We did it!! We've been on the 'ole web for an entire year, and we can't believe it! We're so greatful for all of the wonderful members we've met since our opening in September 2019, and we could not have created such a beautiful community without all of your hard work, dedication, and care! To celebrate our Year One Anniversay, we've put together a few different contests, events, and new patrol threads. Check out the September Announcements and the September Patrols for more information! Here's to many more years to come!
The Apostles is a warrior cats roleplay based in northern Wisconsin. On Lake Superior, the wild cats have made the Apostle Islands their home. It is on these islands - Rocky Island and South Twin Island - that the clan and tribe cats have lived in a peace and harmony that ebbs and flows with the tide.
But as the tides turn, so does the truce that binds them to one another; and as the water raises, a darkness follows, an evil that will end in bloodshed and violence.
Night and day, he was haunted by the earth’s tremors.
Soft voices, barely perceptible—murmurings beneath the very soil, whispers that seemed to make the very earth beneath his nest tremble with the intensity of the please. But they had never spoken as clearly as they had that night, when the swath of a dream embraced him and the world around him grew ethereal in its presence, unreal and yet solid beneath his very paws.
The smell of earth, the press of it against his shoulders, his back—so tantalizingly close that it pressed at his whiskers, but did not drown him as it so often did. Small as he was, he found little hindrance in his procession of which he felt dutifully compelled, and as his paws led him deeper and deeper still into the earth and the waxing darkness that stretched within its depths, he felt a stronger compulsion still, as if there were some great hurry that required him to attend it as effectively as possible. And so he moved, purposely despite the oppressive weight of the earth, winding muggy passages where the tips of worms brushed his ears and the pitter-patter of beetles trundling by made his ears twitch. Here the walls were not so well shorn nor packed with stones as those that made the dens of his clan. They were of a rougher craftsmanship, as if borne from the imaginings of a creature of prey—of a rabbit or a badger or something larger still. But for the meaning of its venturing so deep into the earth, he did not know, and as he pressed on, he could not smell it either, for there was naught to be smelt but the petrichor of damp earth and of the grasses above, so far and yet so close they did not leave him, even as he bore himself deeper still.
Then the voices began. Tremulous at first, soft so that his ears barely acknowledged their advent.
“Deep… deep…” ponderously soft, they echoed off the very tunnel walls, seeming to rise from the very ground bellow, low and sonorous so the very earth underfoot seemed to tremble. “Deep… deep…”
Unnerved though he was, Ratwhisker, lead by some underlying intuition and curiosity, did not flee, but instead, he pressed on, listening tentatively as the voices echoed around him, growing in their clarity and intensity with each proceeding step.
“…deep bellow the earth…”
“…”
“…you’ll hear our calls.”
“B-but, who? Wh-who are you?” His voice rose softly in the dark, but the only answer was the rumble of earth. All at once, the tunnel, once spacious enough to grant him easy passage, seemed to close around him more tightly, to hug at his shoulders and embrace the arch of his back so that it bowed beneath the veritable weight. Feeling a stir in his nerves, he did not linger long enough to learn how intent the earth was on smothering him; instead, moving quicker still, he pressed on, letting his paws skim the ground and his whiskers to guide him, turning down one winding path after the other, climbing in some places and descending in others before he erupted into a clearing more spacious than any other. There was naught even earth to brush his whiskers upon entry, nor the presence of it above his ear tips or at his flank—only emptiness that seemed to stretch and yawn for an eternity. It was here the voice grew, a low, chanting rhythm that made the ground underfoot ripple as if alive.
“Deep below, you’ll hear our calls.” They chanted, and as their voices rose, the ground shook more fervently until the roof, lost in the darkness, yielded a great upheaval of soil. Down it went, battering against his head, forcing him to cower, and then, no sooner had he made to run, it fell down upon him, heavy, oppressive, suffocating…
But when his eyes opened, they were not met by the oppressive darkness of his dreams or the pressing closeness of run walls. There was not but a shaft of sunlight, peering through the lichen drapes of his den and the twittering of birds… but no voices, not as he had heard them before. There was naught else but his clanmates, bumbling softly, falling into the day's deeds with their daily willingness, so accustomed to toil, none thought twice of attending patrol or hunting prey. The simplicity of their lives made complex only by the relationships they forged… after such a dream, Ratwhisker found himself, for the first time since he ascent into the clan's sole apothecary, yearning.
Yet when he stirred and rose to his paws, such feelings abated. His eyes, heavy with sleep, his lungs still fluttering with the intensity of his dream, were quick in fixing his attention elsewhere, and no sooner had he lighted a paw beyond the mossy confines of his nest than he was overcome by his own duties—of the sense of responsibility he held and the attention he owed to those patients he harbored within the confines of his den, who slumbered under lull of poppy or simple sleep and waited patiently for their affliction to heal. Such thoughts settled his nerves, and as he fled from his nest and sifted through what prosper new-leaf had yielded him, he found himself overcome with a frenzied passion to be done with it all, for the dream still tugged and pestered at his conscious.
