ripple colony CAST A LINE [ ༄ ] LONER PATROL

[RYESTALK]

——————————————【 She/her | 34 moons | Ripple Colony 】——————————————

【◈】Lately, it's seemed like they've had nothing but their fair share of troubles within the colony - the flood, of course, and now that they've found a new place to stay, it seems as if it's being snatched away too, the waters drying up and receding. A string of bad luck, to be sure, though Rye supposes it's not entirely unmanageable, considering they're pretty used to moving around. Her only regret is that they couldn't stay in the mountains any longer, forced to seek asylum away from the lands she and countless others had grown up with. This new area still feels strange if only because it is no longer mountainous, though she's sure that it would feel stranger still if she hadn't been so used to the colony's movements. They'll have to move on again soon, she's certain, though for now it seems they're still content to stay and look into the receding water. Perhaps one day they'll all set out to follow the trail of the river, carrying on until they find a new place to rest, or perhaps they'll head out a different way entirely, searching for some other life source - either way, Rye's content to continue her regular routine even in the meantime.

They had sent out a patrol to chase down the river today, she knows, and rather than join it, she instead opted to go out hunting, hoping to bring back something for those who might not have had the opportunity to catch anything themselves. It's not long into her hunt when she's disturbed by voices, cursing softly to herself as the bird she had been considering takes flight. Has Rye really gone that far that she's caught up with them already? Surely they should have already gotten farther, unless there had been something to sidetrack the patrol. Reason tells her to turn back, to move farther away from the group in order to continue her hunt, but curiosity finally wins out - it's not like she'll be heading back empty-pawed, anyways, her first catch already safely stowed away for later retrieval. Soft pawsteps carry her closer to where her fellows are gathered, though there's something strange about it that makes her brows furrow. That scent is unfamiliar, and are those voices she doesn't recognize...?

The scene before Rye isn't totally unfamiliar - after all, over the moons that she'd been there, the Ripple Colony has certainly received new additions - but the tension radiating from these strangers is unsettling all the same. They claim to be known as RiverClan (a bit odd, to be sure, but it's only to be expected from this new place, she supposes) and apparently this is their territory, something that Rye is more than happy to respect. "Yeah, we're just looking for where the river's gone and we'll move on out of your business here - no harm meant at all. Don't want to intrude on your space or nothin', honest," she adds, echoing what's surely already been said in an effort to help diffuse the situation. Though still on-guard, she's not particularly gunning for a fight - they've had enough trouble lately as it is, and she can only hope that these strangers don't really want to start anything, either. At this point, though, it's clearly out of Rye's paws; she and the others have said their piece, and now she's content to leave it up to Pepper and the RiverClan cats to decide what's to come next.

[penned by hijinks].

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[Petalnose]

There they were. Her nose had not failed her once more.

The lead warrior's claws unsheathed in preparation for call to battle and hostility, fur along her spine prickling and her teeth bared.

Petalnose watched the loners argue amongst themselves and greet them as if they were allies, her snarl twisting in confusion. They were arguing over something she had said, which she was surprised they caught in the first place as her words were originally of whispers to her fellow clanmate. Starclan, they ARE mousebrains. She supposed her assumptions lived to be right. They then made it a big deal, a sigh heaving from her lungs to express her annoyance.

She flicked her gaze to the dark female beside her, a look to see if she was as annoyed as her.

Sasha brought up the subject of water levels and her chin rose to the sky in the direction of the rising sun in fake thoughtfulness as Cindershade spoke. She wouldn't verbally answer, they didn't deserve anything from her clan. But it could be a hint for them if they paid close enough attention to her body language, which she had doubted. The sun and rain controlled water levels, they practically controlled everything in their environment.

She had came to false conclusion that most of all of the members infront of them were once kittypets. She confirmed it to herself when they brought up their naïvety about clan markers. Didn't each clan make it obvious? All of their scents were strong, a warning for any passings of clan or non-clan members. Wouldn't even a kitty-pet know of them?

"Don't act so naïve. Crossing clan borders is a form of hostility, our scents are strong- just how could you pass it? Why wouldn't you stop and slow down to think; Hm.. I may just be passing a cat's marked territory. You could of at least waited for one of us to answer your concerns. Maybe then we'll be more civil with you." She growled lowly. The tall tabby looked over to see what Cicadastar would command of them or say to the colony, her mind swirling in an antsy manner. What did he want to do with these trespassers?

