camp AT THE END OF MY DAY | patrol report

[SCORCHSTORM]

The journey back from the border is made in a grim sort of haste. It is the kind that accompanies a found but unfamiliar body; the kind that hurries surgeons through emergency rooms; the kind that a wounded animal makes in its journey home. No such carnage has befallen the WindClan patrol — but stars, she feels almost woozy from the encounter, as if her heart had departed her chest with Rumblerain's receding silhouette.

"Scorchstar!" The newly promoted lead warrior wastes little time in communicating the news. In a brief moment, her gilded gaze skates about the patrol she returns with, lingering particularly on its warriors before settling on Thistlepaw with thinly veiled scorn. Gravelsnap will deal with him, at the end of the day. She cannot begrudge her cousin for being angry, but his loose tongue puts them all in danger.

Her fiery gaze ashes with sympathy before she restores her search for her flame-pelted mirror. "DuskClan was snooping at the border. We chased them away, but it seems that they were looking..." Scorchstorm does not hide her sidelong glance to the nursery now, "... for Thriftfeather." If only they could have taken him. The thought comes unbidden, but not unwelcome; it takes several heartbeats for anything close to guilt to pool in her atria.

Her tail flicks as she awaits her mother's reaction; as she awaits the joining chorus of voices from the rest of the patrol. All she can think of is the next moon's gathering — an invasion from DuskClan once more on StarClan's night of peace, a bloody sunrise, more kits stolen from their mothers' bellies. All she can think of is Rumblerain.

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 ✧

• ooc. tagging the patrol members from the thread / mentioned to be there, but no need to wait!
  @GRAVELSNAP @FROSTWIND @Periwinklebreeze. @THISTLEPAW ! @Vulturepaw @deathpaw
  apprentice tag for @BUCKFIRE ; and finally, seeking @SCORCHSTAR !
  takes place directly after this thread
  
• SCORCHSTORM —— lead warrior of windclan, mentored by sunstar & badgermoon . scorchstreak x badgermoon . littermate to rumblerain, frostwind, and luckypaw ✦ penned by meghan
  
  ✦ a broad-shouldered tortoiseshell with low white and dual-toned amber eyes. extremely loyal to sunstar and her family, and enjoys a deep connection to the moorlands
  ✦ demigirl / she they pronouns / lesbian / 18 moons & ages every 1st
  ✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
  —— will start fights / will not flee / may show mercy. fights honorably and with great ferocity. can tank a few hits, but is not the sturdiest cat in windclan. starts fights with the intention of finishing them permanently, but will not aim to maim or kill obviously young cats
  
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are in character
  ✦ full biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
  

• 

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[BUCKFIRE]

No physical conflict had befallen the WindClan patrol today, something that was for the better but also stirred Buckfire's curiosity as well as his urge to sink his claws into a real opponent. He wonders when the time will come, when he will have to face off with a yellow-fanged, carrion-breathed rogue. There had never been any real thought to the way he fought; he had always used his instincts to save his own skin. Now, with training from Scorchstorm, Buckfire felt more confident in defending himself and others. The idea of death and dying always lingers as a grave possibility in the back of his mind, sure, but it does not hinder his ability to live.

The chocolate tabby follows his mentor back to camp, an unusually solemn stare glancing at the other cats in camp and Scorchstar herself as she meets them. Buckfire had heard of DuskClan, WindClan exiles who were now their biggest threat. They had killed their warriors and stolen kits in the past. Upon running into them for the first time, Buckfire thought that they sure were as ugly as they were made out to be.

When Scorchstorm wraps up their remarks, Buckfire murmurs to a nearby patrolmate, "... What d'ya' think they wanted with him, anyway?" He doesn't know much about the Thriftfeather situation, truthfully, aside from the rumors and whispers he's heard going around camp lately. Had DuskClan been there to try bringing him back home?