So much so did it, that by the time he stumbled into the first chamber in which a patient of a darker ruddy complexion rested in the curls of sleep, he nearly dropped his supplies atop their head and stumbled over them entirely in his rush. It was only by the graces of StarClan that he did not—of which he was eternally grateful—for the guest harbored there was not one to take such slights kindly, and as their eyes blinked blearily, releasing their hold on whatever dream possessed them, he felt a stirring in his chest that made his previous passion dissipate and a fresh veneer of his usual agitation wash over him again.
“H-hawktail, I… I-I’m sorry, I didn’t m-mean to wake you… I… well, your shoulder…” the words died as quickly as they arose, tremulous and weak before the haughty green gaze that held him, all questioning and filled with irritability.
• flame born from dying cinders | whitefern • • primrose who flowers by starless night | iris that blossoms on stone bluff | jay • • ratwhisker | thunderheart | riverblaze | shrikepaw | acornpaw | cinderkit | mapleroot •
Green slits blinked up at the medicine cat's arrival, stolen from their dreams. The haunting snarls dissipated into that altered state of consciousness, leaving Hawktail in the silence that waned between her and Ratwhisker. Her shoulder twitched painfully, as it had been tensed against the blights of her sleep. Sunlight filtered in through the lichen that shielded the mouth of the den, glaring down on her wounds.
Hawktail merely nodded her head, where a defeated expression seemed to permanently rest upon its features.
As she tried to shift her weight, suddenly she was gritting her teeth against a muscle spasm. It eventually released her shoulder from its strained hold. Once it did, she let out a shaky breath to steady her nerves. The scabs on her shoulder broke and blood began to slowly pool at the surface of the cobwebs strewn across her flanks.
"Damn," she groaned, "that's not good. Do what you need to do, Ratwhisker. Don't waste all of your herbs on me, though."
She forced herself upright so that Ratwhisker would be able to work on her wounds more easily. She didn't care if he tried to usher her back down. She may have stepped down from her position as deputy, but she was still a warrior... She would not wilt away like a pulled flower. At least, that's what she tried to tell herself.
Through the throbbing on her shoulder, she glanced at Ratwhisker with dull green eyes. They were considering something. They stared him up and down as he went about his routine, whatever it was that medicine cats did.
"I'm sorry that I've never been particularly kind to you, Ratwhisker... I want you to know that I'm proud of you. You've come a long way since that day in the forest. Back then, I believed in you because I had to, but now.. I think I trust you more than I trust myself..." she faltered and her gaze turned away from him.
It's my fault. That thought was all that ever came to the forefront of her mind, trapped in the den with her. Trapped in her mind with her. The guilt was eating away at her. Could she confide in him? Could she break down her own walls? She felt hollowed out, as if she were just a pile of flesh and bone. What's the use?
[attr="class","next"]Bodily tremors made him waver, but upon looking into those eyes—of such a deep and lustrous green they reminded him so much of the very pines that enclosed their precious camp—a mutual trust exceeded him and bid him come closer, close enough so that he might have touched her should he have wanted, though he could not have wanted anything less. For in her eyes, those eyes that had once looked upon him with such beseeching pity and distaste, was an inevitable pain that transcended the physical hurts of which he had been trained to cure. Her pain went deeper and deeper still—more profound even than the wound that cut like a fissure across her haunch. It was the sort of hurt that lingered, long into one’s life, only to be abated by the call of their ancestors once one’s life had wearied on earth. But of when that time would come for her and she would be so relieved, he also did not know, and so could only look upon her in her dark ruddy countenance, made lighter by the shafts of sunlight that crept in through the gaping maw of his den to brush at her pawtips.
And so she shifted before him, a deliberate gesture, one pronounced by the gritting of teeth and the fluttering of eyelids as her muscles fought in tandem to fasten her firmly down. They would not heed her wants of mobility, this he knew. The pain they had endured for days since that fateful encounter with their sworn adversaries had shocked them into idleness. And so she sunk, releasing her hold, and so they relished in their victory as they were not set to toil.
“Damn.” The utterance was spoken through clenched teeth, punctuated by a groan that signified that pain she felt, both physically and otherwise. The frustration, the irritation—it all mingled in that declaration. He pitied her. “That’s not good.” No, it isn't. But that was nothing he would utter aloud. “Do what you need to do, Ratwhisker. Don’t waste all of your herbs on me, though.”
So he did as she bid him, drawing closer on his own tremulous limbs at sit alongside her, a looming shadow, grotesquely thin and large of feature. His battish ears swiveled, his round eyes searched that short pelt of black-ticked fur, scouring for the most minor of cuts that entrenched themselves beneath her coat. Those had not wanted for salves for as long as others had. Simple scabs, the blackened elevations of toughened fluids and blood; in time, they’d chip away to become a thing of the past. However, the same could not be said for her shoulder. There was the culprit of her stagnancy. Wrapped in gauze, cradled in the embrace of cobwebs, one need not even to wonder at her injury to know it pained her; it was so tenderly bound.
