forest. Downstar was quick to act and ordered the caretakers to lead preparations around camp. She disappointed Wildclaw, who thought it meant reprieve from kit duty, when Downstar put her in charge of shoring up the nursery. Carnationspeckle worked with the artisans to find the best spot in camp for a bonfire; they would need the warmth. Clammask darted about, making sure everyone had a den to fortify or a job to do in prepping for the storm. Even James got off his lazy flank and helped out.

“If we cook the prey we have into dishes like pemmican,” Downstar muttered, studying the fresh-kill pile, “we can feed the Clan with well-preserved food throughout the storm.”

“Do you suppose it will be a long blizzard?” Weedfoot asked. Her voice was congested, the symptoms of whitecough still clinging to her pelt and slowing her down, but she could largely do her job now.

“That’s what Fennelspot predicted,” Downstar sighed. “He was right about the darkhound, so I assume he’s right about the storm. Wildclaw, where are you going?” Downstar looked over at her daughter, who walked with Trumpetkit and Tempestkit away from the nursery.

“Mom, I’m just escorting them to the dirt place!” Wildclaw groaned. “The nursery’s ready for the snow.”

“Good,” Downstar sighed, nodding as Wildclaw ushered the two black mollies around the shipwreck. 

“You seem more like yourself today,” Weedfoot hummed. “More like you were when we founded RippleClan.”

“I work well in a crisis,” Downstar admitted. A snowflake danced over her whiskers, making her shiver.

“StarClan, the snow’s starting already?” Weedfoot groaned, looking up. “Fennelspot said the storm would start in the morning. It isn’t even sunset yet.”

“Hurry, everyone!” Downstar yowled to the scurrying cats around camp. “We have less time than we thought. Focus on the essentials. Rattlepelt, Rabbitjoy, Carnationspeckle, start cooking and make sure the fires are lit!”

“The apprentice’s den isn’t ready for the snow,” Puddlepaw called, sticking his head out.

“You’re sleeping in the nursery with the elders then,” Downstar barked. “If the snow will be as strong as Fennelspot says, I don’t trust the shipwreck to keep us warm. Weedfoot, get Oilstripe and Mosskit into the warrior’s den.”

A sudden caterwaul caught the Clan’s attention. It came from the dirt place.

“Tempestkit!” Wildclaw yowled. Shadowdrop, who had been bundling leather pelts at the edge of the warrior’s den, bolted past Downstar. Downstar and Weedfoot joined him in the race to the dirtplace.

When the trio turned the corner, Trumpetkit’s tiny teeth were buried in Wildclaw’s leg. The tip of Tempestkit’s tail slipped through the thorns that covered the top of the rocks, keeping the dirtplace separate from the rest of the world. Oilstripe had Trumpetkit by the scruff and finally pulled her off.

“Tempestkit, get back here right now!” Shadowdrop roared. He soared onto the rocky border, but the hole in the thorn wall was only big enough for a kit; Shadowdrop stuck his paw through and frantically waved about, but Downstar could see Tempestkit’s fluffy pelt streaking toward the forest, snowflakes catching on her black fur.

“Trumpetkit, what are you doing?” Oilstripe snapped, throwing Trumpetkit down. “That’s your aunt!” 

“You nearly drew blood!” Wildclaw groaned, licking her back leg.

“Tempestkit wanted to go on an adventure like Aunt Duskkit did when she was our age,” Trumpetkit whined. She sunk into the sand, big golden eyes bouncing between each panicked adult. “She said if I distracted Aunt Wildclaw, she’d bring me back a gift!”

“During a blizzard?” Weedfoot hissed. She looked between Trumpetkit and Tempestkit’s hole in the wall. Shadowdrop continued to frantically claw at the hole, as though if he stretched far enough, he would snatch Tempestkit’s tail. Shadowdrop screamed and jumped off the rocks.

“You’ve been staying in the den next to the dirt place for moons!” Shadowdrop roared at Oilstripe. “Didn’t you see this hole in the wall?”

