#morelstripe

[of-smoke-and-stars]

Moon 0 - new beginnings

“I’m leaving,” Smokepelt had announced. “Who will go with me?”

“Thank you,” Smokestar murmurs, dipping his head in deep respect to the young StarClan cat before him. “Thank you for all of your guidance and support. I will not let you down, Teaselflower.”

“Who will be your deputy?” Teaselflower asks, his voice still high with eternal youth.

“I will,” Streakscratch spoke up at once, stepping to Smokepelt’s side without hesitation. He stood tall as he looked over the rest of the Gathering. “Clan boundaries should not separate us nor drive us to war. We will take any cat who wishes to come.”

"He will be a good support system for you, I think,” Teaselflower agrees, nodding once. “It’s been nearly a moon since your defection, hasn’t it? And your Clan has grown so much. Who else is with you now?”

“You young’uns will need someone to keep you in check,” Burnclaw grunted, sitting down heavily on his haunches in front of the two younger toms. “I will join you. If you’ll allow an old coot to be your healer, that is.”

“I don’t think Burnclaw likes me very much,” Teaselflower laughs, unbothered as ever.

“We wish to join you out here,” Rustclaw announced, though something in Smokepelt thought it sounded a bit more like a demand.

“Me too,” Riftpaw added, side-eyeing her mentor and trying to conspicuously copy his wide, authoritative stance.

Teaselflower tips his head curiously, but doesn’t comment.

“I can’t take care of us both like I used to be able to,” Morel grunted, nudging Thrush forward as the tiny she-cat tried to hide under her chest fur. “And she needs trainin’ that I just can’t provide, with my old bones hurtin’ the way they do. We heard you lot are friendly to outsiders—at the very least, I’d like you to give her a chance.”

“Morelstripe seems to be settling in well!” Teaselflower agrees brightly. “And I think you made a good call overseeing Thrushpaw’s training yourself. It will be good for her.”

"I’m sick of the way they treat other cats who committed the terrible sin of being born under the wrong set of trees,” Curlfox explained, his tail kinked angrily over his back. “I’ve tried as hard as I could to fix my Clan myself, and I’m tired of bashing my head against the rocks waiting for them to listen to me. Short of revising the entire damned code, I don’t know what else there is to do. I want to live my life in peace and harmony.”

Teaselflower’s brows twitch upwards. “He’s not one I expected to defect," he admits, "but I think I'm glad he did."

Currentplume had brought a rabbit with him—he set it down in the center of the camp and sat with his tail curled over his paws. “I’d like a change of pace,” he admitted. “And this is not a flight of fancy—I have thought my choice long and hard. Do you have room in your dens for one more?”

“Seems like quite a few lost souls have found their way to you,” Teaselflower hums, bumping Smokestar with his shoulder.

“As I’d hoped they would,” he agrees seriously, though his heart is warm at the size their little mashed-up Clan has grown to in one paltry little moon. “I’d like to be able to show the other Clans that we can thrive together regardless of where we were born. I think a good mix of cats born in all Clans will be the perfect way to do that.”

“I think your idea has promise.” Teaselflower touches his nose to Smokestar’s as he feels wakefulness tugging at his paws like the dawn sun on his dark fur. “Then go with my blessing, Smokestar, and lead SmokeClan well. I will support you with everything I have. Stay the course, and you will find your peace.”

allegiances and cats:

[of-smoke-and-stars]

Moon 2

"Please," Thrushpaw begs, rounding her eyes. "Please, Smokestar, if I do any more stretches my limbs are going to fall off. I've never been so limber. I'm going to go crazy in here!"

"No means no," Smokestar repeats, even as his heart aches for his apprentice when she visibly wilts. "I'm sorry, but Burnclaw's expertise and orders outweigh mine this time. If our healer says you aren't ready, I'm going to listen to him."

She whips around, and Burnclaw sighs as she turns that wide-eyed plead on him. "Stars above, kit," he grumbles, "I didn't realize it was so damn bad hangin' out in the med-den all day."

"What about something super basic?" she tries, working her paws in the ground. "Like—Like just a walk to the border with the dawn patrol, and I'll come straight back and let you check my wounds! I promise!"

Smokestar hesitates, then glances up at Burnclaw. "It might keep her from going stir-crazy," he ventures.

