Post by Egotistic on Sept 14, 2019 1:46:02 GMT -6
Ratwhisker
THISTLECLAN
a lanky, shorthaired tom with black mackerel tabby-and-white fur and green eyes
medicine cat
Tom
31 moons
Appearance
When it comes to appearance, gangly doesn’t even begin to describe Ratwhisker. He’s scrawny—in part the result of his poor appetite and his natural physique—with long, rangy limbs that, when juxtaposed with his already characteristic lankiness, give off the impression of an apprentice not yet grown into their legs than a cat fully grown. In addition to his long limbs and runner’s physique, he is also equipped with a tail that is equally long—tapering to a thin, almost rat-like point. It is with these tools that he made himself into the notorious hunter he was known as as an apprentice, himself being more than capable of weaving in and out of the brush in close pursuit of prey. And yet, though he is gifted in terms of speed, he can sparsely hold his own in a fight. Himself being so small and fragile, he was never cut out for acts of brute strength, and being better equipped for flight rather than fight, has no issue with leaving such pursuits to the more physically able. It is this shameless cowardice that has spared him the typical markings of a warrior, and to this day the only scar worth noting is a deep, v-shaped nick in his ear—a token from his youth. But it is not only in this way that he is underwhelming—in coloration, too, there is also nothing much worth noting. Cloaked in drab browns and whites, his angular features are hugged by a pelt of mostly white blotted by sections of black mackerel tabby fur. As plain in color as he is in name.
Personality
Ratwhisker always had the potential to be a talented cat—and perhaps he would’ve been had the circumstances been different… had the events leading up to his brother’s death never occurred. But, unfortunately, very little remains of his former self, and while he is intelligent and almost always well-meaning (he is far from the sort of cat that would ever think of plotting something nefarious to get his way), he has grown far too soft and kind-hearted to ever even hope to be half the warrior his mother intended him to be.
Now there is nothing left but an almost neurotic nervousness—a submissive nature further accentuated by his awkwardness and tendency to jump and startle at the slightest provocation. In this way, he is not one ot seek out conflict willing, nor is he one to ruffle pelts intentionally. Instead, he is a pacifist, and despite how often he may be on the receiving end of a hurtful comment or snide remark, he still manages to maintain a certain idealism about him, even when the world seems to spit in his face at every turn. This, paired with an almost natural affinity for empathy has made him into a cat that, when gotten close to, displays an unfaltering devotion. Had these traits been allowed to flourish and grow uninhibited, they may have made him into a fine warrior, indeed.
But, of course, nothing is ever that easy, nor is it that simple.
What good qualities Ratwhisker may have are all but strangled by tendencies that only succeed at muting his abilities. He spends so much time digging into him and scrutinizing ever mistake he makes that spares little time to do good and feel good about himself. Coupled with his nervous tendencies, not only does he worry incessantly about himself and how others perceive him, but also about other irrelevancies—things so small and minute not even a mouse could find it in itself to worry about them. But still he does, a habit bordering on paranoia that has only led him to grow ever more reclusive and reserved around his peers.
Even so—when he isn’t worrying about a moon-old mistake or fretting over one thing or another—Ratwhisker does everything in his power to perform to the best of his abilities and strives to do that which he views as right, and should anyone require aid, he would do everything in his power to ensure they received all that they need. After all, it’s what Martenpaw would've done, or, at least, so he tells himself.
Now there is nothing left but an almost neurotic nervousness—a submissive nature further accentuated by his awkwardness and tendency to jump and startle at the slightest provocation. In this way, he is not one ot seek out conflict willing, nor is he one to ruffle pelts intentionally. Instead, he is a pacifist, and despite how often he may be on the receiving end of a hurtful comment or snide remark, he still manages to maintain a certain idealism about him, even when the world seems to spit in his face at every turn. This, paired with an almost natural affinity for empathy has made him into a cat that, when gotten close to, displays an unfaltering devotion. Had these traits been allowed to flourish and grow uninhibited, they may have made him into a fine warrior, indeed.