𝐈 𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐀 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍 ✹ 　. 　 + 　 ˚ 　 · 　 𝐎𝐍 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐄𝐍𝐃 𝐑𝐎𝐀𝐃

• 

• 

  — buckfire / 33 moons / he/him pronouns
  — windclan moor runner / shadowing scorchstorm / former loner
  — sh chocolate tabby w/ orange eyes, bite marks on left foreleg, nick in left ear & scratch on right side of lip
  — click for tags

​

 

[SCORCHSTAR]

༄༄ The leader lifts her head as the call of her name carries across camp, lifted in the familiar voice of her daughter. An entire patrol pushes their way through the heather tunnel, a mix of grim expressions and enraged tails lashing. Something has happened, she deduces—obviously something has riled even Scorchstorm, if the lead warrior is coming to her directly after the patrol. "I’m here," she announces herself, drawing close to the returning patrol. Buckfire, Frostwind, Periwinklebreeze, Gravelsnap—all trusted cats, she notes. It is a good thing they were the ones to come across DuskClan and send the rogues on their way. The dappled lead warrior wastes no time in her explanation, and it is unsurprising that Thriftfeather’s name comes up once again. The tom is simply a magnet for trouble, it seems. "Do they know he is here?" The first question, asked with a flat expression. Gathering information, turning cogs, formulating. What sort of response is necessary, when faced with DuskClanners at their border but not crossing it?

Without waiting for an answer, she continues, "Did they want him back?" We can give him back. It would truly be no issue for Scorchstar, at least, to hand Thriftfeather back to DuskClan and to whichever cat has taken Granitepelt’s place as their leader. Perhaps he would be killed just as quickly as he crossed the border, or perhaps he would die alone and exposed to the elements. Either way, WindClan could wash their hands of the traitor and be finished—for there is no guarantee that the tom who so willingly left DuskClan behind, and WindClan before that, would not turn coat once again if a better opportunity were to present itself.

No matter that he has kits in the moorland, he could still be a threat to WindClan. And no matter how beloved he may be to the likes of Bluefrost, if DuskClan asks for him back, she will offer him up in an instant. Sunstar’s leadership has ended, and with it, so have his protections.

YOU KNOW I DESERVE IT ☽♰☾ WELL, TAKE IT OUT ON ME

• ooc: —
• 
• SCORCHSTAR ⋆⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺⋆ she/they, leader of windclan, tunneler
  ༄ small, slim flame-streaked calico with fiery golden eyes. cold and closed-off, ferociously protective of her clanmates.
  ༄ mate to bluepool ; sibling to rattleheart & rabbitclaw
  ༄ mentor to bilberrypaw & brackenpaw ; previously mentored pinkshine
  ༄ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted, but may react aggressively
  ༄ penned by foxlore

​

​

 

[TIGERSTING]

|| trigger warning- brief mention of body dismemberment(?) in second paragraph (no imagery)


There is a disquiet prodding the depths of Tigersting's mind, constraining her capacity to react much to anything; she floats through the minutiae of life in a daze. Despite her best attempts to remain as disconnected from clan politics as possible following her parents departure, she's far too devoted to turn a deaf ear to it all. On the matter of Duskclan Tigersting is whole-heartedly invested, they're simply unfinished business Sunnvar has tasked Scorchstar with. Scorchstorm's announcement that they've paid a visit to Windclan's most vulnerable border pops the defensive bubble surrounding Tigersting. The tabby immediately stops consuming her meal and beelines to the debrief between mother and daughter.

"They're weak if they only just now searching for him." Tigersting taunts, arriving beside the returning patrol and Scorchstar. Her slitted eyes sweep across the patrol to confirm none are injured. The fur along her neck bristles as she returns to quietly seething. We should rip out his tongue and send him back... I'd be the first to volunteer to do it. Tigersting flexes her claws into the earth beneath and bites back an outburst, a powerful urge to suggest this idea. It is an act of cruelty which may merit a verbal lashing from many of her clanmates and so she'd rather rotate such a thing in her mind.

It even concerns herself to think of such violence, especially inflicted upon Thriftfeather. She clearly harbors hatred for Duskclan, and therefore by extension Thriftfeather, but Tigersting feels an ache... seeing the way he looks upon his kits has created sympathy for him. Thriftfeather continously brings about the never-ending conundrum: what is the right thing to do? No wonder her father abdicated his star-given duty. The tabby swallows back her anger and manages to return her gaze to Scorchstar: she prays that she will be proactive and lead them into a future where Duskclan is extinct.

​

MINE IS YOURS AND YOURS IS MINE 𓃮𖤓°⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ 𓃬 THERE IS NO DIVIDE

•  
• 
  

  

• 

  daughter of & sister to || moor-runner of WINDCLAN || 15 moons || she/her
  — chocolate tabby w/ low white, fiercely bright eyes
  — a reckless cat with an abrasive personality [slide]​

  𖤓𓃮​

​

 

[THISTLEPAW !]