"It matters because that's what threats do. Cross borders. You're lucky our claws didn't thrash upon one of you during that took place." And you're lucky that they're not thrashing out at you all right now.

Petalnose was just about to bring up warrior code, however, she doubted the colony cats knew of it. She would save herself from the headache of explaining it. It disappointed the she-cat that they knew so little. Wasn't it common sense? She could feel her head already aching from conflicted feelings and disbelief from their lack of knowledge.

Her eyes narrowed upon Rye as she decided to respect their wishes, her gaze still cold as ice but a simple “Good. Good decision.” Came from her blackened lips that finally held a sort of neutrality. Now what would their leader say?

Tags​

 

[CICADASTAR]

all too suddenly, there is too much — too many smells, too many faces and voices slip free from the tangled reed and an ivory paw lifts, posture brimming an affronted, wide - eyed astonishment. pride keeps paws rooted in place, claws never unsheathing despite the instinctive bristle of nerves that ripple along the ridged tips of his shoulders. in only moments there were too many of them : all slinking from the undergrowth, river damp, smelling of minnow and water lotus. cindershade meets them with an automatic aggression and he stands tall before his patrol, feels them crouch and vibrate with hostility — his muscles tense, but his looming stature does not waver. he watches, pupils slitting further with each approaching paw.

they were outnumbered. quickly, growing more so by the second.. but then, an elder. a fragile - faced molly, rough - toned with life despite the polite rasp of her words. ivory splashed, dark - striped features bearing the age of life in what he only assumes is a colony — an assumption promptly proved correct. as it were, these cats were not dangerous. they did not bristle and spit, claws do not unsheathe at his pebbles shore. they had trespassed, but the river wanes, and he would admit now — he would do the same, scent - mark or not. the little one.. one they call mouse, young and wide - eyed, standing puffed aside an older she-cat. it’s almost amusing, should he not have been at the short end of a loner flock.

cicadastar lifts a plumelike tail, curls cascading light and still- drying riverwater, ” a flood. “ it’s said quietly, thoughtfully ; not quite a question, as if tasting the tragedy on his tongue. quizzical blue eyes glint, pale as brimming dawn. there were far too many of them to take, too many to run should they turn aggressive, and frankly.. he was not to lie down at the paws of any trespasser. an ear twitches, mind skipping. after a beat, cicadastar lifts his head with a tsk, heavy ruff of curls swaying with the abrupt pivot. petalnose is snarling, snapping, and he swallows hare, gives her a look — before playing a tittering amusement, feeling it round the high apples of his cheeks, ” petalnose, petalnose.. all of you, stand down. “ a placating coo, tongue rolling on a friendly trill despite the slightest widening of his pale gaze.

they were far outnumbered for hostility, and despite his lives upon lives, he’d no interest in losing them to a band of loners.. and thus his curled tail remains lifted, almost jutting in position — a sign to those trained, those who know to look for it. be ready. be on guard. but to pepper, he merely perks his ears. a smile ; soft, pearl - toothed thing, phantom tenderness aching along the bicolored slopes of his face, ” please, don’t mind their defensive stance ; they’ve taken an oath. one cast to the very stars, to defend the land you tread now.. even at the sake of their lives. “ a lilting beginning, germanic vocals sloping heavily with a slow, silken sympathy ; dramaticism. it drips from each sharp - edged fang, blushing tongue burning. his curved maw dips, long curls swaying with the respectful dip, ” so i do hope you’ll forgive us our poor first impression. “

then, his attention turns back to the young one — the bristling kitten, spoken back from her place amongst the " my, and who is this brave vogelchen? " he speaks, lowering his arched muzzle just enough to seem less imposing to the shorter youth. tender as greenleaf wind a smile dances upon dark lips, fragile ice - laden eyes gleaming a warmth about the curves of tender laughter lines, ” my name is cicadastar, i am the leader of riverclan. “ it’s said to all of them — with a pause, a bitter decadence that seems to ferment on his foreign tongue. after a beat, however, he gestures to those around him, almost as if an afterthought, ” these are two of my lead warriors, cindershade and petalnose, warrior iciclefang, and our apprentices — mosspaw and hazepaw. “ a vicious, combat - hardy group.. but too small to handle the cats now pinning them with wide, starlit curiosity. his tongue begins to weave charm, tell tales ; an aura of gentleness, ivory features tilted into a haze of almost - welcome. what he wants from this conversation, he does not know — but a fight was not one of them.