But, of course, nothing is ever that easy, nor is it that simple.
What good qualities Ratwhisker may have are all but strangled by tendencies that only succeed at muting his abilities. He spends so much time digging into him and scrutinizing ever mistake he makes that spares little time to do good and feel good about himself. Coupled with his nervous tendencies, not only does he worry incessantly about himself and how others perceive him, but also about other irrelevancies—things so small and minute not even a mouse could find it in itself to worry about them. But still he does, a habit bordering on paranoia that has only led him to grow ever more reclusive and reserved around his peers.
Even so—when he isn’t worrying about a moon-old mistake or fretting over one thing or another—Ratwhisker does everything in his power to perform to the best of his abilities and strives to do that which he views as right, and should anyone require aid, he would do everything in his power to ensure they received all that they need. After all, it’s what Martenpaw would've done, or, at least, so he tells himself.
History
From birth, Ratwhisker was nothing if not underhwhelming. He was the smallest in the litter, the sickliest, and when the time came for him and his brother to open their eyes, he, naturally, was the last in doing so. To his mother and father, both well-respected and veritable warrior in their own right, he hardly met their expectations, even then—and in the moons to come, he never would.
Unlike his brother.
Firstborn in the litter, Martenkit showed all signs of meeting the expectations of their parents. He was large and thick-set, with a body naturally built for physical strength; in comparison, Ratkit hardly looked as if he’d come from the same litter standing alongside him. He was so small—almost runt-like in size—and incredibly frail, himself coming into the world with only a feeble mew to announce his arrival into the world while his brother’s wails nearly shook the den upon his conception. His parents thought that alone a sign that he would die in the night, and though they were wrong in believing so, his mother would always comment that perhaps it would have been better if he had. And maybe she was right, but by some StarClan-given miracle he remained. Through the sickness and bed-ridden days, he remained—still weak and mewling, but alive nonetheless.
And so, he grew and grew alongside his brother—never quite matching him in size, but growing even still. In that time, between the awkward growth-spurts and drowsy days spent listening to elders tales, their mother quickly set to work in shaping them into the warriors she so desperately wished them to be.
It was during that time that Ratkit first grew aware of the difference between himself and his brother. Praise of which he was often denied came so easily to his brother, whereas he was offered only the sharp ridicule of his mother. Still he recalls how quickly his brother took to their mother’s teachings, how well he performed and how eagerly he sought to please her further. In every way he was the better son, and so what did Ratkit do? Well, nothing. Almost as quickly as he started he gave up, himself quickly coming to accept the hard truth that he could do nothing right, and even the things he could, never as well as his brother seemed able to. Instead, he merely strove to survive the turbulent kithood his mother had thrust them into, where ever day she filled their time with orchestrated ‘games’ that were less play and more competitions to see which of them was more deserving of her hard-earned approval.
Invariably he was being pitted against his brother, whose stronger build and frame made quick work of him, and when he didn’t, Ratkit always knew it was only because his brother allowed him to win. It was in a particularly fierce spat that his brother even went so far as to leave him with his rat ear torn and ragged, and ever since that occasion—in which Martenpaw was praised, not scolded for his belligerence—Ratkit came to fully accept his inferiority. And so, when the time finally arrived for the two brothers to ascend into their apprentice training, while Martenpaw was more than ready to pursue his new life, Ratpaw entered it nervously and fearfully.
But even as apprentices, they were not entirely free of their mother’s influence. Doing well in ensuring both of her sons were provided only the best mentors, when their training began and Ratpaw was met with his own, a time-hardened and surly individual, he felt nothing but a cold sense of dread for the moons ahead.
