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moths-wc-aus · 3 days ago

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WARRIOR CATS AU - THE WALKING ROT

Taken from @monochrome-sunsets warrior cat clan generator, here's an AU I may never use again lol. Unless?

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WARNING

ITS ALREADY TOO LATE

THE CONTAGION IS SPREADING

AVOID THE DEAD RUN FROM THE LIVING

STAY IN PLACE UNTIL MILITARY AID ARRIVES

GODSPEED

--last message from the US Government, August 20xx

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There once were three clans in the deep green woods – Strong Sunclan, Mystical Moonclan, and Cheerful Cloudclan. They lived in relative harmony for many generations, but something beyond their control struck them down. The birds sounded the alarm first, followed by prey animals and the skittish deer swarming through the camps. Some of the deer were injured, their skin and muscles strangely torn. Some were gored so greatly that they surely would die, but still they fled, eyes white in terror.

The decision was made by Sunclan leader Mossystar to gather the elders and queens and kits, and send them to hide in the highest tree. She sent word to Poppystar of Moonclan and Lupinestar of Cloudclan, and soon many kits and queens and elders huddled together, with healers and apprentices acting as lookouts.

And then the screaming began.

Through the trees came countless twolegs, but something was horribly wrong with them. Their skin bulged with mushrooms, their eyes were whitened with disease, and their funny, wiggly paws were now terrible bony claws. They made horrible moaning sounds, and smelled like rotting flesh.

On that terrible night, the clans were scattered. The cats in the highest tree were spared the attack, but the terror and yowling sent many an elder to the Stars. The healers screeched for the apprentices to climb, but not all were fast enough. Some brave warriors drew some of the shambling twolegs away with sharp swipes, but were either snatched up and killed or simply ignored.

Eventually the remaining cats on the ground fled, with the deadly twolegs in slow pursuit. After many breathless moments, the few warriors remaining – tasked to guard the healers and noncombatants – peered out, only to see devastation. The ground was littered with bodies, only one of which was a twoleg. Its legs were broken and twisted, but it still reached its terrible paws for a near-dead Lupinestar. The warriors, led by the seniormost warrior Pitterflame of Sunclan, pulled Lupinestar away, and snarled in rage and fear.

Up in the canopy, Sunclan elder Havenpelt saw the shimmer of Starspeak upon the leaves, and tugged at them, pulling them apart to see the dawn. The morning sun shone through and landed upon the wreck on the ground. It shrieked a cry full of noxious dust and collapsed, the mushroom growths quickly bubbling away like rancid chunky mist. Though the creature was truly dead now – tested by throwing stones and pinecones upon it – it had dealt one last blow.

The survivors, down to the last living elder, all became ill with a tearing cough. It killed Lupinestar and more elders and injured cats, and sent queens into early labor. Kits wheezed and mewled, and warriors had to stop burying the dead to hack and spit. But within five days, each and every cat strong enough to survive the sickness coughed up a great lump of phlegm, and began to breathe easier. Even better, some warriors and apprentices, though lost forever, returned, albeit injured in body and mind.

It was Goatpaw, a Moonclan apprentice who lost an eye and ear to a careless swipe, that gave them strange yet glad tidings. She had hidden herself in a wild catmint bush, and though the not-twoleg could see and reach her, it was warded off by the smell. This led a small group of warriors and healers (who tended the herbs of the woods) to gather every leaf of catmint they could find, and rubbed down every surviving cat with it.

The next days were harsh – the returning cats were becoming ill, all were weak from the sickness or injury, and shelter was needed soon. Winter was coming, and prey was loathe to return and even more skittish. But Havenpelt, the lone elder left of Sunclan, held out hope. She asked for volunteers, and the brave, wobbly Jumblereed of Cloudclan agreed to set out. He journeyed for a day, and then followed the smells of fire and twoleg food, and found a great twoleg structure – surely the Stars meant it for the survivors! He hurried back, heedless of two pairs of eyes upon his back.

He returned with glad tidings to the survivors, and there was hope in the air – and suddenly the scent of dog. The warriors scrambled, hoping it wasn’t true, but indeed there was a dog. A small dog, with a twoleg device on their back – and a smaller still cat riding like a twoleg in a monster.

“Ho the camp, we come in peace!” Called the cat, followed by the dog yipping, “Yes yes, in peace! Let’s be friends!”

And the survivors marveled at the dog who could speak clearly.

