Recent content by DIPPERFROST

The first voice to reach her is Figfeather’s— bright, unmistakable, and carried easily across the slow-moving river. Dipperfrost’s ear flicks toward the sound, then the rest of her follows: rising from where she’d been crouched by the reeds, brushing silt from her shoulder with a light shake of...

The air around the medicine den still smelled faintly of mint and mourning. She stood at its edge for a moment, paws planted firm in the soft sand, her gaze tracing the pale grooves left behind by moons of hurried paws and herbal restocks. This place had always been quiet, but now… now it was...

The sun was already climbing by the time Dipperfrost padded into the clearing with a bundle of moss tucked beneath her chin and the smell of damp reeds clinging to her fur. Newleaf sunlight filtered down through the willow branches in golden slants, softening the sharpness that had clung to the...

Dipperfrost doesn’t rush. She arrives at the riverbank like a ghost returning to familiar ground, silent save for the faint crunch of pebble underpaw. The scene greets her with the heavy weight of water and breath— Foxtail crouched low and dripping, coughing with his whole chest like the river’s...

The river sang its usual tune—steady, cool, and low— and Dipperfrost matched its rhythm with her steps, claws clicking softly on stone. It was early, the kind of early that painted the water in soft light and made everything feel a little too quiet. Peaceful, yes, but she never trusted peaceful...

She hadn't volunteered. Not really. Kitsitting had been a matter of wrong place, wrong time—some half-hearted joke about needing more paws in the nursery and a ripple of looks sent her way before she could find an excuse. Now Dipperfrost sat by the river, watching the tiny chaos of kits blur...

Dipperfrost’s paws brushed lightly over the smoothed stones of camp as she made her way in, the low murmur of the river trailing behind her like an old song. The setting sun painted everything in soft golds and rose-washed hues, catching in the edges of her fur and turning the world warm, just...

Dipperfrost listens from her place near the back of the crowd, her blue eyes steady on the river rock as Beestar’s voice rises over camp. Her fur is still damp from patrol, but she doesn’t shake it out—too focused on watching every shift of the new leader’s posture, every carefully chosen word...

Dipperfrost moves quietly, her presence a hush beneath the willow boughs. The air is thick with mint and silence, the kind of silence that doesn’t invite words. It presses against her chest, raw and sharp-edged, not from the fresh grief of a relative—but from something steadier, older. Ferngill...

The river shimmered beneath a soft newleaf sun, its surface dappled with gold and pale blue where the light broke across the current. The SkyClan border was calm today—unbothered, undisturbed—and Dipperfrost found herself breathing a little easier because of it. No bristle of foreign scent, no...

The sound of Chatterkit’s earnest little quack still echoed faintly in the air by the time Dipperfrost stepped lightly around the curve of reeds. She hadn’t been far—circling the shallows in quiet thought, trying to clear the cobwebs from her head. It wasn’t often she lingered near the nursery...

Dipperfrost pads over, her steps slow and measured, eyes already drawn to the sad, crumpled sparrow at Silentpaw’s paws. The bird looks pitiful—its feathers askew and matted, wings half-tucked in awkward angles like they’d been bent the wrong way. Its tiny legs are twisted in that stiff...

Dipperfrost stood at the edge of the gathered crowd, her gaze fixed on Lichenstar’s body as if she could burn the image into her mind. The sight of her—still and adorned with herbs, woven into her fur like morning blossoms caught in river grass—made the air feel thin and the world feel unreal...

Dipperfrost lingered near the camp’s edge, her gaze drifting over the gathered cats without truly seeing them. The heaviness of their grief clung to her like river mud—thick, choking, impossible to shake off. The losses weighed on everyone differently. Shellpool’s grief was a tangible thing...

Dipperfrost had been drifting at the edge of camp, her attention half-tethered to the reeds and the gentle lap of water against the shore. It was habit, more than anything. Keeping herself just apart enough to breathe. But the sharp, desperate call of Blackwater’s voice sliced through the air...