In training, Ratpaw was hard-pressed to live up to the expectations of not only his mother, but his mentor as well. He couldn’t fight, and though he was a natural when it came to running down prey, he grew so nervous outside of camp that even a mouse could stir a panic in him. But still, he tried… and, not to his or his mother’s own surprise, failed. Always so focused on ridiculing himself and his failures, he grew so occupied with belittling himself that he left very little room for improvement, and it did not take long for even his mentor, the very cat entrusted in honing him into a warrior, all but gave up on him as well. No longer did they push him towards perfection and settled instead for mediocrity, a change somehow even more terrible than the unrealistic standards formerly pressed upon him.
And so, while Martenpaw excelled in his own training, Ratpaw only just scraped by, becoming the butt of every joke imaginable amongst his denmates, lighthearted and scornful alike.
But life was not all bad for Ratpaw then. When he wasn’t training, Martenpaw was a constant in his own life. No longer held down by their mother’s scrutiny and interference, the two were allowed to grow close as they had never been able to during their younger moons. Always, Martenpaw was looking out for much, and while even then his brother was never outwardly fond of him, he always seemed to be there, providing him company and sheltering him whenever thing grew too overbearing. In those moons, Ratpaw grew to rely on his brother more heavily than he ever had before, finding comfort in his presence and even going so far as to look up to him, something he had never consciously done before. It is in part thanks to his brother’s influence that he drove himself to do better. Even when his mentor had all but lost hope in improving him, he forced himself to strive for the same goals his brother aimed for… after all, it’s what Martenpaw would’ve done, or so he told himself whenever things grew too difficult. It was that thought alone that kept him going throughout the rest of his apprenticeship, and though he never quite matched Martenpaw insofar as performance, even his mother was forced to admit he no longer wallowed as he once did, and that was improvement enough.
But, unfortunately, it could not last forever.
Shortly before their warrior ceremonies had arrived—something Ratpaw dreaded more and more with each passing day—a hunting patrol between the two brother’s turned deadly.
It was something neither of them could’ve anticipated, and yet, still, it happened.
On a particularly sunny evening it happened: while venturing deeper into ThistleClan hunting grounds their path was blocked by a stinking, bristling fox. So big was it Ratpaw could do nothing but stare in dumb awe, his paws frozen to the ground as he anticipated what seemed to him an inevitable death. But when the fox lunged forwards, slavering jaws parted wide to close around his neck, it was interrupted by a brown-and-white blur. Then Martenpaw was there. Hissing and spitting, he clung to the fox’s head, doing everything in his power to avoid its snapping jaws as he yowled for Ratpaw to run and get help.
What happened then Ratpaw can only vaguely remember. He remembers running, of course, and the sound of Martenpaw’s voice… the feeling of his paws as they drummed against the earth and his determination to get help. But then, help never came… or, at least, when it did, it came too late; by the time a patrol finally showed up, Martenpaw was long dead.
He would never forget the day his brother died, nor did he forget the looks on his parents’ face when they heard the news—how they then twisted it and turned the blame upon him, claiming he’d run the second the fox had shown up. A true warrior would have stayed and fought, they said, not run like a coward. But Ratpaw knew, just as they did, that he was no true warrior; the only one deserving of that title was Martenpaw, and he would never be a warrior now.
Though Ratpaw was sure that it had been Martenpaw’s wish for him to flee, guilt still fell heavily upon him each day, and slowly he began to believe his parents words. A real warrior would have saved Martenpaw, and he wasn’t that… and yet, when his time came to receive his warrior name—Ratwhisker, a lackluster name for a lackluster cat—he could not find the courage even then to deny his right of passage.
And so, he became a warrior, although begrudgingly, and carried out the rest of his days haunted by the memory of his brother’s death and the guilt that plagued him. So miserable did he become then that when the cold moons arrived and the forest was steeped in snow, he could no longer find it in himself to eat. It seemed a cruel thing to him, to scarf down food Martenpaw would no longer have the luxury of tasting, and so he found he could no longer stomach it and steadily grew thinner and weaker with each passing day. It did not take long after for his body, stripped of its strength, to succumb to the sickness plaguing all the other weaker-bodied cats, and so his care was entrusted to the then medicine cat Yarrowfrost.