He carefully undid these wrappings, setting them aside and wrinkling his muzzle at the stench that ensued from the wound beneath and the flush of heat that followed. It hasn’t gotten any better. Fear clenched his heart, set it into a raucous rhythm. The wound had only further putrified. The pus had grown in its capacity and roused an odor of which filled him with a mixture of disgust, fear, and hatred—hatred for that which is natural and taxed them both. …but it isn’t too far gone, surely. I could flush it again. He dithered a moment longer, then rose hurriedly the fetch moss he needed steep it into the cut. And so it sat, drinking up the blood… and the pus; once its work was done, he’d apply another salve—a different one this time, one that might work and alleviate some of her pain. If not, there’s not else I can do but feed her poppy seeds. That thought did not please him, but he said little and less of that. As of late, Hawktail had known more of the taste of those potent seeds than she had of fresh-kill. It was not a taste any warrior of her merit and caliber ought to be accustomed to. Yet there was no other solution to stifle the pain. It was the only remedy he had for that, himself knowing so little.
In the corner of his eye, Hawktail shifted. A stiff movement, one that did little to move her in truth. Her eyes were watching him. There was a sadness and thoughtfulness in them that made him hurriedly return his attention to his work. “I’m sorry that I’ve never been particularly kind to you, Ratwhisker… I want you to know that I’m proud of you.” He gritted his teeth but did not meet her gaze. Still, she pressed on. “You’ve come a long way since that day in the forest. Back then, I believed you because I had to, but now… I think I trust you more than I trust myself.”
“D-d-don’t say th-things like that. You m-make it sound as if you’ve g-given up… l-like y-you’re going to d-d-d-die,” he murmured apprehensively. But then maybe this is a sort of death, what I’ve done to her. She’ll never be able to fight again—not like she used to. They were not the words of one who had settled their mind to perseverance. They were defeated, quiet, unsure. They were not one’s he’d ever expect from Hawktail, of whose rapport held a lofty reputation over her head. “A-and d-don’t apologize, e-either. N-not t-to me. I… I know y-you did it f-for my own good. I underst-st-stand.” Quietly, he carefully plucked the moss from her shoulder and set it aside, swollen and dripping red. “H-here. L-l-let me wrap this again…”
And so he worked at it, sinking readily into the distraction it provided as he wound the moss about her shoulder and limbs, fixing it with a new ointment of which he hoped would subside the swelling and low the putrification. It has to work this time, he told himself, vexed though he was, and yet he could not help the tears that welled in his eyes. Defeated tears. They were not those shed by the strong. Angrily, he stamped his paw into the earth, a soft but resounding thud that echoed his frustration.
Who am I kidding? “I-I’m so sorry, Hawktail. I… because of me, you’ll never… b-b-but you knew that already, didn’t you?” His eyes searched hers nervously. How must she view him, so pathetically small and wary, no more possessing of courage than a mouse that scurried and fled at the merest snap of a branch? Even as a warrior—how must she have viewed him. And does she only speak so because she knows? Knows that I failed my one sworn duty? Knows I’ll never be able to fulfill it— “Y-you’ve felt it, haven’t you? F-f-for a while now. Y-you knew it w-wouldn't get better.” Tags: catalysta Wordcount: 1,146
• flame born from dying cinders | whitefern • • primrose who flowers by starless night | iris that blossoms on stone bluff | jay • • ratwhisker | thunderheart | riverblaze | shrikepaw | acornpaw | cinderkit | mapleroot •
"...You say that like you're going to die.." came the stuttering, sputtering response. Normally, she'd have to fight the urge to smack his mouth until the words straightened out so she didn't have to listen to him strangle every syllable, but not lately. No.
She just watched him with dead, barely-interested eyes and snorted in response to those words. He bumbled along with whatever it was he was doing, struggling to even speak apparently - let alone get his point across. When he touched her wound with the moss, she felt the pain from the touch and her skin twitched achingly. The wound was festering, she could feel it, and it stung so bad... but she would not flinch or cry out. She wouldn't give. Fuck that.
He wrapped it once more, and she had to wonder what good that would do. Let it dry and crack, for all I care. I'm a warrior, not a queen. This is just another scar on my pelt. Why is he giving it so much attention, anyway?
Ratwhisker fumbled again, and this time he looked at her in the face. His expression held an emotion she didn't normally care to recognize, and so it was foreign to her, but she thought for a moment that she could see guilt... This time, she paid close attention to his words, her ears jerking when he mentioned that it would never get better.
At first, she wasn't sure to what he referred, but she realized it must have been her shoulder. She looked at it, all wrapped and... swollen. It was infected, then, after all. She hadn't given it much care, herself.
With a disbelieving look, she shook her head slowly, "No, it's just a cut, Ratwhisker, don't be ridiculous," she met his gaze, and her confidence grew as she spoke, for she believed her own desperate words, "I always get better from my wounds. This will be no different... The infection will heal eventually; you're a medicine cat, you'll fix it," her tone faulted as she carried on quickly, not intending to give him time to give her an answer she would not like, "I mean, you can. You talked to Cinderface, you- you should know how to."
[attr="class","next"]The stench of corruption abated by the binding of cobwebs, Ratwhisker’s nose was relieved, for a time, of the ruination that lingered in such a scent. His eyes digressed fixedly, met the darker greens of his accomplice, and dropped just as hurriedly as he felt the roiling of his stomach mollify, quashed to a gentle, albeit intermittent gurgling, although one that did not provoke that acidic bile that so often plagued him after such upsets. Of that, he was appreciative, but as for the words that left Hawktail’s mouth then, those of an oddly optimistic quality of which he felt himself undeserving, he was less so.