“I don’t watch cats use the dirt place, Shadowdrop!” Oilstripe hissed. Downstar had enough of it. She raced back into the main clearing, where the Clan was nervously waiting to hear what happened.

“I want all our codekeepers with me, now!” Downstar yowled. “Tempestkit has run off. We need to bring her back before the blizzard grows.”

“Does that include our apprentices?” Rustshade asked as Mousesong shook out her pelt, ready to go. Downstar nodded. Wasppaw and Puddlepaw hurried to their mentors. Wasppaw stood proud beside Mousesong while Puddlepaw rubbed against his father, searching for answers in James’ face.

“Mom, I’m coming with you.” Shadowdrop ran up beside Downstar, leading the rest of the crowd out of the dirt place.

“No,” Downstar huffed. “Trumpetkit and Mosskit need you.”

“I am coming with you!” Shadowdrop snapped. “She is my daughter, it is my responsibility to look after her.” Downstar hesitated. How responsible could Shadowdrop be when his kits came about from such a selfish act? 

“Oh…” Downstar groaned, jaw tense, “Wildclaw, don’t let the other kits out of your sight!” Wildclaw stood to the side with Trumpetkit and Mosskit, who had stumbled out of the quarantine den. Wildclaw pulled them both close. “Fennelspot, with us! The longer we wait, the further she gets!” Downstar’s patrol formed around her as she hurried out of camp. A cold wind ushered them out as the sky above darkened.

Fennelspot and Mousesong beat the patrol to the other side of camp where the dirt place wall gave way and Tempestkit made her escape. Mousesong sniffed the ground and growled. 

“All I smell is the dirt place,” she said, nose curling.

“She ran that way,” Shadowdrop said, pointing his tail toward the forest.

“Tempestkit!” Wasppaw called. “Tempestkit, it’s cold out here! It’s not that exciting!” Another sharp wind blew in Downstar’s face, sending a barrage of snow into her eyes.

“Pray to our ancestors she has the good sense to turn around,” Downstar growled. “Follow her trail.” 

At their leader’s command, the patrol charged into the growing blizzard, calling Tempestkit’s name.

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Weedfoot: 90, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Wildclaw: 34, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Puddlepaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, thoughtful, morbid curiosity, oddly observant)

(Trumpetkit: 3, female, kit, nervous, plays in mud)

(Tempestkit: 3, female, kit, troublesome, loves to eat)

(Oilstripe: 46, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(Shadowdrop: 34, male, warrior, sneaky, good teacher, eloquent speaker)

(Rustshade: 86, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Mousesong: 18, female, codekeeper, loyal, keen eye)

(Wasppaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, strict, interested in clan history, eye for detail)

[Image ID: Shadowdrop, Downstar, and Tempestkit cuddle close as snow falls around them and Downstar says “I will die as many times as I need to keep you both warm.”]

---

Tempestkit shouldn’t have been far. She was still a kit, unfamiliar with the territory. The forest wasn’t thick yet. Tempestkit should have been leaving the scent of the dirt place  in her wake. But as sunset arrived, the snow grew thicker. Downstar’s paws grew numb. And the patrol was no closer to finding Tempestkit than they were when they set off.

Shadowdrop yowled as the thickening blanket of snow under his paws sent him tumbling forward. He smashed his chin against the cold ground. Puddlepaw and Rustshade helped him up. 

“This is ridiculous!” Shadowdrop groaned. “Where could she have gone? How have we not found her yet?”

“It’s the Stormfoots,” Fennelspot gulped. He stared into the harsh blowing snow. “They’re hiding her in their snow. I just know it.”

“They aren’t taking my granddaughter from me,” Downstar hissed. “We keep going. We don’t go home until we find her!”

“The snow’s starting to collect on the ground,” Puddlepaw pointed out. “We’ll start seeing pawprints sooner or later.”

“We don’t even know if we’re still following her,” Mousesong huffed.

