NETTLESHADE

LICHENCLAN

pale silver tabby tom with green eyes.

Character Stature: Describe the stature of the cat, such as their height, weight, length, or musculature.

Character Pelt: Describe the pelt of the cat, including their fur length, texture, color, and pattern.

Character Face: Describe the face of the cat, such as their face shape, ear size, muzzle length or size, and eye color.

Two Positive Traits: Describe how the character exhibits two positive traits and how the traits are positive.

Two Negative Traits: Describe how the character exhibits two negative traits and how the traits are negative.

"Can you see the sky? It's beautiful, isn't it? Don't be scared. There's nothing to fear. You're never alone. Not when you have so many friends looking down upon you. They're always watching, even when the sun steals their shadows. Listen to me, my little one, and listen to me well. Storkwing flies up there now, among the stars. He swims with fish, and he suns himself on moonrock, and he drinks at milky rivers, where ropes of eels drag their purple tails out into a black and empty sea. Here, we are temporary, but up there? We are eternal."

"He's gone home, Nettlekit. One day, so will you."

She names him Nettlekit, because when he suckles, his tiny teeth clamp down like the stinging points of a nettle plant. It hurts. In StarClan's name, does it hurt. But she's been through so much pain at this point - body ruined, four kits dead, her mate, gone, though who knows where, no-one knows where (the stars, she hopes, she hopes, she prays) - that by now, in the aftermath of the birth, she is numb.

So, she cranes her neck down to peer at the bundle of sticky pale fur at her belly. He is kneading, each pluck of his baby claws a stab at her sore stomach. His eyes are sealed slits, but she wonders if, once they open, they'll reflect the eyes of Storkwing, soft green shards that reach impossibly deep. Will she see a mirror into the stars above? Or will she see nothing? And what she fears, what she knows, to be true, will find itself confirmed? 

You, Silverfrost thinks, you will be a devoted LichenClan follower. You will not bow. You will not sway. And you most certainly will not run. 

She's dimly aware of the medicine cat slinking around her. Picking up the dead by the scruffs of their small necks. Necks that were given no chance to grow, to arch and rise, to taste the waters of baptism in all their silken, cleansing glory. Silverfrost does not know their genders, nor does she bother to give them names. They do not matter anymore.

But he matters. The kitten with teeth and claws as sharp as nettle. He matters, more than anything or anyone in the world, maybe even more than Storkwing had meant to her. Because he's here. Her little miracle. Her lone survivor. He will be baptized in the sacred pool, washed clean from the sin of his legacy. He will grow strong. He will worship. And the stars will love him, almost as much as she does.

"Nettlekit," she breathes, and the name rolls off her tongue like the undulating swell of a wave. "Nettlekit, do what he could not, and make me proud."

He's too young to understand. But someday soon, he will.

He must.

--

When Nettlekit is three moons old, he learns the truth. And to StarClan's comedic delight, it happens on the night of his baptism.

"Your father," spits a kitten, one he cares not for the name of, because she is a half-moon younger than him and reeking of sin, "is a traitor. A coward. He ran away when StarClan needed him most."

"Was he really that scared of RedwoodClan behinds?" laughs another. "Every cat knows they're nothing more than pacifist pansies."

Anger bubbles up from deep within. Nettlekit's claws unsheathe, but he recalls his mother's voice in the stir of the wind at his ear-fur. He breathes, and finds calm. A flimsy scrap of it, but calm, nonetheless.

"Mother warned me you would talk about him like this," says Nettlekit, unable to quell a derisive sniff. "But I know the truth. He fought for the Mooncave tooth and claw like any other loyal LichenClan warrior."

"Oh, really?" she sneers. "Then how come they never found his body?"

This is too far, too much, because it's true, he knows it - Storkwing is not buried, since there is no corpse to bury, as demands their rites. Those needle-sharp claws slip from their sheathes again, but before he can lunge, feather-white fur brushes up against his side. There is calm again, though it does not come from within.

"Jeez," Fernkit huffs, "don't you two have anything better to do with your time? I have fleas who come up with better insults than the both of you combined."

The two kits peel back their lips, but Fernkit is big, strong, and almost six moons old. He is not worth the fight.

They reluctantly sulk away, tails tucked. Nettlekit watches them go. There is bitterness welling within him, like blood to the surface of a wound. Instinct demands he fight; demands he right his dignity, and familial legacy, even though logic crows that such a notion is stupid, that beating up two feeble, rumor-plump kittens will do nothing but invite the ire of StarClan to weigh on his shoulders.

He will be baptized tonight though. If he sins now, then all will be forgiven, come the water.

But he is a coward, plain and simple. So, he does nothing, and nurses that bitterness, the way a mother might nurse her children.

Fernkit sits down and dramatically rolls his eyes. "Try not to worry about those losers. They're just bitter because their father is buried six tails underground."

"So are ours," Nettlekit replies. "The only difference is that we don't know where."

"I think they're alive." Nettlekit swings to glare at Fernkit, who is rubbing a paw at his soft pink nose. "At least, I know my dad is. Maybe yours is, too."