“No, it’s just a cut, Ratwhisker, don’t be ridiculous. I always get better from wounds. This will be no different… the infection will heal eventually; you’re a medicine cat, you’ll fix it.” The conviction of her words only made him grit his teeth, to avert his gaze so that they might not look upon her features, that inexplicably hopeful countenance, so riddled with desperation it made him sick. “I mean, you can. You talked to Cinderface, you- you should know how to.”
Yes, I suppose I should. But the infelicitous truth was that he did not, not now, not in this instance. He had administered all the knowledge he possessed. The soothing seeds of poppy, the deterrents brought on by marigold, the cleansing attributes of burdock. Countless bundles of moss had been relinquished in the dousing of blood as well as the siphoning of it; so many distended packages had needed to be buried, at first, smelling only of ichor, and later contagion. The skin had gone from an angry, inflamed red to a brooding black, and the excessive quality of blood had shouldered on the new and equally sickening quality of pus. And there was the matter of smell. Of that, he knew little and less what to do about, and a part of him figured there was nothing he could do. If the wound survives the petrification, it won’t heal prettily… and Hawktail may never fight again. It was an actuality ThistleClan could not afford, not after expending so many valuable warriors in the first assault. What will become of us when they’re all gone? The Clan’s morale was already wounded enough, losing their deputy amongst other losses… it was more than even he could bear, as removed from the fighting as he was.
“It w-was just a c-cut, but s-s-see here—” his paw stretched out so that it could press against the cobweb, eliciting a hiss of pain from his deputy that pained him more than he thought his prodding had pained her. “—it’s infected. I… I t-tried everything I kn-know. Everyth-thing. But it w-w-won’t get better.” His shoulders hunched, scrawny protrusions beneath a thin pelt of white and tabby fur. “…no matter wh-what I do. I… Hawktail, th-th-this isn’t something you c-can just walk away from. You… wh-when it heals,” if it does “you w-won’t be able to carry out y-your duties as you h-have in the past. D-do you underst-stand that? Y-you won’t be able to fight, and it-it’s my fault th-that you can’t, s-so quit acting like it isn’t. I may have spoken with Cinderface, but th-that was so l-long ago. I barely remember anyth-thing. Wh-what’s the use of words I can’t p-put to use until moons later? N-n-n-nothing!” His voice rose to a shrill squeak. “I w-w-was never m-meant to be a medicine c-cat, can’t you s-see that? If Y-yarrowfrost were here, th-this would have never h-happened. Sh-she would h-have known what to do, a-a-and StarClan kn-knows it too. Th-they barely even sp-speak with me anym-more. S-so… so stop acting l-like it’s any other way.” Tags: catalysta Wordcount: 619
• flame born from dying cinders | whitefern • • primrose who flowers by starless night | iris that blossoms on stone bluff | jay • • ratwhisker | thunderheart | riverblaze | shrikepaw | acornpaw | cinderkit | mapleroot •
"It was just a cut, but see here-" Ratwhisker's paw pressed against her wound and Hawktail recoiled with a pained hiss. She bared her teeth in a grimace and, even when he pulled away, the nettled curl of her lip remained. She lowered her head as he flanks heaved, exhausted from the pain she'd been in for the past days. She didn't even know how long she'd been stuck in his den. The sunrises and sunsets had started to blend together, and the usual hubbub of her Clan-mates was drowned out by the echoes of the rogue battle in her ears.
"It's infected... I tried everything I know," the words hit Hawktail's heart, which was truly impressive since it was long-buried under layers of scar tissue. As her medicine cat pressed on in his thorough explanation of why and how, his lengthy dialogue seemed to shrink into the background. Darkness wound around her like a sickly warm blanket.
Oh, she understood. Understanding was the thing that made it all so much worse. Her path as a warrior was coming to its end, after all, and her wound was not something she could will herself through. She blinked, slowly, tiredly, until she could bear to face Ratwhisker. It seemed as though he wanted her to be angry at him, to take it out on him as if it were his fault. He was used to that, wasn't he? Perhaps more than her wound, he was concerned about her mental wellbeing. Hawktail relaxed her soured expression, turning her muzzle slightly so that she could look at him. Oddly enough, Ratwhisker seemed just as concerned with his ability as a medicine cat as he had a year ago.
"How disappointing," Hawktail meowed, but there was no animosity in her tone. She sighed and continued in monotone, "you still have so much doubt. Like nothing has even changed, like you've learned nothing - like you haven't been a medicine cat this entire time. That isn't true," she lifted her head and shook it, "you're wrong about yourself, because you're able to know - now - that my leg will not heal as it should. That, my friend, is the real mark of a good medicine cat. Not knowing all about flowers and their usage - though that is the main thing, it's knowing when something.. someone, is too far gone. It may not heal correctly, Ratwhisker, but you will not let it kill me. Infections can be serious, right? Well, I haven't dropped dead yet. Let that motivate you and give you something to be proud of," she settled down on her good shoulder once again. Her wound felt like a wildfire. She rasped her tongue over the fur around it a few times, trying to soothe the inflammation.
She stopped and eyed Ratwhisker, that sharp look returning to her gaze, "As for whose fault this is, you aren't the one who did this to me."
