#threefoot

It was raining. Hard. It had been for days now. After the fire, the world fell into endless twilight that had yet to fade. You couldn’t see the sun for the storm clouds, and you couldn’t find a dry patch save at the very back of the cave. The chill of stealthy autumn bit the air, and sharp winds set the pelting droplets battering against the bare rocks of the cliff. Puddles gushed over the ground like spilled blood, and turned the dirt into a lake of sullen sludge that grasped hungrily at everything.

Whispers of disaster crackled in the air like lightning. Hawksky was dead—burned, along with Waspwhisker and Duckfur. Their new leader, Foxclaw, lay in the Healer’s den, hovering at the edge of death, terribly wounded yet somehow still fighting for life, battling the infection and fever. She’d always had fire in her, and everyone prayed the rain wouldn’t douse it.

Hisses and glances shot continually to the crevice that led to the Seer’s Cavern; Ratsight hadn’t emerged since the beginning of the rain, and anyone who entered retreated quickly, shaken by nir ceaseless pacing and mutterings of doom and visions burned into the stone walls.

A crash of thunder drowned out the greeting yowl of the Cave-Guard, Squirrelheart. So when the patrol of three spilled into the camp, sodden, muddy, and shivering, every eye snapped to them. Pelts bristled and claws unsheathed for a split-second before the North-Mob recognized their own.

Temporary leader, Successor Beaverleg, sprang down from the Leader’s Leg and stalked towards the ragged group.

“What news?” she demanded. Her normally mellifluous voice cut ragged with stress, and her thick fur bristled as she looked the three up and down.

“Checked the Old Road border,” said Threefoot, Watcher of the North-Mob. “No sign of the fucking East-Mob.”

Murmurs of approval echoed around the camp, all but inaudible thanks to the pounding rain.

“And the South-Mob?”

“Fuck. Thought we’d drown in that shit out there…”

Beaverleg cast a stern glance to Blackbirdthroat, who snapped her jaws shut and huddled closer to Spidernose, muttering under her breath.

“South-Mob?”

Threefoot sat back on xir haunches. “Met Otterfang’s border patrol along the River-Edge. Ducksky chose a new Successor—Lilyclaw.”

Beaverleg blinked thoughtfully, and the rest of the Mob leaned forward in keen interest; Lilyclaw was well-known to them. The yellow tabby was legendary, both for his looks and his fighting skill.

“Any other news?”

Threefoot blinked slowly, flicking his torn ears. “Still raining.”

The Successor huffed, eyes narrowing. “That I can tell. Go rest, clean up. You reek of mud.”

The Watcher huffed, accepting the dismissal. Xe flicked xir dark tail at Blackbirdthroat and Spidernose; the two mollies quickly scrambled off to share tongues together, along with Spidernose’s son, Keeper-Seeker Snakepaw.

Threefoot padded towards the hollows near the camp entrance: places often used for sharing tongues. As xe’d expected, a black shadow lurked there, waiting. The moment the big cat neared it, the shadow sprang forward.

“Have fun out there?” Noeyes pressed up against the Watcher, seemingly unconcerned about getting their pelt muddy.

“About as much fun as licking fox-shit,” said Threefoot, voice placid. Xe flopped down in the biggest hollow and stretched out with a groan. “Lucky you don’t have to patrol.”

The small cat poked Threefoot’s dark face with a paw. “Lucky? No, I’ve got to listen to Ratsight’s mad ramblings and deal with Vultureheart hovering over his kits like they’ll die if he leaves them for a heartbeat!”

The blind Hunter tossed their head in the direction of the nursery-crevice; Threefoot glanced over and saw Hawkbelly had the two kits—Opossumkit and Racoonkit.  Vultureheart lurked nearby, shoulders hunched, head hanging, pale green eyes fixed on his son and daughter. “He did just lose Duckfur,” xe muttered. “And Deerkit, and Mousekit…”

Noeyes huffed, aggressively licking over their not-quite-mate’s face and neck. “At least he still has them.”

Xe huffed, and leaned into the smaller cat, enjoying the feel of their tongue on xir fur.

Somehow, the blind Hunter could talk and lick with hardly any pause of either. “So, what happened out there? Anything good? Blackbirdthroat was spitting about wanting to start a fight—have any trouble? Fuck up any East-Mobbers? Think South-Mob knows who killed Mistface?”

“No trouble, unless you count the storm. Probably why she wanted a fight in the first place. The East-Mobbers weren’t even out. For Mistface—who knows? Lilyclaw’s their new Successor.”

“So I heard.” Noeyes darted a final lick to Threefoot’s cheek, and then squirmed around to get a better angle at cleaning the mud from xir flanks.

“How’s Foxsky?”

“No better no worse. Robintongue had to throw Beaverleg out of the den.”

“Ratsight?”

“Muttering on about ashes and fire and seeing the dead. Nothing new there.”

Threefoot huffed, stretching xir left foreleg out. “Ever feel like our world’s ending?”