Old but wise, the medicine cat did everything in her power to nurse him back to his former health, even as the cold grew, and more cats fell ill cough and chill. Fondly he remembers her, how she would diligently sort through herbs and pack his den with moss when he grew chill. And how, if ever he needed it, she would lend him her ear.
Always she listened—never interrupting or judging him, but listening with the patience known only to a cat who’s spent moons of her life doing such things. She listened to him when his heart grew heavy with grief, when he felt too miserable to eat. She listened when he told her of his upbringing, of his brother now lost to time. And when there was nothing left to tell, she asked him a question he had never considered: are you sure you’re happy being a warrior?
There in the medicine den the question hovered—a persistent and pestering question that seemed only to echo louder in his head the more he sought to ignore it. Was he happy being a warrior? Despite himself, he could not think of a moment when he’d last been truly happy. But even then, even knowing that, he could not find the words to answer her, and so she left him to consider that which she had asked.
And consider it he did. In the time spent nest-ridden, his throat aching and scraping from the coughs that troubled his every waking moment, he thought on it, watching as cats came and went and how diligently Yarrowfrost worked on each. He noted in that time the way she cared for each one, how gentle she was and the compassion she showed, even to those undeserving of such kindness. And in those moments of watching and listening and thinking he finally found the answer he’d long been searching for.
Once he’d fully recovered his strength, he approached her and spoke to her once again, and, his voice quavering with the weight of his words, asked her if she would take him on as her apprentice. He knew then that he wasn’t much—in fact, after leafbare, he was even less than he had initially been—but he was willing to try if she would give him the chance… and he wanted to help.
For in the time he’d spent too sick to lift his own head, he’d come to a realization. He came to realize that, though he would never be half the warrior his brother was, there might just be something else he could do. That maybe, instead of becoming a warrior—something he knew jut as everyone else did that he was ill-equipped for—he could put himself to use doing something else. Perhaps becoming a medicine cat was his destiny.
Sure, it wasn’t fighting in battle or bringing prey back to feed his clanmates, but it was something tangible. It was tending to the sick and healing the hurts of his clanmates… it was convening with StarClan and giving guidance to those who needed it. And it was saving the lives of those whose lives were in danger, something he had been unable to do when he’d left his brother that unfortunate day. It may not be the valiant path his mother had first set him down, but it was honorable, and so he told her… and so she listened.
But she would not take him on as her apprentice until he had first earned the approval of StarClan, and so, when the next half-moon arrived, she allowed him to accompany her on her journey to speak with their ancestors. So, he went, and when he stooped alongside her in the Moon Cave and bowed his head to the stars, he was both surprised and thankful to be accepted into their hunting grounds.
There he was greeting by beyond his own comprehension. Fields bathed in stars, prey scuttling as far as the eyes could see… and cats—hundreds of them, all bathed in stars. They greeted him as he had never been greeted before in a wave of brushing muzzles, bumping shoulders, and throaty purrs until, at last, there was only one cat left to greet him. Old she was, ancient, even amongst the others, and when she paused before him to touch her muzzle to his own, he sensed in her a great wisdom. It was to her he spoke, and as she led him away from the throng of cats, she met him with words he would cling to moons after…
“If you are to become a medicine cat, then you must know and prepare yourself, for a great change is coming to the island, and when the frost thaws and the new-growth rises in its place, you must rise with it and face that change. Do you think you have what it takes to face that change, Ratwhisker?”
Then the dream was over, and when he rose, bewildered but relieved, he was met by Yarrowfrost who, though untroubled by words of a great change, gladly received him as her new apprentice.