[attr="class","next"]He braced himself for the full lash of her tongue, for the unbridled rage, the fearful accusations following his admittance at his own incompetence. But neither came. Her expression seemed oddly distant, exhausted as if a moons time had passed all in the span of one conversation, and she desperately longed for sleep. Even her words lacked their usual enthusiasm; without any inflection to carry them, they fell empty on his ears. Yet he listened, willing her to speak, wanting desperately for the cat he had known to return, for it had not been Hawktail, in truth, that had set back into camp that blustering winters day. She’d been lost to rogues, gone in spirit as Cedarflame and Crowfrost had been. And now, with Nettlepaw waning, she grew blacker in her aspect, more despondent, less responsive. But now, as she spoke to him, lifting her head, giving it a weary shake, he thought a semblance of her former self had returned, though the first words she uttered surprised him more than they made him fearful.
“How disappointing. You still have so much doubt. Like nothing has even changed, like you’ve learned nothing—like you haven’t been a medicine cat this entire time. That isn’t true.” Her eyes met his then, a deep green to gaze upon the pallor of his own. He met her gaze, unflinching, though he felt a worm of unease in his heart. “You’re wrong about yourself, because you’re able to know—now—that my leg will not heal as it should. That, my friend, is the real mark a good medicine cat. Not knowing all about flowers and their usage—thought that is the main thing, it’s knowing when something… someone, is too far gone. It may not heal correctly, Ratwhisker, but you will not let it kill me. Infections can be serious, right? Well, I haven’t dropped dead yet. Let that motivate you and give you something to be proud of.” As if the words had reaped a great deal of effort, she settled down, easing onto her good shoulder to run her tongue through the dark ruddy that surrounded that festering wound of which she spoke of so indifferently, as if it were no more than a trivial cut she’d garnered during a bit of training. But he saw in the dullness of her eyes, the hesitation of her tongue, that it pained her, knew how it must burn, and that she knew as well as he what that meant for her in the future.
But I will not let her die. There, at the very least, she had not squandered her high hopes. He had lost one patient already, to lose Hawktail so soon after was a burden he did not intend to shoulder. So selfishly, he attended her, regularly undoing her wrapping and packing them with one herbal compound after the next to no avail. But it had been better than idleness, and had she not been right in some way? Moons ago, he would have curled his lips at the first implication of infection, he would not have known what mixtures to even begin making. Now he moved about his den with newfound confidence. He could name the herbs that lined his shelves, stock them accordingly, and though he may not know the best tonics or pastes, he knew enough to get by during the warmer seasons, and had used such knowledge to his own and the clan’s benefit. Was that not the duty of a medicine cat?
Yet still, he felt a worm of doubt. He could clean and pack a wound for as long as he had a mind to, but would Orchidshade have allowed a cat as essential as Hawktail to wither away at her very paws? Would Cinderface have done so? Despite himself, he doubted it. A cut was a minor thing, it was one of the first afflictions an apprentice ought to know how to heal on their own. You did not need a mentor to shadow you but three times in doing so, and afterwards you should naturally take to it, or so Yarrowfrost had insisted. Yet of the wounds he treated after the battle, all had gone to puss. They stunk furiously, oozed a substance that curdled the air that touched it, and left his patients feverish and dying. It was unlike anything he had ever seen, and though it pained him to admit, he knew not what to do about it or where even to begin in such a train of thought.
StarClan will not even speak with me but to give me vague omens. They warned me about Thievingstar, but I did nothing to prevent it. If I’d been wiser…
His thoughts wavered as Hawktail spoke again, perhaps sensing the impending doom he formulated within his own thoughts, perhaps proceeding to drive home the point of her previous words. “As for whose fault this is, you aren’t the one who did this to me.”
A martyred expression was all he could afford her. “B-b-but it is, Hawktail, d-don’t you see? Moons ago, in l-leaf-fall, I received an o-omen fr-from StarClan. It… was about Th-thievingstar. Th-they warned me then, and I d-d-did nothing to prevent it. I c-could not even convince Thievingstar t-to have f-faith enough in me to hold counsel. Sh-she does not trust me, and neither d-do I t-trust her.” Spoken aloud, the words felt like a sort of poison he was finally expelling from his system, though it left him guilt-ridden in its relief. “And n-now StarClan is p-punishing us b-because of it. Th-they took Cedarflame and Cr-crowfrost when we needed th-them most, Nettlep-paw only grows sicker, Th-thievingstar no longer trusts in anyth-thing, and you… H-hawktail you will never be able t-to fight as you once did, now wh-when we need you m-most of all. B-but St-starClan d-d-does nothing to stop the suffering, and I c-can only do s-so much.” He lowered his gaze, down towards his paws, braced there in the dirt. His limbs had set to trembling under him with the alacrity of his emotions, but he stifled them suddenly as he pressed on. “I c-can’t even visit th-them at the M-moon Cave, and th-the dreams th-they send me make less and less sense. They a-ask me to find them as if th-they could ever be l-l-lost. But I d-don’t even know where to b-begin to look, and… I f-f-fear for what that means—for e-everyone on this island. A-an able medicine cat w-would know what to do. I… I do not. And th-that is why it is my f-fault.” Tags: catalysta Wordcount: 1,097
• flame born from dying cinders | whitefern • • primrose who flowers by starless night | iris that blossoms on stone bluff | jay • • ratwhisker | thunderheart | riverblaze | shrikepaw | acornpaw | cinderkit | mapleroot •
Hawktail held no malice for the medicine cat that martyred himself before her. What did he want? She didn't feel the emotional energy to turn on him with a bitter mouth, to defile any fraction of confidence he had gained throughout the moons. At first, she resumed soothing her wound with rhythmic licks - until he said something that struck her.