Burnclaw turns a withering look on him. "Whose side are you on, great leader?" he demands.

Smokestar shrugs awkwardly.

Burnclaw sighs again, rubbing one paw over his face. "Alright, here's my only offer," he finally relents. "You can go on border patrols."

Thrushpaw springs upright, opening her mouth. Burnclaw puts one paw between her ears and flattens her sternly back to the earth.

"At least for this first quarter moon, no going out in the rain, no hunting, no battle training, no running, and you've got to come straight back to let me check your wounds. If you're feeling better in a few days, we'll consider something more. Is that clear?"

"Yes!" Thrushpaw exclaims, beaming up from under his paw. "Thank you, Burnclaw! I promise I'll be careful!"

Thrushpaw has been cleared for very basic training with Smokestar, as long as she returns to the medicine den every evening for Burnclaw to check her wounds and doesn’t overexert herself.

...

It’s unusually hot for this early in newleaf; tempers are already running short and patience is in short supply. Curlfox’s head is held low, grinding his back teeth as he listens to Rustclaw brag about his proficiency at climbing trees yet again. Even worse, Currentplume seems to be encouraging him. (Well, at the very least, isn’t dis-couraging him.)

“That’s one thing we’re taught as apprentices,” Rustclaw says, “is how to hunt in trees. It’s sort of our thing.”

“That’s so fascinating,” Currentplume says cheerfully. “Aren’t you worried about apprentices falling and getting hurt?”

“Well, we start them in small trees, of course.” (Of course, Curlfox thinks sarcastically, rolling his eyes.) “That way, when they inevitably lose their pawholds—you have to learn how to fall, too, just so you know how to do it safely—they don’t fall nearly as far. Bruises heal faster than broken bones, after all.”

Leaves rustle overhead and Curlfox instinctively looks up. A squirrel leaps from one tree to another, a beech nut held in its mouth. It settles down against the trunk and starts turning the nut in its paws, gnawing the hard outer shell off. It doesn’t seem to notice them, if its lazily bouncing tail is any indication.

Rustclaw steps past Curlfox—he’s seen it too. “Watch and see,” he whispers, starting to claw up the neighboring tree.

“Rustclaw, no,” Curlfox hisses, but it’s no use—he either doesn’t hear or pretends to be out of earshot. Curlfox lashes his tail. “Stupid tom.”

Currentplume steps up to his side, giving Curlfox a patient side-eye. “Worst thing he does is scare the squirrel away,” he whispers. “We’ve got plenty of territory to hunt.”

“Worst thing he does is break his neck,” Curlfox mutters, not taking his eyes off the ginger tom for a heartbeat, but he doesn’t do much else.

Rustclaw does make it to a branch just above the squirrel, and creeps slowly out toward the end of it. Just as it starts to bow under his weight, the squirrel pauses, then raises its nose into the air. Curlfox holds his breath.

Rustclaw leaps a second before the squirrel turns toward him. With a shriek, the squirrel drops its nut and lunges for the tree trunk. Sharp claws hook it in the tail, but Rustclaw hasn’t judged his jump properly—he slams into the trunk of the tree, loses his grip, and tumbles out with a yowl.

Curlfox isn’t sure if he or Currentplume echo the screech as Rustclaw falls, unable to snag a pawhold, and lands awkwardly on one shoulder. By the time the other two toms have rushed to his side, he’s already on all fours, shaking leave and twigs from his fur, fluffed up in panic.

There’s a clump of gray fur stuck between his toes, but the squirrel is gone.

Rustclaw tries to show off, but it screws up the coordination of the entire patrol. Wonderful. Great job, Rustclaw.

Rustclaw had a bad fall while taking a walk through the territory, returning to camp sore and bruised.

…

“Do you think herbs grow on trees?” Burnclaw growls, digging through his stores.

Rustclaw hesitates, then opens his mouth to venture that yes, actually, he does think that’s where leaves grow.

“Don’t,” Thrushpaw recommends from nearby, dutifully licking a pungent green slime into the bite on her shoulder. He shuts his mouth.

“Newleaf has only just hit its stride—and Morelstripe already has the seasonal sniffles!” Burnclaw continues angrily. “I don’t have herbs to waste on every little warrior who decides to show off skills he clearly isn’t used to honing.”

Anger and embarrassment well in Rustclaw, hot and sharp, and he draws himself to height and snaps, “I don’t need to be scolded like I’m just some kit!”