And so, began the start of his new life. Under Yarrowfrost’s tutelage, Ratwhisker was steadily introduced to a world of herbs and healing. He learned how best to wrap wounds, what herbs worked best for easing a cough and which didn’t. He learned the best way to uproot plants without damaging them, and the best method to gather leaves while leaving the plants intact for yet another yield. All of these things he learned in the moons proceeding his meeting with StarClan… but even so, when Yarrowfrost fell ill with an unshakable sickness, he did not know enough to save her, and knew even less when she passed away.
Left alone without her guidance, Ratwhisker has fallen none too gracefully into his new role as ThistleClan’s only medicine cat. Knowing far too little, already he’s haunted by what his inexperience might mean for his clan when the ‘great change’ arises. What exactly that change may be, he doesn’t know. But what he does know is this: when it does come, he must be ready.
Unlike his brother.
Firstborn in the litter, Martenkit showed all signs of meeting the expectations of their parents. He was large and thick-set, with a body naturally built for physical strength; in comparison, Ratkit hardly looked as if he’d come from the same litter standing alongside him. He was so small—almost runt-like in size—and incredibly frail, himself coming into the world with only a feeble mew to announce his arrival into the world while his brother’s wails nearly shook the den upon his conception. His parents thought that alone a sign that he would die in the night, and though they were wrong in believing so, his mother would always comment that perhaps it would have been better if he had. And maybe she was right, but by some StarClan-given miracle he remained. Through the sickness and bed-ridden days, he remained—still weak and mewling, but alive nonetheless.
And so, he grew and grew alongside his brother—never quite matching him in size, but growing even still. In that time, between the awkward growth-spurts and drowsy days spent listening to elders tales, their mother quickly set to work in shaping them into the warriors she so desperately wished them to be.
It was during that time that Ratkit first grew aware of the difference between himself and his brother. Praise of which he was often denied came so easily to his brother, whereas he was offered only the sharp ridicule of his mother. Still he recalls how quickly his brother took to their mother’s teachings, how well he performed and how eagerly he sought to please her further. In every way he was the better son, and so what did Ratkit do? Well, nothing. Almost as quickly as he started he gave up, himself quickly coming to accept the hard truth that he could do nothing right, and even the things he could, never as well as his brother seemed able to. Instead, he merely strove to survive the turbulent kithood his mother had thrust them into, where ever day she filled their time with orchestrated ‘games’ that were less play and more competitions to see which of them was more deserving of her hard-earned approval.
Invariably he was being pitted against his brother, whose stronger build and frame made quick work of him, and when he didn’t, Ratkit always knew it was only because his brother allowed him to win. It was in a particularly fierce spat that his brother even went so far as to leave him with his rat ear torn and ragged, and ever since that occasion—in which Martenpaw was praised, not scolded for his belligerence—Ratkit came to fully accept his inferiority. And so, when the time finally arrived for the two brothers to ascend into their apprentice training, while Martenpaw was more than ready to pursue his new life, Ratpaw entered it nervously and fearfully.
But even as apprentices, they were not entirely free of their mother’s influence. Doing well in ensuring both of her sons were provided only the best mentors, when their training began and Ratpaw was met with his own, a time-hardened and surly individual, he felt nothing but a cold sense of dread for the moons ahead.
In training, Ratpaw was hard-pressed to live up to the expectations of not only his mother, but his mentor as well. He couldn’t fight, and though he was a natural when it came to running down prey, he grew so nervous outside of camp that even a mouse could stir a panic in him. But still, he tried… and, not to his or his mother’s own surprise, failed. Always so focused on ridiculing himself and his failures, he grew so occupied with belittling himself that he left very little room for improvement, and it did not take long for even his mentor, the very cat entrusted in honing him into a warrior, all but gave up on him as well. No longer did they push him towards perfection and settled instead for mediocrity, a change somehow even more terrible than the unrealistic standards formerly pressed upon him.
And so, while Martenpaw excelled in his own training, Ratpaw only just scraped by, becoming the butt of every joke imaginable amongst his denmates, lighthearted and scornful alike.