Travis, fireman and paramedic and hard-shelled inner-softie, headed back from a supply run to the city. He had been part of the hospital evac team, and had gone back to grab two very important members of the hospital team – the therapy animals. But the military team left without him, and now it was just the three of them. So Travis and his furry companions set off, dodging infected humans and looters and madmen, and made their way out of the drowning city. He stopped on the outskirts, where the forest met society, and hunkered down in an abandoned gas station.

It turned out to be a great idea – he literally tripped over a trap door handle, and found a survivalist bunker basement, full of supplies and gear and books on surviving the end of the world (admittedly via lizard aliens impersonating politicians, but beggars can’t be choosers). The station gave him a place to recover from a bite – and wasn’t it a surprise that he lived. It gave the therapy animals a resting place when they got that terrible cough. And it gave them all a safe point to realize that whatever infection the cat and dog had gotten, it made them – more intelligent? More understanding of human speech? It wasn’t too clear, but it was very helpful.

Travis grinned as he got back to the fence line surrounding the station, but paused. The front door was open, just a hair. He dropped his supplies and scrambled in, and to his horror, both Eastwood and Foghorn were gone. Before he could get more than a few frantic feet out of the door, Eastwood’s distinctive bark sounded from the treeline.

The little mutt scurried up to the fireman’s legs, yipping and spinning. Travis scooped him up, turning his face from the rapid licks, and looked around for Foghorn. To his surprise, yes, there was Foghorn, but also a limping white cat. He deposited the wiggling dog, and crouched to greet the approaching therapy cat. Foghorn rubbed against his hand and purred like a diesel motor, looking back occasionally at the white cat and chirping. Travis looked up at the strange visitor and held out a hand to them.

The white cat cautiously approached – oh, pinkish-purple eyes, albino? – and twitched back at every move Travis’ hand made. Eventually they sniffed his hand, and warily allowed him to touch their head. After a moment, they looked at Foghorn, who rubbed against his boots, and at the vibrating-with-excitement Eastwood, then gave a startlingly loud yowl.

And the treeline came alive with cats.

Big burly cats with smaller ones draped across their backs; tall cats leaning on shorter cats, both wobbling precariously; a white cat, face semi-bandaged with moss and cobwebs (excuse me the cats have DOCTORS?!) sandwiched between two young cats; mother cats with kittens huddled under them.

They all looked up at him with wary eyes, some growling, some puffed up, all with runny noses and gummy eyes (like Foghorn and Eastwood, when they inhaled the spores) and intelligence. They looked at him like – like he was their last hope.

Of course Travis let them in.

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Howdy new friend! Dontcha worry, y’all’r safe here, have some fresh water, or something ta eat – this mouse is fresh caught by yers truly! There ya go, settle in and relax…Me? M’name’s Streaky, and this here is the Haven Clowder…nice ta meetcha Honey!…That twoleg that grabbed ya? Oh that’s Murk, and he brings us any body he can find!...Yikes, I’m so sorry ya were alone for so long, that had to be rough. But you’re safe here, and won’t have to worry about that kind o loneliness ever again…Y’wanna help out? That’s a mighty fine offer, but you need to heal up and get healthy first! I mean, I ken tell ya yer options?...Sure thing pal, finish up that there mouse an I’ll find someone ta fill ya in!

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The Haven Clowder is led by the Council – a head cat for every role, and an elder. They meet nightly for a short check-in, weekly for scheduling, and monthly for larger discussions – apprenticeships and supplies needed and new arrivals. The elder is there to moderate, and be a tiebreaker vote if needed.

The Roles are as follows – Nightguards and Hunters, our brave fighters; Spirit Healers and Healers, keeping mind and body safe; Cooks and Fire Tenders, who keep the whole of us fed; Camp Keepers and Kit Minders, the watchers back home; and the Gardeners and Armorers, providing protection both herbal and material.

We also have Mediators and Scavengers, but those are different roles. All of us are Scavengers at least once a year – all who can walk and carry must scavenge. Foghorn and Eastwood are our Mediators, but right now they’ve apprentices, so they’re not open to more. Mediating means understanding Twolegs, and that’s easier now, but still quite a rough job. Anyway, where was I? Ah yes.

Nightguards are our first line of defense when the Rotters come to the fence. They are heavily armored, and often armed with paw-mounted silver claws, made by Murk and the Armorers. They are currently headed by that big tom Maxim, and his cats are as close to each other as one whisker to another.

The Hunters bring in freshkill and fresh herbs for planting. They often roam in packs, and wear neck armor. Streaky leads them, and she does a rather fine job of it.