---

He follows after his cousin quietly, much more well-behaved than he had been during the patrol. DuskClan didn't seem interested in taking Thriftfeather back, but he would be damned if he said so aloud where the yellow tom could hear. "They know he's here." Because I said so is something he keeps to himself, for now. Maybe the mere possibility of DuskClan raiding their camp for Thriftfeather was enough to have Scorchstar send him off ( it's what he hoped for, truly ).

Frosted eyes lay upon his aunt's wildfire gaze, and something within them shines, pleading. Do what Sunstar wouldn't. Get rid of him. Protect WindClan. We are not safe with a traitor within our walls.

Deep inside, he wonders what Rattleheart would say and do in this situation.

𝐆𝐎𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓 *:･ﾟ✧ 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐘𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓

• 
  ooc. —
  
• 
  

  LH Seal-point with low white​

  
• 
  
  
  THISTLEPAW he / him apprentice of windclan
  son of Rattleheart x Venomstrike, brother to Bunnypaw, Crunchykit, Vinekit and Splinterkit.
  Lissom seal-point prickly-furred kitten with white markings on his face, chest, belly, paws and tail. His tail is long and has a tufted tip.
  "speech" thoughts

​

 

[Vulturepaw]

˖⁺‧₊ ☽◯☾ ₊‧⁺˖ 　Every one of Vulturepaw's nerves is on fire as he trails back to camp after Scorchstreak. DuskClan knows, now. They know that their clanmate is a traitor, that their once-stolen kit is alive for the taking. Ebonylight's cooing voice echoes in her ears, some parody of fondness from the very cat who killed her aunt. Their heart hammers away in their chest. It's all too much.

His first instinct is to go tell Thriftfeather. He no longer has anywhere to return to, should the leader grow tired of his presence. Rumblerain's words were clear: he is an enemy to his clan now. They nearly let themself break from the patrol, eager to duck into the nursery and let the warbling warning burst free from their maw. It is only as their paws begin to move that they catch themself. They are still of WindClan, and Thriftfeather is not. What would it look like, if he fled from his leader to conspire with the enemy? They freeze as though caught, wide eyes shifting over to the approaching leader.

Thistlepaw answers her first question, and notable omits the cause of DuskClan's newfound knowledge. Of course he just wants Thriftfeather gone, wants to kick out all bad guys so that he can play hero. He doesn't care who gets hurt to do so.

They let themselves fall into lashing barbs of anger, even as their body shakes.

"Yeah, you m-made sure of that," Vulturepaw mutters, fixing the younger apprentice with a burning stare. Fear wraps its smoky tendrils around their throat, and their voice shakes as they explain. They will be a good apprentice, report the facts to their leader. Only after this can they seek out the cat whose life is at stake.

He curls into himself, focuses on the ground by Scorchstar's paws. "They left after Thistlepaw t-tuh... t-told them he's here, said that Thriftfeather is..." he recalls the worlds with a thick lump of dread in his throat, " 'as good as d-d-d-dead' to them." Spat with just as much disdain as Rumblerain, but far more fire. For a moment he blinks, startled at his own voice, before continuing sheepishly. "So, um. I d-don't think they want him back." So don't make him leave, they plead silently.

I HAD TO LEARN THAT THE HELPING HAND ⛧ CAN BE THE SAME THAT HOLDS THE KNIFE

• 
  

• 

  
  
  "SPEECH"
  ​

• 
  VULTUREPAW ⛧ he / they / she, apprentice of windclan, eight moons.
  ➳ a spiky-furred dark tabby with amber eyes.
  ➳ skittish and dour, with a superstitious sort of pessimism.
  ➳ micheal x npc, adopted by periwinklebreeze.
  ➳ sibling to dustpaw, bilberrypaw, mourningpaw and weepingpaw.
  ➳ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ➳ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

​

 

[SOOTSPOT]

Sootspot's tail lashed with frantic energy as he moved closer, slipping into the daylight with sharp eyes and sharper thoughts. He looked quickly towards Vulturepaw, then, towards Thistlepaw, the corner of his muzzle twitching. 'You saved me a journey.' Over and over he'd repeated the idea in his head, content he'd have gone to DuskClan themselves and told them once his kittens were older. When the clan was too cowardly to do what needed to be done he was convinced he could've forced their paw.