But life was not all bad for Ratpaw then. When he wasn’t training, Martenpaw was a constant in his own life. No longer held down by their mother’s scrutiny and interference, the two were allowed to grow close as they had never been able to during their younger moons. Always, Martenpaw was looking out for much, and while even then his brother was never outwardly fond of him, he always seemed to be there, providing him company and sheltering him whenever thing grew too overbearing. In those moons, Ratpaw grew to rely on his brother more heavily than he ever had before, finding comfort in his presence and even going so far as to look up to him, something he had never consciously done before. It is in part thanks to his brother’s influence that he drove himself to do better. Even when his mentor had all but lost hope in improving him, he forced himself to strive for the same goals his brother aimed for… after all, it’s what Martenpaw would’ve done, or so he told himself whenever things grew too difficult. It was that thought alone that kept him going throughout the rest of his apprenticeship, and though he never quite matched Martenpaw insofar as performance, even his mother was forced to admit he no longer wallowed as he once did, and that was improvement enough.
But, unfortunately, it could not last forever.
Shortly before their warrior ceremonies had arrived—something Ratpaw dreaded more and more with each passing day—a hunting patrol between the two brother’s turned deadly.
It was something neither of them could’ve anticipated, and yet, still, it happened.
On a particularly sunny evening it happened: while venturing deeper into ThistleClan hunting grounds their path was blocked by a stinking, bristling fox. So big was it Ratpaw could do nothing but stare in dumb awe, his paws frozen to the ground as he anticipated what seemed to him an inevitable death. But when the fox lunged forwards, slavering jaws parted wide to close around his neck, it was interrupted by a brown-and-white blur. Then Martenpaw was there. Hissing and spitting, he clung to the fox’s head, doing everything in his power to avoid its snapping jaws as he yowled for Ratpaw to run and get help.
What happened then Ratpaw can only vaguely remember. He remembers running, of course, and the sound of Martenpaw’s voice… the feeling of his paws as they drummed against the earth and his determination to get help. But then, help never came… or, at least, when it did, it came too late; by the time a patrol finally showed up, Martenpaw was long dead.
He would never forget the day his brother died, nor did he forget the looks on his parents’ face when they heard the news—how they then twisted it and turned the blame upon him, claiming he’d run the second the fox had shown up. A true warrior would have stayed and fought, they said, not run like a coward. But Ratpaw knew, just as they did, that he was no true warrior; the only one deserving of that title was Martenpaw, and he would never be a warrior now.
Though Ratpaw was sure that it had been Martenpaw’s wish for him to flee, guilt still fell heavily upon him each day, and slowly he began to believe his parents words. A real warrior would have saved Martenpaw, and he wasn’t that… and yet, when his time came to receive his warrior name—Ratwhisker, a lackluster name for a lackluster cat—he could not find the courage even then to deny his right of passage.
And so, he became a warrior, although begrudgingly, and carried out the rest of his days haunted by the memory of his brother’s death and the guilt that plagued him. So miserable did he become then that when the cold moons arrived and the forest was steeped in snow, he could no longer find it in himself to eat. It seemed a cruel thing to him, to scarf down food Martenpaw would no longer have the luxury of tasting, and so he found he could no longer stomach it and steadily grew thinner and weaker with each passing day. It did not take long after for his body, stripped of its strength, to succumb to the sickness plaguing all the other weaker-bodied cats, and so his care was entrusted to the then medicine cat Yarrowfrost.
Old but wise, the medicine cat did everything in her power to nurse him back to his former health, even as the cold grew, and more cats fell ill cough and chill. Fondly he remembers her, how she would diligently sort through herbs and pack his den with moss when he grew chill. And how, if ever he needed it, she would lend him her ear.
Always she listened—never interrupting or judging him, but listening with the patience known only to a cat who’s spent moons of her life doing such things. She listened to him when his heart grew heavy with grief, when he felt too miserable to eat. She listened when he told her of his upbringing, of his brother now lost to time. And when there was nothing left to tell, she asked him a question he had never considered: are you sure you’re happy being a warrior?