Spirit Healers are those who keep our minds healthy. It’s a rough job – with the world ending and all of the violence – and they keep us from throwing ourselves to the Rotters or turning to violence. Goatweed’s the head Spirit Healer, and she carries the weight with grace.

Healers keep the body working, mending our wounds and mixing medicines. If a Healer calls you for a checkup, you listen – that same cat could save you in the future. Sheep leads the Healers, and always has that Twoleg “Bag” dragging behind them.

Cook is a newer role, one we didn’t have in Sunclan. They butcher the freshkill, and what the Scavengers bring in, and make it edible for all of us. Chowder’s a funny cat, but his apprentices never have a harsh word about him.

Fire Tender is another new position, made needed by the Twoleg’s fires. They wear protective gear, made by Murk, and keep the night flames fed, to ward off the Rotters and nasty stinging insects. Pitterblaze came up with the job, after the place almost lit up when Murk was sick.

Camp Keepers are what they sound like – the ones who keep the camp. They tidy the messes and repair what they can, leading Murk to anything beyond their expertise. Jumblereed – the wobbly tom with the spotty Bag – is in charge of them.

The Kit Minders are some of our most trusted cats. They entertain and teach and protect our kits and pups, the greatest treasures we have. Teal’s the mother hen of the Minders, and I once saw her take a Rotter’s paw clean off, so be mindful.

Another newer role, the Gardener’s more important than one might think. They keep the medicinal herbs, and grow the catmint and mint to ward off the Rotters. Teal’s kit Tincan took over recently, and he’s doing a fine job.

Armorers are of great importance, even if they’re still learning. They help make the protective coverings and Bags that most every cat uses, even if it’s just for Scavenging. Ad Victoria – odd name, that one – is making strides at making her own armor – she’s got clever paws, that one.

Me? Oh, I’m just an Elder. We do odd jobs here and there, but our bones are tired, so we mostly keep lookout or tell stories to the kits – or talk to newcomers. And I think you look tired.

Come have a rest, I see you fitting in fine.

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Feel free to ask questions! Make me figure out the zombies and such!

#AAAAAA SO COOL #rb #anon you wonderful person you've done it again!

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moths-wc-aus · 9 days ago

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The Dark Begins

A story told across all Sects, about how and why the Dark was created. It's often told for the first time to apprentices, as it's considered highly inappropriate to tell kittens.

Ao3 Link | CW: Murder, child murder, animal death | Word Count: 1190 | Characters: Blueflood (Bluestar), Moonstride (Whitestorm), Tigertalon (Tigerclaw/star)

Tiger paused in his gardening to shake the dirt off his paws. The late newleaf sun warmed his fur, and Moon's happy chatter filled his ears. He glanced over as Moon's voice rose. The other apprentice was soaking up his aunt's attention as the two of them nurtured a little patch of white anemones. Tension leaked out of Tiger's shoulders. He shouldn't have been concerned, really- Blueflood was far gentler than Thistleclaw. Too soft, his mentor would spit, and Tiger would nod along, never daring to mention that he sometimes wished she had been chosen to train him instead.

“Mama!” The clearing went still.

“Mama, help!”

Tiger jerked to his paws, horror rising in his throat. He saw Moon do the same out of the corner of his eye, looking around wildly. Blueflood rose slower, her head tilting with a considering look on her face.

“Mama!”

Tiger twisted, scanning the tree branches. How had a kitten ended up out here and in the trees?

“Relax,” Blueflood said, her voice absurdly calm for the situation. “Look.” She nodded towards the bough of an oak. Tiger leaned forward, squinting. A little dark grey bird sat, barely hidden among the leaves. It opened its beak, feathers puffed up in preparation to chirp-

“Mama!”

Tiger flinched back. Moon pressed into Blueflood's side, his eyes wide.

“A catbird,” Blueflood said with a dark expression.

“Why does it sound like that?” Tiger couldn't manage more than a whisper. The catbird cried out again, and the apprentices’ fur bristled.

“Hm.” Blueflood watched the bird for a moment more before turned her attention to them. “A long time ago, just after the Stars began to shine, there was a cat named Bone.”

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

Bone was a fine warrior. He was tall and muscular, loyal and well-loved. He had been named for the sun-bleached ivory white of his fur, which he was so very proud of.

