- Oct 22, 2022
- 714
- 261
- 63
Sunstride had disclosed a traitor's presence among their ranks some days ago. A weasel who sought to undo ShadowClan's natural order from within. Living alongside this revelation set the deputy's teeth on edge—every glance, every murmur felt suddenly loaded with ulterior motive, and it sapped at his ability to trust completely.
Today, the WindClan deputy upheld his pledge. Halfkit and Tanglekit, held captive for an agonising stretch of sunrises, walk on ShadowClan soil once again. And Smogmaw, hostage to a moon's worth of prolonged dolor, at last set his eyes on the progeny he'd never gotten to know. His and his late mate's precious little ones, finally safe, returned home. The crusted snot and tearstains decorating his chest were proof enough they hadn't left the moors unscathed, either.
But the day's triumphs are all but overshadowed by the unsettling truth that now hovers above their heads. To sink his claws in Granitepelt's throat takes precedence over any familial bliss; the camp's floor must run red before the tom feels redeemed. Fretful clouds waft from his lips. The hollow's silhouette takes form just off yonder, treeline flanked by shadow. Eager and alight with worry, he follows in his leader's stead as the patrol gains on the heart of the swamp, his vision trained on the two pipsqueaks tottering behind.
"Ready to meet your clanmates again?" he asks through a coaxed smile, ears tipped rearward. Few kits can boast acquainting themselves with two separate clans. He can only hope, in the grand scheme, their memories about the whole ordeal are coloured by whimsy. Childish naivete tends to glamorise tragedy and paint adversity with warm pastels, after all. "Everyone'll be so happy to see you both again. Give them your greetings and head off to the nursery—it's rather late."
Accompanied by a soft hum, he raises his head and diverts his focus to the warriors in his midst. Sharpshadow. Frostbite. Scalejaw. Together, they stood as comrades in knowing the full, treacherous truth. They do not shoulder the responsibility of unveiling it, however. "Chilledstar will be taking private action against Granitepelt, I 'magine," Smogmaw tells them in little more than a whisper. Grave somberness marks his features and draws his muzzle low. "Do not say anything to anyone; people'll be curious, but they'll learn soon enough. If he tries to flee, though... cut him, and cut him badly."
And thus, the patrol maneuvres through the pines that guard their camp. Chilledstar does not break their poise as they summon the weasel away.
A peculiar joy, one undeterred by the circumstances surrounding them, invades his chest. Haunches settle on the soil, tail tucking over tense paws, and he looks upon the pair with the softest admiration his gaze could afford. "It's so good to see you both. Know that I love you, even if this is the first time we've met."
Today, the WindClan deputy upheld his pledge. Halfkit and Tanglekit, held captive for an agonising stretch of sunrises, walk on ShadowClan soil once again. And Smogmaw, hostage to a moon's worth of prolonged dolor, at last set his eyes on the progeny he'd never gotten to know. His and his late mate's precious little ones, finally safe, returned home. The crusted snot and tearstains decorating his chest were proof enough they hadn't left the moors unscathed, either.
But the day's triumphs are all but overshadowed by the unsettling truth that now hovers above their heads. To sink his claws in Granitepelt's throat takes precedence over any familial bliss; the camp's floor must run red before the tom feels redeemed. Fretful clouds waft from his lips. The hollow's silhouette takes form just off yonder, treeline flanked by shadow. Eager and alight with worry, he follows in his leader's stead as the patrol gains on the heart of the swamp, his vision trained on the two pipsqueaks tottering behind.
"Ready to meet your clanmates again?" he asks through a coaxed smile, ears tipped rearward. Few kits can boast acquainting themselves with two separate clans. He can only hope, in the grand scheme, their memories about the whole ordeal are coloured by whimsy. Childish naivete tends to glamorise tragedy and paint adversity with warm pastels, after all. "Everyone'll be so happy to see you both again. Give them your greetings and head off to the nursery—it's rather late."
Accompanied by a soft hum, he raises his head and diverts his focus to the warriors in his midst. Sharpshadow. Frostbite. Scalejaw. Together, they stood as comrades in knowing the full, treacherous truth. They do not shoulder the responsibility of unveiling it, however. "Chilledstar will be taking private action against Granitepelt, I 'magine," Smogmaw tells them in little more than a whisper. Grave somberness marks his features and draws his muzzle low. "Do not say anything to anyone; people'll be curious, but they'll learn soon enough. If he tries to flee, though... cut him, and cut him badly."
And thus, the patrol maneuvres through the pines that guard their camp. Chilledstar does not break their poise as they summon the weasel away.
A peculiar joy, one undeterred by the circumstances surrounding them, invades his chest. Haunches settle on the soil, tail tucking over tense paws, and he looks upon the pair with the softest admiration his gaze could afford. "It's so good to see you both. Know that I love you, even if this is the first time we've met."