Burnclaw tosses a clump of leaves at his paws. “Then don’t act like one,” he retorts, rolling a poppy head under his paw until a single little black seed tumbles out. “Here. Ragwort and juniper, and a poppy seed. Don’t come whining to me that you’re still sore later.”

Rustclaw bares his teeth. “Fine,” he grits out, taking the seed onto his tongue before snatching the leaves up in his teeth. “Thanks for the lecture.”

He whips around and storms out, though Burnclaw does shout, “And next time you get hurt doing something dumb, at least bring back some prey about it!” to his retreating tail. Rustclaw chomps on the bitter leaves in his jaws to keep from shouting back.

Burnclaw is complaining that Rustclaw never does anything helpful.  

...

“What are you doing here?”

Streakscratch raises his head from the bush he’s sniffing to find a cat with a dizzying white and gray coat patten studying him with wide, mismatched eyes.

“Oh—hello.” He stands up straight, kinking his tail over his back, hoping he seems friendly enough. “My name is Streakscratch.”

“That isn’t what I asked, actually.”

Streakscratch’s shoulders twitch at the edge in her voice. “We live nearby,” he says. “My Clan and me. I’m sure you’ve heard of—”

“What I’ve heard,” she interrupts sharply, “is that all the groups live further away than this. You’re a little too close to my den for my liking.”

“Uh.” Streakscratch clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I think we got off on the wrong paw. I don’t think I caught your name.”

“I don’t think I threw it.” She starts to fluff up her fur. “I’ve made my home here this season, and I don’t intend to share it with other cats.”

“Okay. Sure. Uh, would—would you tell me where your home is? Just so we don’t get too—”

With a furious snarl, she lunges at him. Unprepared, Streakscratch tries to rear up, but he only gets a little off-balance before she barrels into him and knocks him backwards. He tumbles a little ways down the slope and yelps as he hits an exposed tree root, then scrambles back to his feet, dizzy and disoriented.

“Alright, alright, message received!” he exclaims as she growls, ears flattened to her head and tail puffed up like a cattail in fluff. “We won’t bother you! Great StarClan above.”

She snorts, tearing up a pawful of grass. “You’d best not,” she growls through bared teeth, “or I won’t be so patient next time.”

…

“Sounds a bit like Twig.”

Streakscratch looks up, wincing as Burnclaw rubs his paws (maybe a touch harshly) over the sore muscles in his shoulders. Thrushpaw, next in line for Burnclaw’s examination, and Smokestar, accompanying Thrushpaw and listening to Streakscratch’s tale, both look up at Morelstripe as the older she-cat speaks.

“You know her?” Smokestar prompts.

“Sorta.” Morelstripe licks one paw thoughtfully. “She got two different eyes, yeah? Only one cat I know that way. She comes and goes as she likes, and really likes makin’ her newleaf den in the caves on the other side of that hill. Nasty personality she’s got. Bit of a brat. She should be out of our fur by greenleaf proper. She don’t stay in one place for too long.”

Streakscratch fought a rogue, but was barely even hurt! He’s a bit scraped up, but a few scrapes are better than clawmarks.

The Clan has encountered Twig.

...

Riftspeckle has fully lost track of Curlfox. Nerves are starting to beat against her ribs—what happened with Thrushpaw is still fresh in her mind, of course—though she tries telling herself that this is different, of course, because Curlfox has been a warrior for a long time, and he’s able to take care of himself…

“…seen you around before.”

Her ears twitch upwards, and she opens her mouth to taste the air. The wind is blowing from behind her—she can’t smell anything, especially not whatever cat that strange mew belongs to.

Dropping to a crouch, Riftspeckle draws herself forward, creeping through the grass toward the border.

“I’ve not lived here long,” Curlfox is saying when Riftspeckle finally gets close enough to see. He’s sitting on their side of the border, speaking to a pretty brown she-cat. “Our group lives thicker in the woods that way.” He indicates with his tail.

“I didn’t think any groups lived out this far,” she says, amber eyes round with interest.

“We do now.” Curlfox dips his head. “I’m sorry, I’ve got work to do.”

“Ah, right! Sorry to keep you.” She dips her head as well and stretches, curling her long tail over her back. “Maybe I’ll see you around! Bye, Curlfox!”