“Then we split up,” Rustshade said. He glanced around and added “If you were a kit on an adventure, where might you go?”

“I would go see the river,” Wasppaw said. “I was curious to see it when I was little.”

“You didn’t grow up with stories about your dead mom,” Mousesong grunted. “Wouldn’t you want to see her grave for yourself?”

“Maybe she’s not thinking,” Shadowdrop said, casting a cold eye at Mousesong. “Maybe she just picked a direction and wondered what was out there.”

“Fennelspot, I know what you’re going to say,” Downstar groaned, “but I think we should split up.”

“That is an awful idea!” Fennelspot gasped. “The storm will only get worse. This is the sort of weather that gets cats killed!”

“And my daughter is out there,” Shadowdrop hissed, tail thrashing. “If my mother thinks we should split up, I’m following her.” 

“We don’t know where Tempestkit went,” Downstar reminded the group. “It’s more important to find her and make sure she’s warm than worry about ourselves. This is what we train for.” Wasppaw nodded, gaining a second wind. Mousesong copied her apprentice, tail brushed against his side. 

“Howlingwind, Celestial of snowfall, hear us o Blessed One and repel these Stormfoots from our shores.” Fennelspot squeezed his eyes tight as he prayed.

“Fennelspot, take Wasppaw and Mousesong to the Great Northern River,” Downstar ordered. “Rustshade, Puddlepaw, head south. Shadowdrop and I will continue west.”

“We have to go back to camp when it gets too dark,” Fennelspot huffed. “I mean it, Downstar. We can’t find Tempestkit if we freeze to death.” Downstar stayed silent as the snow tried to tear Fennelspot’s voice away. Shadowdrop curled into himself as he braced against the wind. His eyes met his mother’s. There was a quiet agreement no plea could break.

“Be quick, everyone,” Downstar ordered. “Find her!” Shadowdrop and Downstar joined each other’s side and hurried against the screaming snow. From that moment on, they might as well have been the only cats in the territory.

If the situation wasn’t so dire, Downstar would have thought the storm to be a beautiful thing. Soon the snow would drag the pine branches low and cover the ground in a white blanket that reached Downstar’s chest. But the storm had only been blowing for a short time. When Downstar ran over the snow collecting on the dead grass, she could once again see the grass through her pawprints. The dark trees were dusted rather than smothered. But the lack of thick layers meant nothing when the falling snow tore at Downstar’s eyes. She didn’t feel when her paws hit the ground and her face was ready to fall off. 

Downstar wasn’t sure where they were in the territory. The snowfall turned the world white. Shadowdrop and Downstar scoured each area they found, calling Tempestkit’s name and searching in each little cranny. Sometimes Downstar forgot whether they had searched a certain bush or tree yet and Shadowdrop had to redirect her. She prayed it was her worry clouding her memory and not the freezing fangs of frostbite.

“Pawprints!” Shadowdrop finally shrieked. “I found pawprints!” Downstar had been checking under a large exposed root when Shadowdrop called for her. Sure enough, there was a small trail of kitten sized pawprints emerging from a bush and hiking through the snow.

“Tempestkit!” Downstar yowled, jogging alongside the tracks. Shadowdrop kept his nose to the ground, searching for a scent amidst the churning storm. The wind screamed and knocked Downstar off-balance.  As she steadied her paws, she spotted a large stone jutting out of a gentle slope. A small hole broke through the haze of white that slowly turned black in the coming night. The fading pawprints led straight to it. Downstar shoved Shadowdrop and turned his gaze to the hole.

Downstar and Shadowdrop fought to squeeze inside. From the size of it, the hole may have been a fox den, although if it was, all trace of its creator had vanished. The more concerning feature of the den was the black kitten huddled in the back, shivering so hard Downstar thought she would hurt herself.

