- Jan 15, 2023
- 608
- 168
- 43
༄༄ Sunstar is dead—or not far from it, at the very least. He is in no shape to lead the clan, to give guidance or to make decisions about what they are to do. Which leaves the problem-solving to the council… and their disagreements keep them all in a deadlock, unable to sway each other one way or another. If they don’t do anything soon, they will not have the time to make their choices—the fire will decide for them what happens to their weak, their vulnerable. They cannot argue forever. But there is no deputy, so there is no higher authority but Sunstar.
There is a point at which Scorchstreak is forced to take matters into her own paws. The fires are spreading steadily across the moorland, and though they dwindle in some places, every WindClanner knows the danger that they pose. Flame may burn itself out when it runs out of grass to eat, but the flower-laden moorland has no shortage of fuel. Already smoke fills the air in and around camp, choking the flowers along with every other source of beauty that the fields once held. The horseplace is the first thought of nearly every lead warrior, but to navigate the fires blocking the way would be too difficult a task, Scorchstreak thinks. What if the dog comes back? What if the twolegs catch them? What if a kit is separated from the rest, and becomes trapped? The risk is too great.
Their borders have each been set alight, it seems, yet there is one place that the fire will certainly not reach—one territory that will be safe. Across the river, a gorge’s width between the flames and their own singed territory… it is the safest place that she can think of to move the clan’s most vulnerable. The warriors can outrun the fires when at last they encroach upon the gorse walls of camp, but the queens, the kits, the elders—stars, Sunstar himself—need to be moved somewhere safe, and quickly. Even now, as she sprints through tunnels in pitch-darkness, the only thought on her mind is that she could be too late. She pays no heed to her stinging pawpads as she pulls herself from the tunnel’s entrance with a huff of breath and continues her dash for the twoleg bridge. Dappled paws touch down hardly a whisker’s width away from the first stone of the bridge, her flanks heaving with effort.
It is a difficult feat, waiting for a RiverClan patrol to pass by. She calls out a hello, but there is no response at first. Each heartbeat that passes is another lick of flame across the moorland, and it feels as though there is no time to waste. But she needs help. WindClan needs help. Scorchstreak cannot risk provoking conflict with RiverClan now. She flicks her tail in a quick greeting as the first faces of a patrol poke their heads through the reeds, thinking over how she will traverse this conversation.
She knows how she would react if someone approached WindClan’s border and demanded to speak to Sunstar without explanation; still, no warrior can give permission for what she requests. "I come alone, and in peace. I need to speak with Smokestar—as quickly as possible." She looks across the faces of the RiverClanners who greet her, seeking approval, acceptance. Or worse, anger, denial. She would not blame them for telling her to haul herself away from the bridge and back into WindClan’s territory. "Please," she adds, quickly. She is sure that she looks haggard, her normally stoic mask so plainly beginning to crack, but for once she does not feel shame for such a display.
This… this is worth begging for. Worth groveling for. This is worth digging a hole all the way to the deepest badger pit and leaving her pride to die in it. Her clanmates may despise her for asking aid of RiverClan, but she will not see them burn. She will not see more lives lost when they could be saved. But it is out of her paws, now, left to the whims of RiverClan’s warriors and their leader.
There is a point at which Scorchstreak is forced to take matters into her own paws. The fires are spreading steadily across the moorland, and though they dwindle in some places, every WindClanner knows the danger that they pose. Flame may burn itself out when it runs out of grass to eat, but the flower-laden moorland has no shortage of fuel. Already smoke fills the air in and around camp, choking the flowers along with every other source of beauty that the fields once held. The horseplace is the first thought of nearly every lead warrior, but to navigate the fires blocking the way would be too difficult a task, Scorchstreak thinks. What if the dog comes back? What if the twolegs catch them? What if a kit is separated from the rest, and becomes trapped? The risk is too great.
Their borders have each been set alight, it seems, yet there is one place that the fire will certainly not reach—one territory that will be safe. Across the river, a gorge’s width between the flames and their own singed territory… it is the safest place that she can think of to move the clan’s most vulnerable. The warriors can outrun the fires when at last they encroach upon the gorse walls of camp, but the queens, the kits, the elders—stars, Sunstar himself—need to be moved somewhere safe, and quickly. Even now, as she sprints through tunnels in pitch-darkness, the only thought on her mind is that she could be too late. She pays no heed to her stinging pawpads as she pulls herself from the tunnel’s entrance with a huff of breath and continues her dash for the twoleg bridge. Dappled paws touch down hardly a whisker’s width away from the first stone of the bridge, her flanks heaving with effort.
It is a difficult feat, waiting for a RiverClan patrol to pass by. She calls out a hello, but there is no response at first. Each heartbeat that passes is another lick of flame across the moorland, and it feels as though there is no time to waste. But she needs help. WindClan needs help. Scorchstreak cannot risk provoking conflict with RiverClan now. She flicks her tail in a quick greeting as the first faces of a patrol poke their heads through the reeds, thinking over how she will traverse this conversation.
She knows how she would react if someone approached WindClan’s border and demanded to speak to Sunstar without explanation; still, no warrior can give permission for what she requests. "I come alone, and in peace. I need to speak with Smokestar—as quickly as possible." She looks across the faces of the RiverClanners who greet her, seeking approval, acceptance. Or worse, anger, denial. She would not blame them for telling her to haul herself away from the bridge and back into WindClan’s territory. "Please," she adds, quickly. She is sure that she looks haggard, her normally stoic mask so plainly beginning to crack, but for once she does not feel shame for such a display.
This… this is worth begging for. Worth groveling for. This is worth digging a hole all the way to the deepest badger pit and leaving her pride to die in it. Her clanmates may despise her for asking aid of RiverClan, but she will not see them burn. She will not see more lives lost when they could be saved. But it is out of her paws, now, left to the whims of RiverClan’s warriors and their leader.