She turns and trots away, toward the edge of the forest where Riftspeckle knows the plains lay beyond. When she’s nearly out of sight, Riftspeckle jolts in surprise as Curlfox says, “Didn’t Rustclaw teach you that it’s not polite to eavesdrop?”

Chastised, Riftspeckle pulls herself out from the grass and shakes her fur out. “I didn’t want to interrupt,” she admits, “in case she turned hostile with two of us here. Who was that?”

“Says her name is Otter. She’s a wanderer who lives nearby, for now.” Curlfox stands and yawns. “Not anyone of concern yet.”

Riftspeckle watches the point where Otter had disappeared. “Does she want to join us?”

“Dunno. Not my place to invite her.” He pads past her, back the way she’d come. “Did you catch anything else?”

She hesitates a moment longer before turning to hurry after Curlfox. “A chipmunk—I buried it right back here.”

Curlfox was seen talking calmly to a loner before both cats went their separate ways.

The Clan has encountered Otter.

…

“I know your training has been unorthodox and sporadic these last two moons,” Smokestar says, beaming down at her, “but even with your injuries, you’ve made leaps and bounds in your training. Thrushpaw, I believe you’ve proven yourself more than capable—from this moment forth, you’ll be known as Thrushhare. We celebrate your affection and charisma, and welcome you as a full member of SmokeClan.”

Thrushhare beams up at him as Morelstripe rubs her chin against her shoulder, purring almost louder than the rest of the Clan cheering her name.

Smokestar calls the Clan to a meeting and declares Thrushpaw to be a warrior. She is now called Thrushhare, and is celebrated for her affection.

...

THRUSHHARE HAS A LITTLE HEART ON HER FLANK ASDFJKLSDF-

[of-smoke-and-stars]

Moon 3 / Moon 4

It’s nearly greenleaf proper when Burnclaw declares her fully healed.

Thrushhare stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before springing to all four paws. “Really?”

“Last moon, you couldn’t wait to get out of here,” Burnclaw scolds grumpily, sorting leaves near the spilling pool in the back. “Or are you just keen to argue with your healer no matter what I say?”

“Just making sure!” Thrushhare does a little twisting leap, nearly knocking her head against the tree roots that make up the entrance of the healer’s den, then lands neatly back on all fours. “I can go back to full duty right away, then?”

“’Long as you don’t go doing nothin’ foolish,” he instructs, twisting around to look firmly at her, standing planted in the midday sun filtering through the leaves overhead. “Like gettin’ hurt again, hear me, kit?”

“Absolutely!” In a burst of energy, Thrushhare springs to his side and headbutts him under the chin, purring loudly. “Thank you, Burnclaw!”

“Right, right,” he grumbles, though he does pat her on the shoulder with one paw. “Go on and get before you scatter my stores runnin’ about like a kit.”

“Yes, of course! Thank you!” The second half of her sentence is flung over her shoulder as she tears out of the medicine den, calling for Smokestar as she goes, tail and ears held high.

Burnclaw heaves a big sigh and turns back toward his stores. Rustclaw has finally stopped griping about his bruises, and neither he nor Streakscratch seemed too stiff when he watched them stretching before the dawn patrol this morning. They’re both back in fighting shape. Morelstripe is his only concern, and she’s only swinging by once every pawful of days for some medicine for her running nose.

The Clan is healthy as horses. Now he might finally get some peace and quiet.

Sorting the borage and yarrow he’s just collected doesn’t take him long, and the moss is still fresh enough for at least another quarter moon. He bends down to sniff his little leaf-wrapped stores of juniper berries, and winces as his shoulders creak when he sits back up. With a heavy sigh, he sits back on his haunches, looking up at the roof of the den, in the hollowed roots of a still-green half-felled tree.

How many seasons have I seen, now?

Across the camp, Thrushhare announces to some cat that she’s healed.

The youngest blood they’ve got, and no interest at all in healing.

Rustclaw’s bruises have disappeared

Streakscratch’s scrapes are all better.

The rat bite Thrushhare had gotten has healed. She grooms her pelt, happy to find the tears and wounds in it gone.

Burnclaw thinks about getting a new set of paws to help him out.

...

“I just think my skills are better suited to something a little more…diplomatic,” Riftspeckle ventures.

Smokestar cocks his head. “What do you mean?”