Nettlekit takes him in, then - the kitten who is older, and stronger, and far stupider than any other cat he knows, which, in retrospect, isn't many, since he rarely leaves the Nursery because it will make his mother worried. Fernkit is the son of Heatherpatch, Silverfrost's best friend. Her mate fought alongside Storkwing in one of the many vicious battles with RedwoodClan for the Mooncave. But unlike other fatalities, their corpses were never returned - which inevitably led to discussion, and suspicion, and, eventually, rumors far too bloated for their own good.

His mother says he and Fernkit are much alike, though Nettlekit can't understand what she means by that. Fernkit agrees, though; he says they are cursed, like it's a good thing. This is because, apart from losing their fathers at the exact same time, Fernkit is also the sole survivor of his litter.

But beyond the circumstances of their birth, they have little in common. Nettlekit thinks Fernkit is brash, and reckless, and loud; he thinks he spends far too much time plotting up schemes of troublesome drivel, rather than sitting his rump down like a well-behaved kit and waiting for apprenticeship to come. Sometimes, he blasphemes, then laughs, like it's a joke and not a sin. Other times, he joins in on the Nursery prayers, but never in sincerity, if the impatient slapping of his tail is any reliable indication.

He is, at his core, the exact opposite of what a LichenClan feline ought to be. 

"I didn't need your help," says Nettlekit, and means it. 

"And yet here I am, helping you anyway. Again. It's almost like you need me more than you know."

He's saved from formulating a reply by his mother. "Nettlekit?" Silverfrost's mew resonates through the cave. She sounds anxious. She never likes leaving him alone for long. 

Her shadow stretches large against the walls, but Silverfrost is a lithely-built she-cat, and once she pushes through the brambles that guard the Nursery, she is revealed as she truly is - meek, grief-bitten, and small. "It's time," she says, her voice so quiet it's nearly swallowed by the echo of water dripping from toothy stalactites. 

Fernkit swallows an inappropriate snicker. "Have fun getting all wet and soggy," he teases.

"There's no fun to be had in baptism," Nettlekit retorts. "It's sacred."

"Sorry, sorry. Of course it is."



- fernkit and nettlekit <3 curse buddiezzzz (fernkit also 'lost' his father in the war with redwoodclan)
- heatherpatch and silverfrost bffs/their dads were too. they probably ran off to be gay tbh dfgdfgdxdzhg
- fernkit stands up for nettlekit. nettlekit brushes him away. his mother takes him to see the night sky; refer back to first para. 
- then the baptism occurs.
- "he thought he would feel different. but in the end, nothing changed. maybe he was cursed, after all."

fernkit > fernpaw > fernsplash (?)
nettleshade and fernsplash have something fruity going on. and i mean. REAL fruity
fernsplash / athiest rebel and nettleshade / minnowstar apologist. love story for the ages. they r childhood besties to lovers to besties to acquaintances to strangers to enemies to ------

This is too far, too much, because it's true, he knows it - Storkwing is not buried, since there is no corpse to bury, as demands their rites. Those needle-sharp claws slip from their sheathes again, and this time, Nettlekit pushes away his mother's wisdom. He lunges.

A blur of feathery white fur flashes by the corner of his vision. Nettlekit's paws hit solid ground - (regrettably, no fur or helpless squeals pinned beneath his pads) - and yowls rip through the Nursery, high-pitched, but for once, not torn from his own throat. 

Fernkit towers above his bullies, who cower, lips curled back over their pearl teeth. "Jeez," he huffs, "don't you two have anything better to do with your time? I have fleas who come up with better insults than the both of you combined."

Before they can retaliate, Hareleap charges, knocking Fernkit aside with a hefty paw. "My babies! Are you hurt?"

The Nursery chimes with pitiful mewls. 

Silverfrost and Fernkit's mother, Heatherpatch, glance up from afar, where they are sharing tongues. "Are they play-fighting again?" Heatherpatch says, amused.

"It's all well and good to you, Heatherpatch, isn't it?" she retorts, shepherding her kittens in with a protectively curled paw. "This is the fifth time this moon that your brute of a son has laid claws on my darlings. He's nearly apprentice-aged, for StarClan's sake! What if they were seriously hurt?"

Fernkit stumbles to his paws. "With all due respect," he grumbles, though his tone implies little, "maybe if your precious runts left us alone, they wouldn't catch these terrifying claws." He catches Nettlekit's eyes and tosses a grin, but Nettlekit quickly looks away, fur prickling under the unease of so much attention suddenly forced upon him.(wip idk if ill cut this/re-edit, mayb)




Kithood: Describe the character’s childhood as a kit in the clan, tribe, or as an outsider, such as their lineage, parents, siblings, or any impactful events.

Adolescence: Describe the character’s adolescence as an apprentice, to-be, or young cat as an outsider, including their training, mentor, den-mates, friends, crushes, or any impactful events.

Adulthood: Describe the character’s adulthood as a warrior, prey-hunter, stone-guard, or an outsider, such as their warrior or tribe-member ceremony, den-mates, friends, romantic relationships, significant battles, apprentices, or any impactful events.

High Position: If relevant, describe how the character received their status as a high position in their respective clan or tribe.

*Remember to keep in mind the clan/tribe's specific history and characteristics. Try to weave information from current events into your character's history. For example, how do they feel about their leaders? Any threats ( lc vs rwc war, rogue threat, the flood for tc, tribe sickness, etc.)? Make them a part of their clan/tribe!