” we live beyond these reeds, but leafbare had stolen our home from us until only moons ago. we’ve not taken this path since the freeze.. “ when waters were high and overflowing, ridding their drained island a barren, shallow lake. slow - paced blinks and puzzle pieces slowly fall into place, tall ears flicking back just a mite. they must have moved forth after the flood made theirs inhabitable, huddling at the edge of his territory where the water drains, ” where have you been staying? is it.. “ safe? he wants to say, scratches the urge to glance towards their younger members with a weary, judgmental eye. too recent memories of broken twine and crushing blizzard snow flit behind his minds eye and his ears fully snap, slicking back to his narrow skull like a serpent. instead, he thinks of what they’ve said — ” had the river fully dried up? “ had they been without water where they’d been? completely? and why?

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

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[iciclefang]

Iciclefang seems to blink before cat upon cat pours through the reeds. From bristling kits to the calm, resolute elder, these cats explain their presence one by one. The tortoiseshell is unimpressed, as her patrolmates are. Both Cindershade and Petalnose begin to hiss warnings, and she’s inclined to follow their lead. Regardless of what they’re investigating, they’re on RiverClan territory. She hardly sees why the reason they’re here matters, and she’s shocked Cicadastar tells them to stand down. He listens to their stories, half-baked or not, with interest.

The tortoiseshell she-cat blinks, but she obeys her leader. Perhaps he knows they are too many to fight. She knows if the cats had been hostile—if Cicadastar had commanded it—all of them present, even Sablepaw and Mosspaw, would have done as he tells the outsiders—they would have fought like LionClan to defend their land and their leader. She does not thaw, remaining stiff and posed to spring beside her superiors.

Cicadastar asks them if the river has truly dried up. She turns her icy gaze on each cat present, waiting with tensed shoulders for the response. After a heartbeat, she asks in her characteristic deadpan, “You said you were investigating… what have you found?”
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[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[Hazewish]

TRAVELER, YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED (AND NOW YOU MUST GO) ⋆⁺₊⋆

The adults are tense, with Cindershade, Petalnose and Iciclefang cutting menacing figures opposite the loners — but Hazepaw is utterly disinterested in their wariness. She stares, fascinated, at these strange cats. They are nothing like anything she knows: neither Riverclan, familiar and beloved, nor a threat like another clan would. Not clan cats at all, in fact, but a colony like the one that gave birth to the clan. A loose collection of cats without rules, coming from somewhere far away… She wonders what they’ve seen before coming here; what they’ll see when they leave, because it feels obvious to her that Cicadastar will ask them to leave.

Except he doesn’t. Instead he asks the warriors to stand down and his voice goes softer, polite and open, as he asks about the river: the thing that nourishes them all and causes them no end of problems. Hazepaw takes that lack of hostility as implicit authorization to look their fill at the colony cats. Some of them are their own age. How different are they, they wonder? They catch the eyes of one of the apprentice-aged outsiders and wave their tail, quirking a smile.

A part of them can’t help but believe the river dried out specifically so they could meet: Starclan itself, sending new cats to Riverclan’s infamously watertight borders. It feels like a sign. A good one.

[⋆]​

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[tempest.]

TAGS — The tom of greys and whites, like a storm - like a Tempest, like you! - introduces himself as Cicadastar. Like an elder would for their colony he calls for his patrol to stand down, introduces them as RiverClan, calls them by their names. Tempest makes a soft, thoughtful noise as she notes two of them, the apprentices, both are named somethingpaw, but the others aren't. Maybe they're siblings.

"Mostly." Her ears twitch backwards as eyes turn towards her, and she looks towards the other Ripple cats, mostly Pepper, as if garnering permission to speak. None of the others do, so she does, embarrassment burning under her fur. It's one thing to want to be noticed by the weird strangers, but another thing entirely to have it happen.