“Tempestkit, what were you thinking?” Shadowdrop groaned. He wrapped himself around his daughter. Downstar suddenly realized that between all of Shadowdrop’s new duties and the Clan’s effort to help Tempestkit and her siblings find their place in the Clan, she had never seen him properly curl up with his kits. It seemed natural for him. He’d endured his punishment with dignity, he wanted to be a father. Perhaps Tempestkit noticed that. Perhaps there was more to her misadventure than following in the pawsteps of her long-dead aunt.

“I’m cold,” she whined, pressing into her father’s shoulder. Downstar licked Tempestkit’s fur the wrong way, trying to warm her up. She was so cold, she didn’t feel alive.

“We need to start a fire,” Downstar muttered, glancing out into the storm. The world suddenly turned a deep, unbreakable blue, shifting into dark grays in the snowfall. 

“With what?” Shadowdrop huffed. “Everything is wet. Mom, Tempestkit needs warmth. Come here. Please.” Downstar crawled beside her son and granddaughter. She pressed into both of their dark pelts and tried to pour what little heat remained into them.

“I’m ready to go home now,” Tempestkit muttered into her father’s fur. “I had my fun.”

“I don’t think we can move,” Shadowdrop said. “I… I don’t know where we are.” Downstar pushed her son closer. Shadowdrop nudged Tempestkit between them, giving her the majority of the extra warmth.

“We’ll sleep here tonight,” Downstar sighed. “I’ll keep you both warm.”

“Focus on Tempestkit,” Shadowdrop huffed. “She needs it more.” Downstar wrapped her front paws around Tempestkit, but squirmed closer to her son.

“I will die as many times as I need to keep you both warm,” Downstar promised.

The world screamed her to sleep.

(Shadowdrop: 34, male, warrior, sneaky, good teacher, eloquent speaker)

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Puddlepaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, thoughtful, morbid curiosity, oddly observant)

(Mousesong: 18, female, codekeeper, loyal, keen eye)

(Rustshade: 86, male, codekeeper, sneaky, learner of lore)

(Wasppaw: 8, male, codekeeper apprentice, strict, interested in clan history, eye for detail)

(Tempestkit: 3, female, kit, troublesome, loves to eat)

[Image ID: Fennelspot looks up at smoke in the sky, saying “Everyone, follow the smoke!”]

---

Fennelspot ordered Wasppaw and Mousesong to head back to camp when Wasppaw reported an unshakable chill seeping through his body. Standing beside the freezing river, searching for a missing kit, would only tear apart their skin and hurt them more. They simply had to turn back. Rustshade must have had the same thought, as he and Puddlepaw were already home when Fennelspot’s group returned.

Downstar and Shadowdrop didn’t come home that night.

“Downstar!” Fennelspot yowled, his voice muffled by the thick snow. “Tempestkit!” 

The storm had finally subsided shortly before dawn, leaving the world smothered in snow. As soon as the weather cleared, Weedfoot picked a few well-rested trackers like Scrubmask, Halibutdusk, and Carnationspeckle and sent them back out with Fennelspot to find their missing Clanmates.

“You said they went west?” Carnationspeckle huffed, breath frosting around her as she stood by Fennelspot.

“The storm is over, why aren’t they coming home?” Halibutdusk groaned from his lookout point on a low oak branch. “Shadowdrop! Shadowdrop!” Scrubmask stayed quiet, focused on scenting the air. 

“I’m going ahead,” Fennelspot sighed. “I need to pray. Yowl if you see anything. Downstar’s still alive out there.” That was an indisputable fact. The storm was strong, but not enough to take all of Downstar’s lives. Not yet, at least. Fennelspot had to hide his gaze, however, at the thought of Shadowdrop and Tempestkit. 

The rest of the patrol kept calling out, but Fennelspot found a quiet spot under a pine. The weight of the snow dragged it off the branches, leaving huge, awkward piles around the trunk but bare needles above. The pine sat beside a small opening in the forest canopy, revealing a bright gray sky. Fennelspot closed his eyes. He had to keep his ears sharp. At a time like this, StarClan surely would not stay silent.

A storm within a storm gives the dark a chance to shine. Look to the sky for the call to action.