She shrugs faintly. “Back in the old-growth forest, we had a cat that was sort of…a peacekeeper. It was a new idea that Furzestar implemented not long before we left, but I think it could be a good thing to try. Especially if we’re going to plan on going to Gatherings,” she adds after a pause.

Streakscratch sits up. “How do you know about that?”

She gives him a somewhat exasperated look. “There are nine cats in this camp,” she reasons. “When patrols are out, there’s, like, four of us, tops. It’s hard not to hear conversations when they’re the only thing happening in an empty camp.”

Riftspeckle turns her attention back to Smokestar. “It wouldn’t be just mediating disagreements within camp,” she explains, “but between all the Clans.”

“That’s a leader’s job, usually,” Smokestar begins.

“Sometimes, sending the head of a camp into the heart of another can ruffle more pelts than it can soothe,” she reasons. “And this won’t mean the end of me partaking in warrior duties—I’ll still hunt and patrol and everything like usual, but when something happens, before claws extend, I’d like to be able to have a chance to try to smooth things over.”

Smokestar and Streakscratch exchange a thoughtful look—so unlike her mentor, they both seem to silently agree—before Smokestar inclines his head. “Alright, Rift. I’m willing to give it a try.”

She beams at him. “I won’t let you down,” she promises again.

Riftspeckle has become a mediator.

...

Of course the peace and quiet couldn’t last long.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Burnclaw meows aloud as, supported on one side by a snickering Curlfox, Smokestar limps across camp, head held low. “What on earth has happened to you?”

“I…slipped,” Smokestar admits through his whiskers, tail twitching.

“Nose-first straight into the sand by the stream,” Curlfox explains, mew quaking with laughter. “I told him we weren’t hunting for water voles, but it doesn’t really seem to have stopped anything.”

“Yes, thank you, Curlfox,” Smokestar sighs, though his chin ducks further and takes any of the bite out of his words.

“Stars above. And right after Morelstripe finally stopped buggin’ me. Can’t a cat get a single moment of rest?”

“I’m—sorry,” Smokestar ventures. “It’s—It’s probably okay.”

“If you can’t walk on it, it’s a little north of okay.” Burnclaw turns and holds the hanging vine curtain aside with his tail. “Get in here, then, esteemed leader, and let me take a proper look at you.”

Morelstripe’s running nose has finally stopped running…

…just as Smokestar misstepped and slipped from a rock, spraining his paw.

...

An excited yowl draws Morelstripe’s attention from her conversation with Currentplume, and Riftspeckle and Rustclaw hurry back into camp, laden with prey.

“Looks like things are running well,” Currentplume calls. Riftspeckle’s tail curls at the praise, borne down with a starling and a rabbit, but it’s Rustclaw who sets his pawful of mice down and turns back toward the bracken tunnel to hold it open with one broad shoulder.

“Wasn’t Thrushhare with that patrol?” Morelstripe asks, sitting upright. She needn’t have worried, of course—though it is curious why her long white tail appears first, moving backwards through the tunnel, dragging something along.

Smokestar appears at the mouth of the medicine den, ears twitching, and starts limping across the camp, hobbling awkwardly on three paws with the fourth bandaged and held close to his chest. Burnclaw trails after him, shaking his head in exasperation. “What’s the racket about?”

From the warriors’ den, Streakscratch and Curlfox appear, both rumpled with disturbed sleep. “Better not be an attack,” Streakscratch grumbles.

Rustclaw bends down to help Thrushhare with whatever she’s dragging where it’s gotten stuck, and together, the haul it into the open. Riftspeckle bundles their other prey out of the way as Thrushhare swings around and triumphantly drops her catch.

It’s—a turkey. Not a full grown one, with some downy-soft feathers on the chest, but with sleek full wing feathers and still larger than her.

“Thrush caught it!” Rustclaw announces, bumping her shoulder proudly. “We ambushed a hen and poults on accident, and Thrushhare leapt on one before it could get away!”

Thrushhare caught a turkey.

Smokestar’s mouth falls open, staring down at the bird. Morelstripe imagines she must look similar, gaping at the creature. Curlfox and Streakscratch approach it, sniffing curiously.

“That will feed most of us easily,” Currentplume finally says. “And all those feathers—our nests will have never been softer!”

“Well done, Thrushhare!” Smokestar finally says, and Thrushhare’s chin cranes with pride.