"Um, we're staying a bit further downstream." She points her nose towards the vague direction, and swallows against the sensation of sand in her mouth. She misses the mountains, where they'd had plenty of prey and water ... Her ears fall flat, and the young cat frowns. "It's mostly mud there now, and the prey are starting to notice that, so we wanted to see if there was any luck here."

With that she shrinks back slightly into the crowd next to Mouse, passing a hopeful glance to the other Ripple cats. They'd probably have more knowledge than her; she only knows what she's been told, too young to have observed much else and draw her own conclusions. Briefly, she makes eye contact with an amber-eyed cat about Mouse's age, one who hadn't been introduced, but her attention is quickly captured elsewhere as the conversation moves on.

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[Cindershade]

Her stance hardly ceases, only shadowed ears flicking gives her way to listening to so many foreign voices all piping up at once with same story. Their home was flooded, they were forced to leave, etc. Cindershade says nothing, for what could she say? They were still loners, still trespassers upon wet lands of billowing willows and swaying reeds. If she was a different warrior, perhaps she would feel a bit of empathy, able to relate with their story of being driven from there home. RiverClan had just moved back to the sanctity of their own, a safe haven after enduring moons of hardship. But she does not. And she never will. Her heart is closed to outsiders, a fortified wall of marble and stone. They would not see such passion from her, only a cold glowering stare from verdant eyes that held no feeling—only a fieriocity to protect her clan. She did not trust them, and she wanted them off their land.
It came as no surprise that Petalnose and Sablepaw pitched their own suspicions at her side. Cindershade keeps the face is stoicism, but inside she beams with pride for her apprentice. Petalnose was just as fierce, unable to hold her tongue and the lead warrior huffs with humor. She agreed wholeheartedly with the tabby patched lead, though she did not outwardly say so; her actions were loud enough. Her gaze flits to Cicadastar one last time, his accented tongue soft in ways that she was not. He steps forward, towering against her shadowed form, cloaked in a mottled pelt of snow and stone. Hearing his words, she is a bit shell-shocked. Usually Cicadastar was harsh, hostile, ready to unlink the chain and set his dogs free. But he does not. He tells them to stand down, explains their reasoning for guarded hostility. She blinks once, twice, three times. Unable to hide her surprise, the rosetted molly stops immediately but her stance does not. Was he mad? Did something hit him on his head in the dead of night? She watches the mottled phantom for a brief moment in hefty silence before breaking it with a hefty sigh, placing a step back to let him wheel the reins of the situation. He knew was he was doing, she says to herself. She trusts him with his judgement and relaxes the violent bristling of dark fur.
Iciclefang now speaks, tone ever cool-toned and calm. She nods at the question the young warrior inquires, her own curiosity piqued of the river's lowering over the past half moon. Unfortunately, it was mystery unsolved yet. They held no bearings or clues of it, and the lead warrior could only imagine what it could be. A voice coming from a bi-colored young molly now announces, she was young—no older than her own dark apprentice. Cindershade watches her with a still wary gaze, the tip of a patterned tail flicking absently. Once again, her gaze settles upon Cicadastar with this new information, trying to read him. What are you planning with this information?

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[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[MOUSE]

(=〃ﻌ〃=)ﾉ — Pepper's approach is a welcome one; Mouse looks up at the elder through round eyes, taking further comfort in her newfound presence. She'll know what to do; she always does. Her reassurance wavers, however, in the face of the other brown and white molly, the stranger who looks rather similar to Pepper, actually — but she's hostile, threatening. Are they gonna attack us? she wonders nervously, fluffy tail tip restlessly twitching.

But then one of the cats, a silent one up until this point, speaks, and instantly he becomes her favorite of the group because he actually sounds nice, telling his companions to reign it in with a far more pleasant tone than anything they've encountered thus far. A smile illuminates his darkened features, and she listens attentively as he parts his jaws to continue speaking, this time directly to her own side of this encounter, with round eyes full of wonder. "They've taken an oath," he says. "One cast to the very stars, to defend the land you tread now... even at the sake of their lives." Mouse has never been particularly good at concealing her thoughts and feelings, and right now the kit looks absolutely riveted. That sounds... so cool.