Her brows raised at him when he mentioned an omen from StarClan. Hawktail had never regarded herself as a particularly strong believer. She didn't pray, she didn't look to the stars for guidance, and for the most part she believed that her life was determined by her own actions. She didn't understand entirely what an 'omen' entailed - but she understood the importance of it to Ratwhisker. Praying to StarClan took up half of their time, time that could've been spent doing something more useful, but she would trust it anyway. It was not her place to say what was truth or fallacy. If he thought it was important, then... so it was.
"...She does not trust me, and neither d-do I tr-trust her."
It was quite a confession, one that made Hawktail's tail-tip twitch with aggravation and thought. Her past self would've leapt upon the medicine cat with fury, battering him into submission and telling him to always respect his leader. Yet, as she accepted his words in that current moment, under those current circumstances, she did not move to put him in his place. She merely nodded, a slow and even-keeled motion. He decided that this was all StarClan's punishment for the entire Clan. Hawktail's head stiffened at the suggestion and she flexed her claws into the nesting around her at the mention of Nettlepaw. She will die, too, Hawktail thought. She cast her gaze to the nest where her sister's life was fading away as they spoke. He knows it is too late for her, he just won't say those words.
She understood. She felt Ratwhisker's helplessness as he told her that he could only do so much to fight forces beyond his own control; to mend the wounds created by them, by Thievingstar and StarClan. She looked back at him just as he lowered his gaze. Was he ashamed of himself? Hawktail wondered about his own state of mind. Was he strong enough for all of this? Perhaps not, but... he would have to see it through. He had no choice, unless he wished to desert them. She didn't take him for such a coward. Ratwhisker stumbled with his knowledge of herbs just as much as he stumbled over his own tongue... Hawktail watched with indifference as his legs buckled beneath him, but he is no mouseheart.
He had stood beside her on the border with LichenClan and faced his own fears. As long as he had those who backed him up at his side, he would remain... and she would help him to be steadfast in that remnance if it was the last meaningful thing she ever did for ThistleClan. Perhaps it would be. She looked him up and down, acknowledging the facts that he brought to light.
When Ratwhisker was finished, she replied emotionlessly, "Nettlepaw will die soon, too. Brace yourself for that, Ratwhisker, because I'll shred my ears if I have to listen to your bottomless pit of self-pity one more time," the end of that sentence became a firm growl, but she went on dismissively, "I'm not coming to the same conclusion as you, from what you've told me... As for StarClan and the Moon Cave? Well, perhaps that pretty cave is where the connection is strongest, but just because you can't go there doesn't mean that you can't commune with our ancestors - or whatever it is you did down there. If I were you, I'd stop asking them questions and go look for the answers you seek. Or.. you know, think for yourself. Perhaps StarClan will 'guide your paws'," she sighed, relaxing her shoulders which had tensed up as she spoke, "It's no use trying to tell Thievingstar anything at this point. The Clan will either listen to her, or they will not. She will either make a good decision, or make a mistake. It is not our place to defy her, it is as the code dictates," she rolled her eyes.
"It's not your fault that she won't see to reason, Ratwhisker. How could you ever put all of this blame onto your own shoulders and allow yourself to think that it's true? Do you think the rest of them are sitting out there saying it's your fault? They're all pointing their fangs at the rogues. Do you understand? Those rogues are the enemy here, not you. They aim to destroy us and at least Thievingstar has the sense to try and stop them..." she glanced over at Nettlepaw's body again, curled up in a sweaty ball of slick fur and bloody bandages, "it's easy... it's easy, Ratwhisker, to say that a better medicine cat would know what to do. I could say the same of myself, of Thievingstar. A better warrior wouldn't have been this badly injured, a better leader wouldn't have gone to the rogues with only an apprentice to protect her. It's too bad, that none of us are better than we are. Truly, it is, but thinking like that won't save anybody." She rested her chin on her extended foreleg and glanced back at him.
With a weary chuckle, she added, "StarClan didn't do this to us... we did."
[attr="class","next"]It felt as if suddenly the chamber they shared had shrunk considerably. The air waxed warmer, more stifling, the traces of dust mingled with the gut-wrenching odor intrinsic to wounds that had set themselves to festering. A she-cat lay curled in a den nearby, balancing precariously between life and death, with naught to ease her suffering but offerings of poppy seeds. Already her fever had risen, so much so that even the moss nest—a luxury bedded with the finest down he could glean from the remnants of old catches—had been disposed of for the heat the feathers brought became unbearable, leaving her to lie on barren ground, a comfort only to one who was dying and had banished such things from their list of priorities. It was something they were both aware of, though Hawktail confronted the matter without pause. Her words were devoid of emotion, barren of the sentiments he knew she must felt.