Morelstripe isn’t aware she’s purring until Thrushhare turns to look at her, entire posture aglow, and Morelstripe pads over to bundle her kit against her chest. “What a fine young warrior you’ve become, love,” she praises, licking Thrushhare’s ears.

Morelstripe is amazed at how skilled Thrushhare really is.

...

man every time clangen gives me a few quiet moons in a row i get so nervous that something insane is about to go down

thrushhare is everyone's absolute favorite, rng has given her main-character-itis like no one else, it's so funny to me

also - tiny little lore drop about the other clans! there'll be gatherings soon!

[of-smoke-and-stars]

Moon 1

“From this moment on, you will be known as Riftspeckle,” Smokestar announces. “We honor your emotional maturity and your compassion, and we are proud to welcome you as a full warrior of SmokeClan.”

As her name rises to the sunset sky, Riftspeckle sits with her chest puffed out, beaming up at Smokestar. “I won’t let you down,” she vows.

Riftpaw has become Riftspeckle. She is honored for her emotional maturity.

...

“I think the Clan is growing well,” Streakscratch says through a mouthful, batting some feathers off his chin.

“It is,” Smokestar agrees, looking around the camp with pride. “Teaselflower has had nothing but positive things to say, too. If StarClan is with us, I don’t think we can fail.”

As he’d been speaking, Streakscratch’s attention had disappeared over his shoulder; now he flicks his ears indicatively. “Apprentice at sunrise,” he notes.

Smokestar turns to see Thrushpaw hovering awkwardly nearby, holding a mouse by its tail. Smokestar beckons with his head, and she approaches, setting her prey down a respectful distance away.

“I-I was just wondering if I could join you,” she asks uncertainly. “Morelstripe is sleeping and I don’t want to wake her, and Riftspeckle is still out with Rustclaw and Currentplume.”

“You don’t need an excuse,” Smokestar assures her. “Come sit.”

Smokestar appreciates how Thrushpaw always seems to ask how he's doing.

Smokestar, Streakscratch, and Thrushpaw had a nice talk while eating.

Smokestar noticed that Thrushpaw is falling behind in training and offered to help her catch up.

...

“Let’s practice your tracking,” Smokestar decides, stopping on the trail and raising his nose into the air. “Where is the wind coming from?”

Thrushpaw sniffs, ears twitching. “From the direction of camp,” she finally says, tasting, albeit faintly, the mingled scents of every other cat on the faint breeze.

“Yup. With the moving air and the other familiar scents it carries, it’ll make tracking a little harder, so this will be a good exercise for you.” He angles his ears further into the woods. “I’m going to walk that way. Once you can’t hear me, count to thirty heartbeats, and then start following me, alright? You can use your other senses, but I want you to really focus on your scent tracking.”

Thrushpaw nods, working her paws into the plush new grass underfoot. “Alright.”

She does as instructed, watching him trot off into the trees, and listens until he’s completely out of earshot, then counts her heartbeats. When she reaches thirty, she springs to her feet and starts to follow.

Veered off the trail here. New growth crumples easily under her pads as she sniffs a bush. Headed west. No—east? Oh—he just made a circle here. Came this way. I’m amazed his shoulders fit between these trees.

A warm, unfamiliar scent crosses Smokestar’s, and Thrushpaw pauses, turning her head. Smells like mouse. Or…squirrel? And it’s warm.

She glances the way Smokestar had gone, weighs her options, and decides. A little detour that brings back some prey might not be a bad thing. Morelstripe might like some fresh dinner.

She slowly drops into a hunter’s crouch as she sees a nearby bush trembling with movement among the roots. As she creeps closer, faint squeaking reaches her ears. Two mice-or-squirrels—maybe more.

It was instinct—really, that’s what did her in. She doesn’t realize what she’s doing until the chatter passes her front teeth, a low, rattling squeak she’s seen Morelstripe do many times. The squeaking and shuffling pauses, and for a beat, she thinks she’s ruined her hunt.

Then something moves, and yellow eyes lock on hers, and Thrushpaw realizes she’s made a terrible mistake.

Thrushpaw was attacked by a group of rats! She managed to fight them off, but didn't escape unscathed.

Thrushpaw is now in the medicine den.

...

“How are you feeling?”

“Mm. Lousy.”

“Is it your wounds?”