There in the medicine den the question hovered—a persistent and pestering question that seemed only to echo louder in his head the more he sought to ignore it. Was he happy being a warrior? Despite himself, he could not think of a moment when he’d last been truly happy. But even then, even knowing that, he could not find the words to answer her, and so she left him to consider that which she had asked.
And consider it he did. In the time spent nest-ridden, his throat aching and scraping from the coughs that troubled his every waking moment, he thought on it, watching as cats came and went and how diligently Yarrowfrost worked on each. He noted in that time the way she cared for each one, how gentle she was and the compassion she showed, even to those undeserving of such kindness. And in those moments of watching and listening and thinking he finally found the answer he’d long been searching for.
Once he’d fully recovered his strength, he approached her and spoke to her once again, and, his voice quavering with the weight of his words, asked her if she would take him on as her apprentice. He knew then that he wasn’t much—in fact, after leafbare, he was even less than he had initially been—but he was willing to try if she would give him the chance… and he wanted to help.
For in the time he’d spent too sick to lift his own head, he’d come to a realization. He came to realize that, though he would never be half the warrior his brother was, there might just be something else he could do. That maybe, instead of becoming a warrior—something he knew jut as everyone else did that he was ill-equipped for—he could put himself to use doing something else. Perhaps becoming a medicine cat was his destiny.
Sure, it wasn’t fighting in battle or bringing prey back to feed his clanmates, but it was something tangible. It was tending to the sick and healing the hurts of his clanmates… it was convening with StarClan and giving guidance to those who needed it. And it was saving the lives of those whose lives were in danger, something he had been unable to do when he’d left his brother that unfortunate day. It may not be the valiant path his mother had first set him down, but it was honorable, and so he told her… and so she listened.
But she would not take him on as her apprentice until he had first earned the approval of StarClan, and so, when the next half-moon arrived, she allowed him to accompany her on her journey to speak with their ancestors. So, he went, and when he stooped alongside her in the Moon Cave and bowed his head to the stars, he was both surprised and thankful to be accepted into their hunting grounds.
There he was greeting by beyond his own comprehension. Fields bathed in stars, prey scuttling as far as the eyes could see… and cats—hundreds of them, all bathed in stars. They greeted him as he had never been greeted before in a wave of brushing muzzles, bumping shoulders, and throaty purrs until, at last, there was only one cat left to greet him. Old she was, ancient, even amongst the others, and when she paused before him to touch her muzzle to his own, he sensed in her a great wisdom. It was to her he spoke, and as she led him away from the throng of cats, she met him with words he would cling to moons after…
“If you are to become a medicine cat, then you must know and prepare yourself, for a great change is coming to the island, and when the frost thaws and the new-growth rises in its place, you must rise with it and face that change. Do you think you have what it takes to face that change, Ratwhisker?”
Then the dream was over, and when he rose, bewildered but relieved, he was met by Yarrowfrost who, though untroubled by words of a great change, gladly received him as her new apprentice.
And so, began the start of his new life. Under Yarrowfrost’s tutelage, Ratwhisker was steadily introduced to a world of herbs and healing. He learned how best to wrap wounds, what herbs worked best for easing a cough and which didn’t. He learned the best way to uproot plants without damaging them, and the best method to gather leaves while leaving the plants intact for yet another yield. All of these things he learned in the moons proceeding his meeting with StarClan… but even so, when Yarrowfrost fell ill with an unshakable sickness, he did not know enough to save her, and knew even less when she passed away.
Left alone without her guidance, Ratwhisker has fallen none too gracefully into his new role as ThistleClan’s only medicine cat. Knowing far too little, already he’s haunted by what his inexperience might mean for his clan when the ‘great change’ arises. What exactly that change may be, he doesn’t know. But what he does know is this: when it does come, he must be ready.