Now, Thriftfeather's fate was dangling over the gorge and Sootspot wanted nothing more than to throw it off. Insults from the cream tabby replayed in his head like nightmares. "If even DuskClan does not want him, I wonder what we stand to gain by lowering our standards beneath theirs." He looked unapologetically toward Scorchstar, frowning gravely. "He had cross-Clan relations too, he has trespassed on land that does not belong to him, and his existence has taken food from the mouth of WindClanners. Besides... why has a cat deeply devoted to Sootstar chosen to have kittens with her daughter? Nothing seems... entirely healthy about that, it makes me fear what he will turn my nieces and nephews into should he be allowed near them." He shook his head, casting a withering glance towards the Nursery. 'Bluefrost... I hope you hear this.' "He needs to go before he brings a leafbare war to our camp."

​

 

[cottonsprig]

Cottonsprig lingers near as the patrol breaks through the entrance, Scorchstorm at it's helm, calling for their newly minted leader. Her eyes widen as DuskClan is made the conversation, as her sister's partner... is made the conversation. Something coils in her gut as she leashes herself, knowing full well that if the cat in question were fond of any other WindClanner, then she'd be one of the many eager to turn him loose. That her odd fondness of him is only for what he provides - his sister's happiness, and a father for her children.

"As good as dead," Vulturepaw stutters out, and the tightness in her belly loosens for a moment. Good, then... Good that DuskClan does not wish for Thriftfeather back. Good, then, that he may stay and watch his children thrive for longer. She cannot hold the gaze of much of the patrol, the tension in her jaw not leaving as she can discern that many of them are simply upset with the encounter in its entirety. Can she blame them? They do not have her knowledge, Bluefrost's knowledge...

Sootspot's knowledge.

The collar around her throat nearly chokes her out. She finds him in his preening, his despair and wishes to bite his scruff and peel his pelt from his frame. The violent imagery lives for moments longer as he is the first to put out what no doubt many of them are thinking. Shut up, but his power over her stitches her lips shut. Every word he says makes her stomach churn and her eyes widen as he says - "Why has a cat deeply devoted to Sootstar chosen to have kittens with her daughter?"

"You're disgusting," she blurts out, suddenly. The mere idea that Thriftfeather would've chosen her sister simply for her lineage shreds the leash and the collar all together. Fear of her secret screams behind walls of pure frustration and rage. Her beautiful, well minded, sharp sister - she deserves to be happy, to live without fear or strife. She is happy, if not a bit paranoid. Why would he even imply such things? Why does he hate them so, to speak such atrocities into the air?

"Do you not see them? You share a den with them now, and you act like you cannot see the way they look at each other? How he sees their kittens?" Cottonsprig pushes to her paws, a spark burning in her chest. "War? You heard Vulturepaw. They want nothing to do with him! Why would they trouble with him in the harshest moons when they no doubt will be worse off?" Stop, stop, stop! Stop talking! Sootspot could tarnish her every being right then. She sees it in his eyes.

She simply does not look at him anymore.

Her gaze moves to Scorchstar, "Juncoclaw left DuskClan. She's now here again, a dedicated warrior of WindClan. She's proven herself, so why can't he?" Cottonsprig pauses, and for a moment, she wonders if she's said too much. If she's no different than the tom that holds her life in the balance. Her tail swipes the ground behind her in slow-moving sweeps. "Please, Scorchstar," she pleads in finality, "Allow the council to discuss, at least. Dimmingsun has sat stationed at the nursery and no doubt knows how Thriftfeather has acted, Scorchstorm has seen the DuskClan patrol herself. It does not have to be a quick decision."

Perhaps to him, it is obvious. She attempts to wrench the power of an audience from his paws by stationing the discussion with council members only. The stadium of cats before him will disperse and his claims of her will soon after seem only petty, as if he's trying to stir gossip like any other queen. Will it work? For a moment, she doesn't care.

Bluefrost has thrown herself to the wolves for her time and time again. Cottonsprig can take the blow this time.

𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖ 𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐭 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠

• ooc //

• ❥ MEDICINAL KNOWLEDGE
  ♥♥♡ WOUNDS ; can confidently stop bleeding and mend lacerations. will often request that you keep your injury clean and wait it out first.
  ♥♥♡ INFECTION ; as a side effect of likely her own doing, very dutiful with technique and treatment shortly thereafter.
  ♥♡♡ ACHES & PAINS ; will defer to a dark tunnel and rest. if pain persists, maybe she will offer something.
  ♥♡♡ BROKEN BONES ; has never dealt with a broken bone. likely will ask that you never move. ever again.
  ♥♥♥ TRAVELING HERBS ; learned well from her previous mentor. will pile even too many remedies to tough the wilderness with.
  ♥♥♥ KITTING ; having kittens of her own and helped several others with their litters, she is very well versed with calming techniques and quelling pain.
  ♥♡♡ POISONS ; she knows what they are... but that isn't enough, isn't it?
  ♥♥♡ ILLNESS ; having worked through two yellowcough bouts, she is confident in her remedies. much else... she's operating on trial and error.
  ⸻ cottonsprig is a dutiful and excitable medicine cat. she enjoys company and loves conversation. she'd rather not have too many curious noses snooping around her den... but who is she to quell curiosity?

