ALL MUST CHOOSE | juncoclaw

[SOOTSPOT]

Few had been more opposed to Juncoclaw's gentle acceptance back into clanlife than Sootspot, who saw a cat that had run out of second chances and did little but provide a quotidian headache for the one who wanted to distance himself from his mother's former supporters. He had little to say to her, and her to him, and throughout her time as a quasi-prisoner, all he had done was offer her the occasional pithy jab, and then continue on his way.

It would be how he imagined things to be forever until Bluefrost revealed to the clan that she had a treacherous mate and wished to reintegrate him back into WindClan as a warrior. That... that changed everything.

After some deliberation, the tom had studied Juncoclaw's new bitterness and decided it must have something to do with Thriftfeather. The timing was too perfect, yet, he had discovered little else beyond that. Both a blessing and a curse had been placed upon his nursery nest, for him not understand the emotional implications of others, what Thriftfeather's appearance meant for the one who'd had to claw for a chance to even see Sunstar. Though her guards no longer moved with her, Sootspot watched the other move around as if he were one of them, and when he saw her slip out of the camp to go hunt, he was faced with a choice. A tenebrous glance was offered to the Nursery, then, back to the bracken. Bluefrost couldn't poison his own children against him in an hour... could she?

She probably had more important things to worry about, the missing foot of one and the sickness of another, but through it all, there was a desire to be the most important thing in her life, in all of sibling's lives. They had taken so much from him, the least they could do was repay it with the attention he craved like water in a drought. Reality was a vehement punch in the face, and though feeling an acrid taste at the back of his mouth, he followed Juncoclaw out of camp. Though his pawsteps were near-silent against the drying grasses, should Juncoclaw turn around, he made little effort to hide amidst the resplendent blossoms that bloomed in spite of the encroaching leaffall. It was supposed to be a comforting gesture, one that told her if he truly wanted to insult her or hurt her, he would not make himself so obvious.

Instead, when the camp seemed but a distant memory, the Tunneler acted like the leopards of yore that roamed such lands, and broke out into a sprint to catch up with her. He skidded on his paws to a halt a few lengths away from Juncoclaw, feeling his breath hitch in his lungs as his stamina sought to falter in the face of long-term injury. 'I cannot show weakness. Not here.' So, although his lungs burned, he did not breathe any harder than usual. Despite that, he still waited to speak before he was confident he would not sound out of breath. "There was no greater chance to speak," he apologised without saying the word for interrupting, his tail habitually lashing behind him. "It is about Thriftfeather, if you wish to indulge me. You have not seemed yourself since he arrived."


@juncoclaw

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[juncoclaw]

Thriftfeather's return to camp was a blight upon Juncoclaw's progress. Cold eyes had watched him trail into camp, kitten-ridden - then to the leader's den, where he had the privilege of defending his case, something Junco had not. And then, to the nursery, where he was allowed to stay with little trial, little tribulation.

Her soured tongue had grated Bluefrost's ears the very day of with a bitter question in mind. What had made it so easy?

At the very least, Juncoclaw is not still banished to a cramped burrow while her adversary rested comfortably in the warmed nursery with his loved ones, knowing no harm would come to him while his kits were around. Is that what it took - kits? Little pawns for a greater, selfish cause?

She'd done well to avoid Thriftfeather thus far. Even better that she avoided anyone, even as she dips wordlessly from camp for another lonesome hunt. With her regained strength, she could bring home more of a bounty to be passed off as necessity rather than tokens of her great effort and interest. There is no winning in this forsaken moorland, is there?

Some distance away from camp, Junco stops to taste the wind. The heather, the peat, the distant bite of food. It is the home that she had remembered, even after being ravaged by flames. If only the cats residing within provided her with the same comfort these grasslands do. So lost in her wistful thoughts, the rustle of pawsteps trailing behind her is all but passed over, hardly regarded. Until, in a brief moment of stillness, the subtle breeze in her ears seems to halt - it is then that the rampant thump of pawsteps and ragged breathing reaches her senses, sending her heart into rapid overdrive.

The molly spins on her heels to meet her assailant, fearing she is too late, for the beast is too quick, too urgent. She expects to see her life flash before her eyes before the glint of tinted claws scores out her remaining vision and leaves her for scavengers - just as she fears WindClan should have done long ago. Instead, Death reveals itself not as a reaper, not as death at all - but a forgotten heir struggling for breath before her, as if he had ran the entire territory to reach her. If the idea of such amuses her, it does not show through the scowl she wears.

Juncoclaw is left on her toes, with her hair standing on end. She has been made a vulnerable, fearful thing clinging to survival in the face of Sootstar's son, and it does not quite ease her to know he struggles with injury all the same. A frustrated hiss leaves her mouth, something akin to a cat-like curse, and she swipes an embarrassed tongue over the soft fur beneath her chin. "Fine. Could you have done it without behaving like a hound on my heels?" she mutters with a deep sigh, letting her own tail flick irritably behind her.

About Thriftfeather. Of course, she'd be a fool to think Sootspot of all cats could be intrigued by any other than the one that looks back at him from rainswept puddles when he bends to drink. She could roll her eyes and bid him begone, if not for the nature of the topic. With hard eyes narrowed, she searches his expression for any semblance of interest or authenticity. "What about it? It's not like you to ask about me," Junco returns, not with her usual spite but moreso of a bargaining nature.

He had been watching her closely to see what lies beneath her typical veiled gaze and business-like demeaner whenever Thriftfeather came into vicinity, she gathers. But Juncoclaw cannot imagine the sharp-tongued warrior to be anything other than self-interested, even when the inquiry is directed about her. "It's not a tough case to crack," she begins, with a dismissive wave of a paw. "While Thriftfeather lives comfortably in the nursery, happily knowing he had been eagerly defended by so many, I am on one of my first hunts after moons of confinement alone to win the approval of your leader. Would you be so peachy in my paws?"

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  speech is #6a7d8a
  

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• JUNCOCLAW ✩ prisoner of windclan
  ⭃ she/her ━ afab ━ 17 moons
  ⭃ a long-haired blue/silver tabby with green eyes, one blind.
  ⭃ penned by ixora ↛ @.ixora on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

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