And then, suddenly, his icy gaze turns to her. The little molly's jaws part ever so slightly as he addresses her with a term she doesn't understand, but the mystery further adds to his draw. "Mouse," she squeaks, and then falls silent again as he continues. Her whiskers quiver with excitement at being addressed... by these cats' leader! He has a funny name. So does that other one, Petalnose. Actually, they all do, she realizes as he goes on to identify his party. They're interesting, though. Kinda cool. Except for the ones with paw in their names; that just sounds silly. Oh, they're pretty young, she notices! Not nearly as scary as some of the other cats.

But it's another thing that really catches her attention above that; the fact that they're warriors. Who are these cats? Her attention wanders with these musings, and she allows it because what help will she be in this conversation that's truly meant for the adults? It's not like she'd been attentive enough during the expedition to get an understanding of what they'd discovered as an answer to the tortie's question, anyway. The young grey one, one of the paws (which one specifically, she can't remember) smiles with a wave of their tail, and Mouse smiles back.
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[CICADASTAR]

a young bicolored molly speaks — eyes like frostbitten rivers meet near the same electric shade, though without a gleam of its likeness’s chill. she seemed uncertain, flitting glances back towards the older members of her group only to continue just as strong. admirable, and without hostility. the little colony’s fur lie flat against their water - toned figures, sunken and hollow at the edges. a little further downstream, she says, and hishgaze flits over her shoulder as if he could see it by her words alone. for foxlengths, however — there is only mud. and she confirms as much only moments later. she paints a brief picture of their life, their struggles, and his ears twitch upward ; a show of compassion, of condolence. of interest, ” you poor souls. “ a breath, something often sarcastic, coming from him — but it is genuine.. charm - ridden and velveteen as it was, ” the mud is no place for a cat. “

the mottled tom would know, marshland colony considered. a desolate, dirty place at the best of times — the young one likes her name just then and an ear twitches, the mid of his brow quirking upward, ” and surely not for little mouse! “ a concern, delivered as not to worry the girl beaming up at him and hazepaw with bright, eager eyes. did they have any younger? kits, even? he thinks of relocating their own, concealing sablekit — now a growing ‘paw — from the wreckage of their flooded camp the destruction of their apprentices den. what had they gone through, in the moons since riverclan had been this way?

blue shards flick back, meet cindershade’s evergreen gaze with a pleasant, idle flick of an ear — but he does not look at her for long. eyes mist where he pretends to gauge reaction, cogs turning near visible in his sloping skull. this group, this colony.. their numbers were large, large enough for paws to remain soft, sheathed. he thinks of thunderclan, despite the flare of rage that riots red hot beneath his fur ; thieves. vultures come to pluck at the remains of their leafbare tragedies. hunger, the old tabby had said. starving. mice run along the cracks in sunningrock’s jagged surfaces and they’d come to claim them. too weak, too beaten down from the moorland rat’s raid, too outnumbered by the hulking, desperate thunderclan scavengers.. a strip of territory lost to the paws of a clan too frantic for freshkill to uphold the honor they hold so close to their fox - hearts.

the colony looks at him with wide, wondrous eyes. friendly hesitance, trepidation born of moons worth of suffering. the molly speaks of prey scurrying further inland, and the thought stirs him into alarm — migration. the fish move along, the ones that do not give up, gasping to an awkward flail in low, receding waters. these cats would only move further upstream in time. torn from wherever they’d been and forced to move, to keep moving, to move where the rivers sunk. would it only be a matter of time before they, too, call to him for a slice of land? a pathetic bid for something perceivably deserved.. and what to do then? when the waters continue to dry, the fish continue to disperse, to die, the prey move along into the twolegplace for lack of resources and — riverclan suffers another attack. claws shed for food, for shelter..

but what was to be done? what could be done : a larger patrol, led to run these cats from the edge of their land? they had only just returned to their camp themselves, only wrenched themselves from the pit of starvation and loss by the tips of their whiskers.. they could not afford any more battles, not now. not until they rebuild, not until.. until.. he thinks of the child, eager and bright - eyed as she was in their presence. the interested looks, the ease at which hazepaw relaxes at his side, quirking a tail in her direction. when he refused prey, speaks for war — he thinks of ashpaw. he thinks of pumpkinpaw, of willowroot’s star - walking kittens, of his own. of his own, a vow only recently spoken amidst the cushion and silence of their moss nest.