Fennelspot gasped, eyes fluttering. This was it! The moment of the prophecy! Tempestkit was the storm in the storm! Shadowdrop went to find her, he was the dark. The second half… Fennelspot locked his eyes to the gray clouds. The sky was still.

“I’m looking,” Fennelspot begged softly.

The color of the clouds shifted. A slimmer of darker color slipped into the corner of Fennelspot’s gaze. It rose into the high clouds. The aging cleric realized it wasn’t just another cloud. His eyes could follow the trail back into the trees.

It was a smoke stack.

“The smoke!” Fennelspot yowled. “Everyone, follow the smoke!” He didn’t wait to see if the others head his cry. He ran into the trees, towards where the drifting smoke disappeared. His feet skidded in the fluffy snow and his legs had to push against its weight. As usual, Scrubmask was right behind him.

He saw the fire before he saw Downstar. It was a small fire composed of the barest of essentials. Heavy smoke drifted from the burning branches. Downstar had cleared away the snow around the fire and placed Tempestkit beside the flames. Downstar stared into the fire, unaware of Fennelspot’s arrival.

“Downstar!” Carnationspeckle dove through the snow, snowballs knotting in her leg fur. Downstar snapped out of it as Carnationspeckle wrapped herself around her former mentor. “StarClan, you’re so cold!” Fennelspot focused on Tempestkit. Somehow, the little kit didn’t seem to have frostbite or any major damage from the cold.

“Have you been with her all night?” Fennelspot asked. Downstar nodded softly, her focus returning to the fire.

“Is Shadowdrop still with you?” Scrubmask asked. Downstar did not reply.

“Tempestkit, how do you feel?” Fennelspot asked the young kit.

“Like I’m in a lot of trouble,” Tempestkit gulped.

“We kept her warm,” Downstar muttered. “We kept her warm.” There was a den behind Downstar. Only two sets of paws left the den in the heavy snow.

“Carnationspeckle, care for Tempestkit,” Fennelspot gulped as Halibutdusk finally joined them. 

Fennelspot slipped past Downstar. His nose quivered in the chill. He braced himself and stepped inside. His eyes quickly adjusted to the light. Shadowdrop was still inside. He laid with his back to the exit, curled around cats who were no longer there.

He would not be joining his mother and daughter by the fire.

(Fennelspot: 99, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Carnationspeckle: 44, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Halibutdusk: 34, male, warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Scrubmask: 59, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Tempestkit: 3, female, kit, troublesome, loves to eat)

Halibutdusk is grief-stricken at the loss of his brother.

[Image ID: Halibutdusk faces Downstar and Wildclaw. Under Halibutdusk, it says + CONDITION: GRIEVING. Under Downstar, it says LIVES LEFT: 6.]

---

Halibutdusk couldn’t stop wondering; did his mother lose a life first, or did Shadowdrop growing cold push her over the edge? Who left their body first? Whose death resulted in the others? At least Tempestkit survived. At least he had that vague comfort. 

Downstar called Halibutdusk and Wildclaw into her den while Fennelspot prepared Shadowdrop’s vigil. The trio hadn’t talked much since they brought Shadowdrop’s body back to camp. Wildclaw had been busy reuniting Mosskit and Trumpetkit with their wayward sister, Downstar had to make sure the vigil went according to plan, and Halibutdusk… he couldn’t really think.

When the two surviving littermates entered their mother’s den, Downstar paced around her nest. She showed no signs of the cold that stole one of her lives. Halibutdusk shifted awkwardly as he waited for Downstar to speak. Wildclaw beat him to it.

“This is my fault, right?” Wildclaw huffed. “That’s why you called me in here. I let Tempestkit get out of camp, and Shadowdrop died.”

“No,” Downstar growled, clawing the ground at the very thought. “I will never blame you for this.” Wildclaw was stunned into silence. “I didn’t punish Oilstripe for letting Duskkit sneak out all those moons ago. This is more Tempestkit’s fault than your own, and even she’s realized what she did was wrong.” Halibutdusk distinctly remembered Downstar tearing into Oilstripe for letting her adventurous daughter slip around her, but Halibutdusk didn’t have the heart to bring it up. 