• 

  ⸻❥ cottonsprig is the primary medicine cat of windclan. a former princess to the moors, she harbors many guilts for her actions throughout her short life. she has no consistent partner, unwilling to commit and settle, and she is training celandinepaw in medicine.

​

 

[BLUEFROST]

She is present for this discussion; she hears Scorchstorm's voice ringing throughout camp, "DuskClan," circulating like a curse. Thriftfeather's name is pulled, and the smoke-furred queen tumbles toward the entrance, her green eyes swimming with turmoil. Her kits tumble about in peace, perhaps oblivious to the fate they are about to be subjected to — fatherless, or worse, exiled with him. Her fur begins to stand on end as she hears warriors react to Scorchstorm's report, and even moreso as she catches the dead glint of the setting sun in Scorchstar's eyes.

"Did they want him back?" Her question is cold. Flat. She would give DuskClan their pound of flesh, if it meant the horde of ferals could be satisfied for a heartbeat. Bluefrost's pelt bristles, her hackles stiff, but she cannot bring herself to speak against the tortoiseshell leader she'd once served alongside. Scorchstar does not even spare her a glance, after all; she is not considering Bluefrost in this decision.

Cats are beginning to yowl, angry, their fur spiking. Tigersting flexes her claws; Thistlepaw smugly announces he is the reason DuskClan knows Thriftfeather is here. Bluefrost stares at the two of them, then the cats on the patrol, her gaze searing. "They left after Thistlepaw told them he's here, said that Thriftfeather is as good as dead to them," a sullen Vulturepaw states; her own eyes are round, hopeful.

Bluefrost seizes the child's words — but, ever-present, the demonic figure of Sootspot begins to seize the limelight. Her brother's coal-smudged eyes flash purposefully as he addresses his newfound audience. "If even DuskClan does not want him, I wonder what we stand to gain by lowering our standards beneath theirs." Bluefrost's mouth goes dry. This is it — this is her chance to fight Sootspot — but the breath leaves her. Sootspot continues to tell WindClan it is suspicious for Thriftfeather to have taken up with her, that her blood had been what had attracted him.

The queen's jaws part. Nothing but an anguished gust of air is released. She wants to claw the features from her brother's face. She wants to send him to whatever stinking hell their mother is crawling through.

But who would Scorchstar sooner listen to, she thinks? Him, foul-tongued but in at least relatively good graces, or she, disgraced, buried beneath kits whose lives hang in the balance of their parents' misdeeds? Bluefrost's lungs feel tight, and she turns her face away from the spectacle in camp, her stomach burning.

It's another that speaks for her. Cottonsprig turns on their eldest sibling, her teeth bare: "You're disgusting." The medicine cat has stolen the fire Bluefrost cannot muster. She lays into Sootspot, into those who hold doubt in their hearts, reminding them of the gentleness Thriftfeather has shown with the kittens, of the way he's obeyed the Clan's laws. Bluefrost's throat closes; she does not know what to say. Cottonsprig has put herself too close to wildfire that encroaches, but as she meets her sister's gaze, she does so with gratitude.

Thank you, she thinks, and she bows her head. She has forsaken her power, her position in this Clan, in a way their mother never had; it is up to Cottonsprig to enforce her place here. Thank you, sister.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 22 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan queen. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue smoke she-cat with white and emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[FOXGLARE]

⁀➷ Foxglare isn’t really surprised that it’s come to this. Duskclan couldn’t seem to stop finding reasons to snuffle around their borders, and somehow he doubted that Thriftfeather had been all that stealthy in his little clan-hopping stunt. His sneaking back into Windclan’s care beneath the kittens seemed opportunistic, at best.

He sits mutely as the scene unfolds in the whirlwind rhythm things like this tend to go down in, blinking dispassionately as the apprentices bickered over whose fault it was that let Duskclanners know they were housing their deputy.