Though many fought for his attention, none caught his eye quite like Kestrel. She was a beautiful spotted tortoiseshell, with sleek fur and wide eyes. Bone was enchanted by her grace, her swiftness, and her keen perception. She, like him, turned heads with her excellence. Though Bone adored her, he never deigned to court her. He believed a mateship was a natural conclusion, for there were no two cats more perfect in all the world.

When Bone learned Kestrel had taken a mate, hurt and anger blazed like fire inside him. This tom was small and scrawny, his fur rumpled, his demeanor pathetic and nervous. Ugly, Bone’s heart hissed. Yet Kestrel looked at him with her wide eyes as though he had created the stars themselves. Each time Bone saw them, bodies pressed together and tails intertwined, his anger burned a little brighter than before.

When the news came that Kestrel had delivered a perfect litter of kittens, something deep inside Bone shattered. Perhaps it was his empathy, or his restraint, or his honor. Some say it was his very vash* itself, broken into splinters of ice only to reform into something warped and new. Whatever it was, once it was broken it could not be repaired.

Using the skills Bone had once honed to hunt raccoons and hawks, he stalked Kestrel's hideous mate. Though the tom was skittish and often looked over his shoulder, Bone was clever and far too experienced with nervous prey. He knew how to hide his trail and his scent all too well. He watched as the tom slipped into a hidden den, and he waited through the night until dawn.

Kestrel left the den as the sun rose, and Bone admired how the light turned the ginger in her pelt into a burning gold. She was perfect, and soon she would be his.

The den was large enough to fit two adults and their kits, but cramped all the same. It was far too easy for Bone to press the tom into a corner, slashing through his throat and watching coldly as his lifeblood stained his childrens’ kitten fluff. The kittens were simple as well, tiny and defenseless as they were. Bone's jaws were powerful and their necks were as effortless to snap in two as a finch's.

The brutal job completed, Bone sat and waited for Kestrel to return to him. He did not bother to wash the blood from his fur, for he believed it would serve as proof of his love for Kestrel.

When Kestrel arrived, prey hanging from her jaws, she knew immediately what he had done. Her attack, like Bone's had been, was swift and ruthless. Bone, like her mate, was taken by surprise and did not have a chance to defend himself. Kestrel wailed over the bodies of her loved ones while Bone lay dying. Grief and hate spilling from her tongue, she prayed. She prayed that Bone's spirit would be punished for eternity for what he had done. She prayed he would never be permitted to forget his crimes. As she prayed, the Time Weavers began to listen.

Feathermask the Courageous began to create a pattern for a tapestry of scorched earth, bare trees, and smokey air. Canarysong the Content dyed threads of soot-black, fire-gold, and blood-red. Greywing the Wise wove their creations together, creating an arras of tall, burned trees weeping crimson sap, soil burned black and solid, and tunnels filled with smoldering fumes. Finally, they filled their tapestry with little birds, gifted with the voices of the kittens Bone had killed. They captured his wandering spirit and wove it deep into the cloth which they called the Dark.

As time turned and the Dark's threads grew blemished with ash and age, Bone's ivory pelt became stained black with soot and cinders. His eyes burned from the smoke and, after many seasons, turned crimson. He wandered alone, boiling with hate and bitterness, his only company the catbirds forever crying out for their mother, the haunting calls of dead kits ringing in his ears.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

“He's attempted to escape many times, but never succeeded. Once, he managed to come so close to leaving the Dark, a flock of catbirds slipped through the Veil.” Tiger and Moon, pressed together for comfort, shivered.

“What if he does it?” Moon squeaked. “What if he gets out?” Blueflood blinked away the wisps of the story and focused on him.

“He won't,” she said confidently, drawing the apprentices close to her. Tiger could hear her heart beating steadily, confident and unafraid, and the dread began to bleed from his body. “He's never managed in all the time he's been imprisoned. The gods won't ever let him go.”

Good, Tiger thought to himself. Murderers deserves to rot in the Dark forever.

A/N: The moral of the story is “Don't be a dick and don't murder folks.”

There is a slightly less common version of this story where either Greywing or Feathermask released the catbirds into the real world themselves as a way to say, “Listen to these and remember not to be like the asshole we made them for”. Moon definitely prefers that version when he tells this story to future youths. Tiger, on the other hand, made up a scarier version to tell Darksnap to make the little shit behave better.

*Vash : Spirit; Soul; Essence

Blueflood = Bluefur/star

Moon = Whitestorm

Tiger = Tigerclaw

#it's HERE i FINISHED IT!!!!#rb #warrior cats #warriors

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