“Then what do we do now?” Wildclaw groaned. 

“There’s nothing to do, Wildclaw,” Downstar sighed. She sat in her nest. “We just mourn. I brought you in here because…” Downstar took a deep breath, closing her eyes and collecting her strength. “There is a chance Shadowdrop… might not make it to StarClan.” Halibutdusk didn’t know his heart could fall any further.

“Why not?” Wildclaw hissed, the fur on the back of her neck prickling. “How do you know?”

“Duskkit greeted me in StarClan when I lost my life,” Downstar explained quietly. “She told me Shadowdrop would be put on trial when he entered StarClan for how he handled the situation with Cinderella.”

“We already put him on trial!” Wildclaw snapped with a thrash of her scarred tail. “He’s already been punished! He’s done so much good, he doesn’t—” Wildclaw stopped herself, jaw tight. “I’m going out. I’ll be back for the vigil.” Downstar let her daughter go, leaving Halibutdusk standing alone before his mother. 

Halibutdusk slowly approached his mother. Downstar scooted over. Halibutdusk slipped into the nest beside her. He pressed into his mother’s side.

“They’ll let him into StarClan,” Halibutdusk gulped. “They have to.”

(Halibutdusk: 34, male, warrior, gloomy, masterful storyteller, clever)

(Downstar: 101, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

Downstar calls for a Clan meeting and declares Mousepaw to be a codekeeper. She is now called Mousesong.

[Image ID: Mousepaw, now Mousesong, faces Rattlepelt. Mousesong says “Thanks, I suppose.” Under Mousesong, it says LEVEL UP! MOUSEPAW -> MOUSESONG, ODDLY OBSERVANT -> KEEN EYE.)

---

Rattlepelt wanted to start a new tradition in the warrior’s den. Rabbitjoy was all for helping her collect the needed materials, so all the pair had to do was wake up early and prepare. It gave Rattlepelt something else to think about other than Shadowdrop.

It wasn’t that Rattlepelt disliked him. He was a fine codekeeper and helped Rattlepelt improve some recipes on occasion. But he was not the right fit for Carnationspeckle. Carnationspeckle was selfless, kind, talented, and understanding. Shadowdrop simply wasn’t. Carnationspeckle assured Rattlepelt that she was just friends with Shadowdrop, and while Rattlepelt believed her mother, she didn’t think Shadowdrop felt the same. That, combined with her sister’s codekeeper ceremony the night before, made it hard for Rattlepelt to sleep. So, she worked.

“I don’t think she’ll like it,” Rabbitjoy muttered as dawn rose. The brown molly plucked down from between her claws. She and Rattlepelt sat outside the warrior’s den. Their Clanmates walked around them

“We might as well see,” Rattlepelt sighed just as the newly named Mousesong entered camp. The name did not fit the way the white molly held her head high and walked through camp without a glance at anyone else. Rattlepelt swallowed hard as Mousesong trudged to the warrior’s den.

“Mousesong!” Rattlepelt called as the newly named codekeeper approached. “Congratulations on your ceremony.”

“Thanks,” Mousesong muttered. “Where can I sleep?”

“That’s what we wanted to show you,” Rabbitjoy explained. She slipped behind Rattlepelt and into the den. She stopped beside Mousesong’s new nest. There was an odd, furry lump sitting in the nest. It was made of mouse pelts, held together with twine. Mousesong pawed the bundle and it squished under the pressure. It fluffed back up when she moved her paw.

“What is this?” Mousesong asked.

“Something we invented,” Rattlepelt chirped. “I tanned some mouse leather and Rabbitjoy tied them together. We stuffed down and moss in between the two. You can lay your head on it, and it’s like resting on someone’s side. I picked mouse pelts since I know you like mice.” Mousesong crawled into her new nest and slowly put her head on the fluff-ball. “I’m hoping we can make little gifts like these for new graduates in the future.”