She’s made her peace with it. Her own kin was dying not but a few fox-hops away, and she had sooner steeled herself to her grief than he who bore no relation. It shamed him, and he felt the tremulous hold of guilt overcome him as Hawktail spoke, steadying him where he stood with the sheer magnitude of her words alone; he could do nothing else but listen to her, and listen he did.
“As for StarClan and the Moon Cave? Well, perhaps that pretty cave is where the connection is strongest, but just because you can’t go there doesn’t mean that you can’t commune with our ancestors …. If I were you, I’d stop asking them questions and go look for the answers you seek.”
He met her gaze then as if the mere suggestion were preposterous. Had he not been trying? He wondered, for in his heart, he felt as if he’d done nothing but yearn for their help. When leaf-bare had ravished their forest and driven the prey underground, had he not yearned for them? Had he not asked for their forgiveness and wisdom to guide him when the rogues attacked, and one of Thievingstar’s lives had been ripped from her? How often had he prayed before retiring to his nest only to be met by sleep untroubled by dreams worth recollection? But then, that was not what Hawktail had suggested. She had suggested something simpler—something that could only be proposed by a warrior to whom such things as problems were met by the most practical solution. He needed to find them himself, or at the very least, learn to trust in himself enough where finding them was no longer a priority to him. Have I truly been relying on them so heavily that I’ve forgotten to think for myself? Despite himself, he was reluctant to bear witness to the truth regarding that question, though he knew it well enough, and so bided his time in silence as Hawktail pressed on.
On the matter of Thievingstar, he was surprised by the weariness in her tone. He noted how her shoulders eased themselves back into the moss, the way her eyes rolled as she spoke of their leader who once, moons ago, would have merited only fondness and admiration from them both. Now… now, what was she? A ghost. A shell. Whatever it was, it was not the Thievingstar they knew, and there was nothing either of them could do to sway her to listen to reason; her affinity for such things had, it would seem, vanished with the life that had been stolen from her that fateful night in the snow, and neither of them could bank on its return. If it ever does. If it’s not too late.
His brow furrowed, yet still, he held his tongue.
“Do you think the rest of them are sitting out there saying it’s your fault? They’re all pointing their fangs at the rogues. Do you understand? Those rogues are the enemy here, not you. They aim to destroy us, and at least Thievingstar has the sense to try and stop them…” his eyes wandered, there towards that empty patch of ground, smoothed to marginal comfort where a small blue shape lay curled, sides rising and falling, the dullest implication of life. “It’s easy… it’s easy, Ratwhisker to say that a better medicine cat would know what to do… it’s too bad that none of us are better than we are. Truly it is, but thinking like that won’t save anybody.” A dry chuckle left her then, her chin lowered, settled on an extended foreleg as her eyes set upon him once more. He saw nothing but a great weariness in the look they exchanged and reflected in her gaze took note of his own. We’ve both been stretched thin in all of this. “Starclan didn’t do this to us… we did.”
He thought on that for a moment, then lowered his head, his great, battish ears sinking to either side of his angular features, his bird-frail proportions seeming to jut and protrude strangely, more akin to a corpse stooped to grotesqueness than a living creature. “Th-then s-s-say it is our f-fault,” he seceded flatly. “H-how th-then c-can we fix it?” He studied her with the full of his gaze. “H-how do we make Th-thievingstr l-l-listen? H-h-how do we decipher th-these St-starClan f-forsaken riddles? If th-that is the meaning and it is action w-we need, h-how?” His frustration built, his voice rose, but he was quick in subduing it. “…I… I’m sorry. I… didn’t m-mean to raise my v-voice, it’s only… w-well, I s-suppose I j-just d-don’t know where to st-start.” Tags: catalysta Wordcount: 936
• flame born from dying cinders | whitefern • • primrose who flowers by starless night | iris that blossoms on stone bluff | jay • • ratwhisker | thunderheart | riverblaze | shrikepaw | acornpaw | cinderkit | mapleroot •
A range of emotion and reactions crossed Ratwhisker's features as Hawktail spoke, but she had no time for worrying about his soft hide. She was growing tired, her eyelids began to droop as she lay with her head on her paw. She noticed the lowering of his own head as her final words sank in as reality for him. She knew that it was hard for him. She understood the struggles he wrestled with internally. Perhaps she did not know those conflicts as well as he, but she could see through him well enough to have a fuller understanding than most. She had been there, beside him, for moons. To not know him after all that time would have been crueler than she could ever dream of being. Still, she would not cater to his weaknesses, to his faults. It would never contribute to making him stronger, if she did that.
That was all she wanted. A stronger self, a stronger leader, a stronger medicine cat. Ultimately, as a result of that strength, a stronger Clan would be born. Yet, as Hawktail lay there in her bandages, facing the reality that she was no longer deputy and her leg would never heal correctly, reality spoke of a different future. At her age, time was not on her side, either. She swallowed, imagining that if heartbreak was able to have a physical manifestation... she would swallow it whole so she'd never have to deal with it again. Unfortunately, some things were more complicated than that. She had to give up her dreams. They were long-gone; a distant memory of what she, once upon a time, would've readily killed for.
"If it is action w-we need, h-how?" Ratwhisker's shaking voice broke through her barrier of exhausted thought.
