#real talk I haven’t written anything in years and I’m a bit sofucking scared of posting this

[bogcreacher]

okay clangen fanfic time let’s go babey home run babey lets go!!!!

Chapter 1 - The Messengers

It was night over the valley.

The remnants of daylight pooled around the horizon, where the trees of Dappleclan cut into the thick, blue sky. The low clouds of greenleaf were long gone, leaving the stars stark and glittering. 

Moorheart had almost finished the evening patrol. He’d sent the others home early when they’d complained of sore paws.

It wasn’t their fault. There weren’t enough warriors to go around nowadays. 

He shook out his fur, taking extra care as he picked through the thistle-ridden paths of his clan’s territory. The trees hung low, drumming peacefully as he scraped under their lowest branches. He counted his steps as he went. 

In leaf-fall the undergrowth was always so alive. Somewhere far beyond his sight he could hear the hum of busy insects and the babble of the distant stream - and beyond that, small creatures, feeding and nesting and chattering. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, ignoring the growl of his stomach. 

It was the type of night that felt electric, sending his fur bristling and his whiskers to points. Part of him liked having it all to himself. 

He took a left turn at the next marker, leaping up the body of a larch and letting the ground drop farther and farther below him. It was the type of night for climbing. 

He used to linger in trees as an apprentice, to the point that his mother would joke about her son ‘with his head in the clouds’. 

“You’re more squirrel than cat - bushy-tailed, and fascinated by heights.”

Something about it grounded him. The higher he climbed, the more the noise and the pain and the fear softened, as if muffled by the clouds or the slow, dark crush of nightfall. It was a kind of peacefulness only he seemed to understand. 

Not that anyone else tried to understand. Not that anyone else got it.

It was clearer up here, where the breeze bit his ears to numbness and the earth trembled beneath him. Where the sky was so dark and so large he could look up and feel himself fall.

His fur prickled.

A storm’s brewing.

He was shaken from his musings when he heard movement below, of something picking its way through the undergrowth. 

Dropping to a lower branch he stooped to take a look. A small ways off bushes rustled, parting to reveal a lithe shadow. 

A rabbit?

Moorheart lowered his head as it crept closer. 

No. Larger.

His ears twitched. 

Cats. 

He couldn’t recognise them from afar. And he didn’t like how they came from downwind. 

The camp wasn’t far, though to flee he’d have to reach ground, and he doubted he could drop quietly enough to avoid alerting his new companions. 

He could call for help, but how long would it take for his clanmates to arrive? Certainly long enough for an assailant to scale his larch and sink their teeth into him.

Moorheart tugged his nervous claws from the bark beneath him.

Focus. This is hardly an invasion.

The cats were closer now, and Moorheart could see the way they moved, ears pricked and tails swaying. They walked with sure-footed grace, lightly dodging the brambles and boughs of his clan’s territory- Rainclan, he thought to himself, frowning. 

They were alert, they were cautious, but they weren’t stealthy. 

Moorheart raised his head. 

“Who's there?” 

“Moorheart? Is that you?” a familiar voice called. 

“Milkfur? What is this?”

“We have a message for Volestar.”

“This couldn’t wait until morning?”

“Where’s your patrol?” she called. 

He paused. Milkfur’s ear twitched. He couldn’t read her face from this distance.

“No patrol,” he said. “It’s just me out here.”

“Come down.”

Moorheart did, leaping deftly from bough to bough and only half-stumbling on his landing. Closer now, he saw the faces that made up this delegation: Milkfur, a golden molly with long whiskers and a round face; Crowpelt, a plump young tom with glossy fur; and Brightleg, a cat with cold, grey eyes that made him feel like leafbare was settling on his shoulders.  

Moorheart wasn’t sure why a message would require three seasoned envoys; he felt somewhat like a pinned bird when they settled around him. 

“Out with it, then,” he said, tail flicking. “What’s so important that it couldn’t wait ‘til dawn?”

Milkfur exchanged a look with Crowpelt.

“We found a body by the Thunderpath,” she said, quietly. “We… we think it's Rotstar.”

Somewhere far away, a bird whooped. 

“What?”

“We think,” Milkfur repeated. “It’s difficult to tell. We thought we ought to get someone from Dappleclan out to check, just in case.”

“Maybe Volestar?” Crowpelt chimed. “Or Batpounce?”

"Yeah." Moorheart didn't know why, but suddenly his feet felt very heavy. "I’ll... I’ll fetch them.”

“Not tonight,” Brightleg said. “In the morning.”

“Right.” Moorheart met his gaze and shivered. In daylight. 

“We just thought we should warn you, in case an apprentice stumbled upon it or- or something,” Milkfur said, as if sensing the chill in the air. 

“Thank you.” Moorheart dipped his head. “Really.”

“I…” the golden molly shuffled where she sat, eyes fixed on the ground. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Moorheart’s ear flicked. 

“Thank you,” he said, terser. “I’ll send Volestar to the border tomorrow, at Sunhigh.”

Milkfur nodded; out of agreement or courtesy, he couldn’t tell. Then all three cats were gone in the shrubbery, light and quick as they arrived.

Moorheart watched them go, then took an angry tongue over his fur. 

Far be it for a dead cat to get under my skin. I must be mad. 

He turned, pushing thoughts of his former leader and her rotten ways from his mind. He would check the markers along the edges of the grove, wander up the hill to inspect the abandoned setts, then amble back to camp and curl into his warm nest, safe and sound.

This will all blow over soon.

Somewhere far away, thunder growled.