“Why?” Mousesong huffed, lifting her head.

“Because it shows that we appreciate everything you’ve done,” Rattlepelt insisted. Mousesong eyed both Rattlepelt and Rabbitjoy. Rabbitjoy squirmed under Mousesong’s cold eyes, but Rattlepelt stood firm.

“Thanks, I suppose,” Mousesong muttered. “You didn’t have to do that. Either of you.” She laid back down and said, “I’ll catch something good for you both after I sleep.”

“That’s a promise,” Rattlepelt chirped. “We’ll let you rest. Sweet dreams, Mousesong!” Mousesong stared at her the whole way out of the warrior’s den. Rabbitjoy glanced back a dozen times as she and Rattlepelt made their way to the “artisan’s corner” of camp, where they had their tanning rack and other crafting tools set up.

“I can’t tell if she liked the fluff-ball,” Rabbitjoy sighed. “I’m impressed she didn’t rip into you.”

“She cares, even if she doesn’t admit it,” Rattlepelt said. “I know she does. It scares her, that’s all.”

“You show her more grace than I can,” Rabbitjoy said, shaking her head with a soft chuckle.

“She’s my sister,” Rattlepelt huffed. “Of course I do.”

(Rattlepelt: 18, female, artisan, fierce, leather artist)

(Rabbitjoy: 72, female, artisan, charismatic, master weaver)

(Mousesong: 12, female, codekeeper, loyal, keen eye)

Palekit found a hole in the rocks and, curious as all kits are, stuck her paw inside. The whole camp comes running when she screeches in pain. It seems a snake was living in that hole.

[Image ID: Weedfoot, Fennelspot, and Scrubmask run toward Palekit, who is screaming “Momma!” Under Palekit, it says + NEW SKILL: PICKY NEST BUILDER. + CONDITION: SNAKE BITE,]

---

Palekit’s scream stirred a sleeping fear in Weedfoot that she thought had long since faded.

She had been sharing stew with Fennelspot and Scrubmask, admiring the petals the former now kept tucked into his white patch. Clammask was on nursery duty, and Weedfoot could hear her children’s giggles from the other side of camp. There shouldn’t have been a reason to be on edge. And yet, as Weedfoot dipped her muzzle into the bowl for another sip of soup, a kitten’s wail pierced the peace hovering over camp.

Weedfoot was running before she even processed what she saw. Palekit, whose eyes were shifting to match her father and whose strong legs had been the first of her litter to walk, now cradled one leg close as a slick black snake stuck its head out of a hole in the rocks.

“Momma!” Palekit wept. Fear-scent flooded her tiny body as she stared at the snake. Even with Weedfoot’s head start, Fennelspot was faster. He snatched Palekit by the scruff and dragged her away from the snake. Carnationspeckle had been sharing tongues with Downstar and bolted out of the leader’s den at the little kit’s cry. The young caretaker spotted the snake and pounced. Her fangs sunk into the snake’s neck. She shook the snake wildly and flung it over the rocks and out of camp.

“Palekit, when did you leave the den?” Clammask hurried out of the nursery. Weedfoot’s four other children lingered behind her. Poor Weedfoot’s attention was solely focused on her oldest daughter, who shook as she wailed. 

“Momma’s here, Palekit,” Weedfoot cooed as Fennelspot examined the bite on Palekit’s leg.

“What do you need?” Downstar barked, already running for the medicine den.

“It’s not venomous!” Fennelspot yowled, waving Downstar off. “The bite is not venomous.”

“How do you know?” Scrubmask asked as the rest of RippleClan gathered around Fennelspot and Weedfoot.

“Do you see how the bite wound forms an arch?” Fennelspot explained as Weedfoot groomed Palekit’s head. “That means the snake does not have venom. I believe it was a black ratsnake. They can hurt, but they aren’t deadly.”