what would that mean, should the river dry? no food, no water, no — no.

he blinks at his lead — cindershade, the one unfortunate enough to have been fixed with his immovable stare the entire time he’s been silent in thought. he blinks again. he grins sheepishly, apologetically before pivoting his head back forward, seeming to stand even taller now. posture straight, features open and bright. his eyes beam alight with thought, ideas. he needed to speak with his clan, with his council — and to see where this mud camp was located on their territory.

” well! “ a bubbling meow of a start, tail lifting. he lets the words come as he thinks, tongue brimming with a comfort — a friendliness, ” i believe.. that we could help eachother. id like to gather a larger patrol, to bring my cats down to meet your.. what do you call yourselves? “ a brief pause, before he continues, voice alight — excited, almost. ignited with a near impatient energy. a colony? loners? had they been a group, where had they lived? .. and what use could he make of this situation? he needed time to think, to talk. he needed to go home, ” tomorrow, at sun - high.. i would really like to meet again. all of you. i cannot trust strangers on my land, i’m sure you understand.. but i will not cause you any more suffering. “ their camp. he wanted to see their camp, to bring his warriors to investigate, at the very least — to know where they stay, somewhere where the river dries, ” stars by my side, you have my word : no riverclanner will cause you harm under my order. “

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  
  
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

​

 

[HEMLOCKSNAP]

TAGS — Oh, how they spit and sputter! Hemlock acknowledges Tempest's arrival with a twitch of a tall pale ear as a certain amount of indignation itches beneath the flesh and against the bone. More of the colony trickle in as the river trickles to its end; and yet still the RiverClanners bite at him, wolves on the hunt. Pale hue narrows particularly at Petalnose's barking affront. Some of his colony mates are happy to acquiesce in the face of the aggression-- Rye insists that they'd never meant to offend, even Pepper says little about their treatment thus far --and he supposes he ought to, too. It's true that they hadn't been looking for a dispute, that they'd only intended to scout the shy river and coax it back to flowing. But there is a twinge of distaste that surfaces as the RiverClan dogs froth. He is no idiot-- this he is sure of, and he does not appreciate the suggestion otherwise. Even-set lips twitch into a contemptuous sneer, and--

Cicadastar calls them off. He spins tales of their living situation, sweet snowflakes of words and sparkling apologies for the tooth and nail introduction. He listens carefully; watches carefully; resists the urge to call Mouse back as she stumbles forward within reach. But the man is kind-- or he at least puts on a kind face, introducing the rest of his colony to them. The other RiverClanners seem not to become kind with the ease that Cicadastar does, but Hemlock cares not. In his mind, they will move past this near-skirmish and go their separate ways to find the source of the river's problems. They need no help from these cats, and these cats need no help from them: but it seems he's wrong.

Tempest steps forward to supply the RiverClanners with their struggles. Hemlock's chest tightens; he prefers his weaknesses unseen, but.... He is outnumbered here, is he not? The rest of the Ripple Colony seem to relax into the idea of this aid that Cicadastar has offered. So cynical, Hemlock, the cream tom muses, though he does not truly think himself in the wrong. Skepticism still prickles at his spine. He levels the opposing patrol with a similar frigidness that Iciclefang peers at his own colony with, but he says nothing. At least, not until prompted: what do you call yourselves?

"We are the Ripple Colony," Hemlock answers, glassy and firm. He has been a part of it since its inception, though inwardly he repeatedly denies his own belonging. The mountains, he thinks, are more home than the mud banks now-- more home than even the full river basin. But those feelings will not get in the way of his pride now, as he speaks to Cicadastar. Reluctance catches the barbs on his tongue now, though; he hesitates to give up their camp on his own. Perhaps one of his fellow colony members can supply the grey-blotched tom with that particular morsel. For now, Hemlock is too skeptical, and it is not his place to make such calls about patrols; instead he flicks his tail against Mouse's side to call her back into her crowd, ears twitching.​

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