Hawktail lifted her drooped eyelids at him and opened her mouth but, only a yawn came out at first. She croaked out, "Truthfully, I don't know."
She averted her gaze, feeling guilty that she did not have anything immediate to say that would offer help or guidance, but unfortunately she was no StarClan oracle. "I suppose better questions to ask yourself are... what do we do if we can't? Because.. that is the point that we are at now, and that we'll be at for the foreseeable future. We are past the point of convincing her to reason, past the point of asking StarClan what exactly they mean. We are in deep over our ears, Ratwhisker... and so is Thievingstar. The warrior in me says that we have to train harder than we ever have before, and I fear that things may never be the same if things get any worse. Peace is gone, Ratwhisker. I remember you received that message from StarClan moons ago. The prophecy you spoke of then has long since come true. Perhaps these other unsolved riddles will also come true, in time, and then we won't have to figure them out anymore," once she finished her point, she sighed. She rolled further onto her good side and rest her chin against her chest so she could look at him better.
"Sometimes when we ask questions, we only open ourselves up to the answers we want. We hear what we want to hear, see what we want to see, and we close ourselves off to the rest."
Post by Egotistic on Sept 13, 2020 14:00:29 GMT -6
RATWHISKER | TC
[attr="class","next"]Though her grievances were never vocalized, Ratwhisker knew she tired. He saw it in the drooping of eyelids, the lethargic passing and return of glances, the weary breaths, and heaved sighs that fluttered her lungs and stirred her chest. And as her chin lowered, sequestering itself between two dark ruddy paws, he knew too how much their conversation taxed her, how not only the words but effort in perching atop her nest's borders waned at her strength. Yet still, she mustered up what remained to her, and in his final words, studied him with an expression that spoke of times long since passed in which their time together had been more favorably spent. He saw in the look she gave him dull acknowledgment, and then, as her jaws parted and the fatigue made her words croak and grate within her weary throat, he saw her as she had once been: strong and cunning, a pillar on which the Clan could lean. It was an image that had already begun to deteriorate, but he saw a semblance of it still within her and knew that so long as it existed, they had not lost—her or the morale they needed to overcome the obstacles the Clan hurled at them… and that he, too, could garner strength from it.
But her words were less sure. "Truthfully, I don't know." Then her eyes were turning away from his own, finding comfort in the rugged earthen walls rather than in his own persistent gaze. They studied the pattern, made note of the irregular and peculiar jut of root, but did not turn to him again for a time though she kept speaking in that time-weary voice. "…We are past the point of convincing her to reason, past the point of asking StarClan what exactly they mean. We are in deep over our ears, Ratwhisker… and so is Thievingstar." Sullen words and somber in their countenance; they did not instill feelings of regale from him, only pinioned him with the unrelenting reality of their developing situation. Had he mind to, he might have quivered where he sat; his limbs, however, remained stiff beneath him, his ears beckoned forward, drinking in every rasping word that left her—she who he had once called his deputy. "…The prophecy you spoke of then has long since come true. Perhaps these other unsolved riddles will also come true, in time, and then we won't have to figure them out anymore." Sighing, she sunk deeper into her nest's mossy confines, resting her chin against her chest, her green eyes watching him.
"Sometimes when we ask questions, we only open ourselves up to the answers we want. We hear what we want to hear, see what we want to see, and we close ourselves to the rest."
Is that it, then? In the silence that hewed between, ringing in its quiet finality, he thought on what she had said and wondered how much truth laid in the words she'd afforded him. Am I only seeking the answers I want and not those that the Clan needs? Discontent rattled his resolve, his gaze lowered, and his thoughts grew clouded in their own reserve. If Hawktail had spoken truly, then perhaps the answers he sought, he would find in less favorable places. Not from those from which he drew comfort of familiarity but the opposite. But then he hardly knew where to start in that regard—new less if he were even capable of shouldering such a burden… but then realized that, as they were, he had no other choice. For if Thievingstar would not listen to reason, if their ancestors would not speak with him and Hawktail was too weak to heed her duties, then who else but himself could he rely on—who else but he could the Clan rely on? Stars. But I wish it weren't so… A nervous breath trembled in his throat, restricting there, so his jaws parted ever so slightly. He looked to Hawktail, whose drooping lids had seceded in their fight against the effects of sleep, and he said only, "Y-you should get some rest. You'll need it if you're ever t-to get your st-strength back. And I… I'll think on what you've said. I'll…" his voice died in his throat. What would he do? Despite himself, he did not know. "I'll f-find a way to get us out of th-this… and to make you better—on my own if I must... I promise." He blinked, but by then, Hawktail's had fully shut, and her flanks stilled and waned in the intensity of breath, giving in to sleep.
For a time, he could do naught else but watch her as the pained lines ebbed and smoothed themselves as a weary breath slid from her jaws and stirred the fur at her chest. But a rattled cough beckoned his ear, and so he was forced—albeit reluctantly—into motion, though he did not leave her before first licking the fur between her ears and murmuring a soft, "Thank you." Tags: catalysta Wordcount: 835
• flame born from dying cinders | whitefern • • primrose who flowers by starless night | iris that blossoms on stone bluff | jay • • ratwhisker | thunderheart | riverblaze | shrikepaw | acornpaw | cinderkit | mapleroot •