“Not really, not anymore,” Thrushpaw murmurs, chin on her paws. The herb mixture Burnclaw had smeared into the rat bites has almost fully deadened the pain—currently, only stiffness remains. Stiffness and embarrassment.

Morelstripe’s tongue rasps over Thrushpaw’s back rhythmically, careful to avoid the sore spots on her shoulders and hips. “Then what is it, little one?”

Thrushpaw puts one paw over her nose, closing her eyes. “I feel pretty stupid,” she admits into feathers and moss. She’d been confused when Rustclaw had brought her a bird’s worth of jay feathers, but he’d shrugged and explained that it was something they’d done in his old Clan, and left before she’d been able to properly thank him.

“Smokestar ain’t upset with you.”

“I know,” Thrushpaw says, a little sharper than she really meant to, “but I’m upset with me.”

Morelstripe hums, but doesn’t say anything else. Thrushpaw shouldn’t be hurt by that—she knows how her adoptive mother is (bad at discussing feelings in any capacity)—but it’s hard not to be a little wounded.

They sit in silence for a bit before Morelstripe rests her chin across Thrushpaw’s shoulders with a long sigh. Thrushpaw flicks her ears a few times, then bats at Morelstripe’s snout. “You’ve got feathers on your chin.”

Instead of brushing them off, Morelstripe turns and rubs her snout against Thrushpaw’s face until she’s laughing and batting her away with sheathed paws. “All the better to tickle grumpy little kits with,” she growls playfully.

Rustclaw gives Thrushpaw some feathers from the bird he caught to line her nest.

Morelstripe appreciates Thrushpaw telling her that she had a feather stuck to her face.

...

"Oi, Thrushpaw."

She raises her head from where she’d been watching the dawn patrol and hunting patrols leave for the morning. “Yeah, Burnclaw?”

The burly medicine cat only half-turns from where he’s sitting at the back of the den. “You feel up to movin’?”

She sits up, wincing at the stiffness, and stretches carefully. Her wounds twinge and threaten to tear open if she moves too far, but they hold under the mat of cobwebs and poultice smeared across her fur. “Yeah.”

“You able to come help me sort these leaves? My joints are achin’ and I need deft little paws to help me out.”

Surprised, Thrushpaw stands unsteadily and limps to his side. “You want my help?”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it? Young cats don’t listen to a word their seniors say anymore.”

Thrushpaw swallows a purr at the crotchety old medicine cat’s grouching and just settles down next to him. “Sorry, sorry. ’Course I can help.”

Across the camp, Smokestar watches Thrushpaw move from her little nest in the sunshine and pad further into the medicine den, and his heart hurts. That’s my fault.

He’s too lost in his own thoughts to notice he’s got company until some other cat thumps deliberately down at his side.

“You a’ight?” Rustclaw asks.

Smokestar hesitates—is it right for a leader to waver and show weakness in this way?—and eventually dismisses, “It’s—nothing.”

“C’mon, mate,” Rustclaw urges. “I’ve known you a while, even before this. I know I’m not your deputy and we were never close, but we’re Clanmates now, yeah?” When Smokestar still doesn’t answer, Rustclaw follows his line of sight and guesses, “You feelin’ bad about Thrushpaw?”

Smokestar sighs. Maybe it’s worse if my Clanmates think I’m lying directly to their snouts. “I feel like her injuries are my fault,” he admits quietly. “I’d not focused enough on her battle training, I didn’t even think to teach her about rats, and I left her alone in the forest. I heard her screech and was able to get back pretty quick, but she still got hurt.”

“From the story she’s been telling, she took pretty good care of herself, too,” Rustclaw reminds him. “Didn’t she kill two or three of ‘em?”

"I promised Morelstripe I’d take care of her.”

“We get hurt in this life—we’re warriors, it’s what we do. Morelstripe isn’t upset with you,” Rustclaw insists. “I think she’s more proud of Thrushpaw being able to defend herself even a little. You saw how flighty she was when they joined us.” He headbutts Smokestar in the shoulder. “You’re doing a’ight, mate. Promise.”

Thrushpaw always thought Burnclaw had it all figured out, so she's surprised when he asks her for help.

Rustclaw is letting Smokestar share his troubles with him, hoping he'll feel better afterwards.

...

jeez tumblr really nuked the quality of that screenshot huh