“Is she okay?” Downstar huffed, glaring at Fennelspot with more fire in her eyes than Weedfoot had seen in moons.

“She will be,” Fennelspot promised. “We just need to clean the bite and make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“I want my dad,” Palekit cried, burying her little face in her mother’s fur.

“Has anyone seen James today?” Scrubmask called to the crowd.

“He took a walk with Parsley and Rustshade,” Carnationspeckle said, spitting snake blood out of her mouth. “I can find them.”

“Go,” Downstar huffed, nodding. Carnationspeckle looped around the crowd and jogged out of camp.

“I don’t like this,” Palekit moaned.

“I’ll be with you the whole time,” Weedfoot promised, picking Palekit up by the scruff. As she did so, her head swam. She steadied her paws and shoved the dizziness back. She may have still been weak from the difficult birth, but stars-damn it, she was going to carry her daughter to the medicine den.

[Image ID: Waspkit, Lavenderkit, Ripplekit, and Puddlekit hog the screen. Under Ripplekit, it says + NEW SKILLS: AVID PLAY-FIGHTER, SPLASHES IN PUDDLES. Under Puddlekit, it says + NEW SKILL: MORBID CURIOSITY. Under Lavenderkit, it says + NEW SKILL: LOVES TO SING. Under Waspkit, it says + NEW SKILL: INTERESTED IN CLAN HISTORY.]

As Weedfoot and Fennelspot brought Palekit into the medicine den, four pairs of blue-tinted eyes watched them from the nursery. Clammask stood in front of them with her tail running over each of their little backs.

“Did any of you notice Palekit leave the nursery?” Clammask sighed, turning back to the kits.

“She was playing with Puddlekit,” Waspkit immediately said, pointing his tail at his younger brother.

“I didn’t think we had to stay in the nursery,” Puddlekit whined. Without his white blaze and deep blue eyes, he would look just like his injured sister, albeit a bit more pathetic (in Waspkit’s eyes at least).

“Puddlekit is in trouble,” Lavenderkit sang, trotting around Puddlekit. “Puddlekit is in trouble!”

“No he isn’t!” Ripplekit whined, smacking her white-splashed brother’s flank. “It’s no one’s fault!”

“Ripplekit is right,” Clammask added. “This was a bad accident. The snake could have bitten anyone. If anything, I’m to blame for not keeping an eye on your sister.”

“Clammask is in trouble, Clammask is in trouble,” Lavenderkit sang, throwing himself on Clammask’s leg.

“I’m going to sit outside,” Clammask sighed, gently shoving Lavenderkit off. “Keep yourselves entertained, you four.” She stepped off the leather floor and onto the warm sand. She laid across the entrance, trapping the four remaining kits inside the nursery.

“Listen!” Waspkit yowled. He waved his tail wildly to catch his littermates’ attention. “Palekit’s hurt! No more getting hurt, everyone.”

“I promise,” Puddlekit said quietly.

“I’ll do what I want!” Lavenderkit huffed. He launched himself on his front paws, but his headstand attempt proved futile. He tumbled forward and his flank landed right in Waspkit’s face. Waspkit growled and launched into a full assault on his brother. Ripplekit squealed and joined the fight. Puddlekit watched from the sidelines. 

Unbeknownst to any of the small kits, their laughter warmed the frigid air suffocating the camp.

(Weedfoot: 84, female, deputy, charismatic, steady paws, formidable fighter)

(Fennelspot: 92, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)

(Scrubmask: 52, female, warrior, gloomy, fast runner, good hunter)

(Palekit: 1, female, kit, impulsive, picky nest builder)

(Carnationspeckle: 37, female, caretaker, compassionate, fish-like swimmer)

(Clammask: 29, female, caretaker, righteous, lore master, good teacher)

(Downstar: 93, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Waspkit: 1, male, kit, bossy, interested in clan history)

(Puddlekit: 1, male, kit, polite, morbid curiosity)

(Lavenderkit: 1, male, kit, noisy, likes to sing)