Thriftfeather was better off a dead cat. This seemed obvious to him. Sootstar’s loyalists had made their decision to follow after the whims of a dead woman who’d proven herself not to care about a whisker off of any of her clanmate’s heads, and had attacked Windclan one.. Two.. three.. (How many times since then?) All in the pursuit to fulfill their sense of entitlement to slaughter them all. The yellow cat had his plenty chances, siring a couple kittens wouldn’t be the thing that entitled him to receive forgiveness. Not in this plane, that was. Maybe their starry ancestors would greet him well. That was their prerogative.

For how nasty and back-pawed Sootspot’s speech was, the practicality in Foxglare couldn’t find much to benefit from continuing to shelter the Duskclanner in their nursery. Besides, of course, the fact that there seemed to be a few clanmates that were fond of him. Which was unfortunate, but he couldn’t reason that a likeable cat couldn’t still be a danger to everyone else.

Snakes could shed their skin, but their scales tended to stay the same.

Cottonsprig speaks up, and he curses her big heart. He watches her gravely as she pleads a case for Thriftfeather, and oddly, he finds himself wondering what it’s like to have siblings. She spits venom at Sootspot as well as any coiled adder would, all in the name of defending Bluefrost’s companion’s place here in their camp. He wondered if he’d do the same for anyone else. He didn’t think he could, not when he nested in the very place a Windclan queen’s blood pooled in a raid he helped lead only moons before. Not when he was going to be whispering in those kittens’ ears for moons to come.

“He’s a liability.” Foxglare says, bristling slightly. He knew that his opinion on this didn’t matter, not in the long run, but felt the need to say what he thought was true anyway.

It’s then that he realizes that there may have been other reasons why Cotton had spoken up so vehemently against Sootspot. She had her secrets, he knew well enough, and he knew he was not entitled to all of them. Foxglare shuts his trap, then, and keeps the rest of his thoughts within the simmering confines of his own head, casting one cold glance toward the darkness of the nursery and saying no more.

WE CAME FROM DIRT ⁀➷☾⁺₊ WE HAVE TO SWALLOW IT.

• OOC:
• 
• 
  
  — meztli . sun . fox . foxpaw . foxglare
  — he/him. 22mo moor-runner of windclan. Mentored by shalestripe. currently mentoring frightpaw. formerly mentored tigersting.
  — a scarred, hulking white and golden tabby tom with gray eyes
  — taciturn, vigilant, reserved, self-righteous, restrained, independent, humanitarian, unyielding
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by eezy

​

 

[SEDGEPOUNCE]

It was only a matter of time. This is what Sedgepounce gleans from Scorchstorm's abrasive report. Thriftfeather didn't have the gall to tell his own clan where he was going, and now they've figured it out. Now, it'll only be a matter of time before there's some sort of retaliation—against Thriffeather, against WindClan, it doesn't matter. Someone from DuskClan will want to set their claws upon the problem, or Thriftfeather will make some self-sacrificial ploy and betray them all again anyway. Whichever comes first.

The conversation they shared in the nursery sits squarely in his memory. Thriftfeather wants to be here with his kittens and his mate and Sedgepounce believes him. How many lives is he willing to sacrifice to let that be a reality?

It would've been better if DuskClan never found out, of course. Thistlepaw told them? He would've thought that one of Rattleheart's kits would know more about the weight of death. Now their clanmates' lives are at risk over an apprentice-wrought grudge. He's glad Bunnypaw isn't that tempermental.

Sedgepounce wallows in his cynicism at Foxglare's side. His friend's contribution is concise but no less valuable. Across them, though, Cottonsprig pleads desperately for her sister's case, and it's—ugh. It's optimistic. Terribly so. Sedge can't smother the grimace that crosses his face at Juncoclaw's mention. One DuskClanner's flimsy excuse for loyalty doesn't mean squat for another's.

But Sedgepounce won't be the one to argue against her this time.

"Well DuskClan doesn't want him and he doesn't want them, but all he's been doing for the past one and a half moons is waste away in our nursery," he says. The words feel like they're being dragged out of him. "Have we even gotten any useful information from him? He was their deputy for star's sake. Shouldn't we be using that?" Thriftfeather, the ticking timebomb that he is, holds a wealth of information that's just been languishing away, almost forgotten.

"Anything's better than just keeping him there." Purgatory can't defend Thriftfeather forever.
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