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rippleclan · 6 months

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RippleClan: Moon 30

Puddlespeckle went missing for a few days.

[Image ID: Weedfoot stands alone, calling “Father?”]

Rabbitjoy told Weedfoot that outsiders often saw the Clans as “imprisonment”, where others bossed you around and controlled your every step. This was far from the truth, of course. While apprentices had to be escorted due to the danger of the wilds and the Clan asked all who could to share the load, once you completed your tasks for the day, you were free to do as you may. No one would force a cat to follow commands all day.

But they still returned home. They weren’t supposed to be gone so long. Especially not an old, tired elder lost just before the start of winter.

“Father?” Weedfoot called. Harsh wind whipped her voice through the trees. “Father?”

“Puddlespeckle!” Parsley yowled from somewhere unseen. “Are you here?”

“I know you don’t like us much, but there’s no reason to leave!” Oilstripe half-laughed beside Weedfoot, nearly piercing her ear. Weedfoot shivered and rubbed her ear. Somewhere far behind her, the distant calls of the codekeeper’s patrol fluttered in the wind. With two patrols scanning every part of the territory for Puddlespeckle, someone was bound to find him, surely.

Oilstripe gently bunted Weedfoot’s shoulder. A soft trill slipped out of the ginger molly’s throat.

“I’m alright,” Weedfoot sighed, rubbing against Oilstripe. “I hope I didn’t drive him off.”

“He’s a stubborn old fool, but he’s grown to like the Clan!” Oilstripe chirped. “Somewhat, at least. He wouldn’t run off.” An emptiness swallowed the space after her words. Oilstripe was right. Puddlespeckle wouldn’t run away. But that meant something far worse had happened.

Soft pawsteps approached from behind. It was James. The former kittypet shook out his faded black ribbon and fluffed his fur against the early winter chill.

“James,” Weedfoot sighed, touching noses with her friend. “Did the codekeepers find anything?” James tucked his face into Weedfoot’s chest. His ribbon tickled her nose. His tail searched for Weedfoot’s.

“Weed…” James sighed quietly. “Rustshade says he’s been out there for a while. I don’t think you should see it.”

[Image ID: Oilstripe is surrounded by the spirits of StarClan as she says, “I see StarClan whenever they come to visit. I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”]

Weedfoot didn’t want to know the details, but when that was all RippleClan could talk about, she was bound to hear them. According to Mousepaw, Puddlespeckle’s body had decayed enough that bringing it back to camp for a proper vigil would be worse than taking it straight to the graveyard. They couldn’t tell what did him in. Or maybe they did, but they were better about keeping it from Weedfoot’s ears than anything else.

Since the body was unpresentable, Fennelspot, Rabbitjoy, and Rattlepelt crafted a proxy. There were still some wilted forget-me-nots in the elder’s den from the last flowers Puddlespeckle managed to find to decorate his pelt. Rabbitjoy wove the petals into tufts of Puddlespeckle’s fur and Rattlepelt wrapped the creation in a freshly tanned pelt. With a simple blessing from Fennelspot, the wrap would be, in every spiritual sense, Puddlespeckle. At least for the night.

Weedfoot couldn’t say she was broken by this. She could never characterize her relationship with her father as something really positive, after all. But they had gotten better, hadn’t they? They were closer, even if Puddlespeckle sneered a bit when Weedfoot talked about James and complained about having to share his den with Parsley. Things were better. She should have had the chance to say goodbye.

James and Oilstripe were her closest companions during the vigil. She had expected Downstar to make an appearance, to say something, but as she had been prone to do for moons by that point, she stayed in her den. James and Oilstripe kept Weedfoot occupied with various stories of Puddlespeckle. Oilstripe had a shocking memory of the old gray tom; had Puddlespeckle actually told her about her apprenticehood misadventure at the Great Northern River? That didn’t seem like something he would share with her. At least she had stories to share, Weedfoot supposed.

Most cats did not stay long at the vigil. The search had taken up most of the day, leaving the whole Clan craving sleep. Even James bid farewell come moonhigh. Weedfoot and Oilstripe were the only ones stil awake at the end.

“You can sleep, Oilstripe,” Weedfoot eventually sighed, running her paw over the leather wrap in front of her. “Thank you for staying up with me.”

“I don’t think I can sleep tonight,” Oilstripe mumbled. Her eyes were half closed and her ears constantly twitched. Her nose would curl up on occasion before she forced her face to relax.

“Try to,” Weedfoot suggested. “You look exhausted.” She bunted Oilstripe’s shoulder.

“I’m going to the dirtplace,” Oilstripe suddenly snapped. She stood so quickly, she knocked Weedfoot aside. Oilstripe scampered to the dirtplace, kicking up sand as she went. Was she more hurt by Puddlespeckle’s passing than Weedfoot first thought? She didn’t think the pair were that close. Oilstripe never really spoke to Puddlespeckle unless she was spending time with Weedfoot, after all.

Weedfoot wouldn’t be a very good deputy (or friend) if she let Oilstripe suffer. She patted the leather wrap and followed the path to the dirtplace. The ocean’s hum filled her mind and tried to muffle Oilstripe’s words. Words? Yes, words; Oilstripe was speaking to someone. Weedfoot paused in the darkness of the shipwreck and listened.

“Why would I tell you?” Oilstripe snapped. “I don’t tell anyone about this.” Weedfoot spared a glance into the dirtplace. Oilstripe was alone, but she stared at the empty space beside her with what little fury her exhaustion let loose. “If you wanted a vigil over your body, maybe you shouldn’t have left camp!” Weedfoot knew Oilstripe had a tendency to talk to herself, muttering half a conversation when she thought no one else could hear. Wasn’t Fennelspot helping her with that odd quirk? How severe were her symptoms to have her arguing with shadows.

“Puddlespeckle, I told every story you asked me to share,” Oilstripe growled. “What else do you want from me? From Weedfoot? She loved you, you old mousebrain, even if she isn’t broken about it. Go to StarClan already and leave me alone! You’re pushing me into madness!”

“Oilstripe,” Weedfoot huffed, stepping into the dim moonlight. Oilstripe stiffened, one ear cocked toward Weedfoot.

“Not again,” Oilstripe muttered, closing her eyes. “I’m alright, Weedfoot. Go back to your vigil.”

“We need to see Fennelspot,” Weedfoot said. She marched up to her old apprentice and gently coaxed her toward the dirtplace exit. Oilstripe, however, stood her ground.

“No, we don’t,” Oilstripe snapped. “I told you, I’m fine.”

“Your symptoms are getting worse,” Weedfoot grunted. “Fennelspot will know what to do for you.”

“My…” Oilstripe stammered, “my symptoms?” Weedfoot nudged Oilstripe forward, but Oilstripe looped behind her.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Weedfoot insisted, turning to face her friend. She kept herself small as Oilstripe’s fur rose. “You haven’t slept much. It makes sense that your hallucinations—”

“StarClan, Weedfoot,” Oilstripe gulped. Her voice cracked like cold water splashing on a hot stone. “I, I know other cats see me talking to myself, but I didn’t think… you think I’m mad? How many cats think I see things that aren’t real?”

“It’s—” Weedfoot said.

“I am not hallucinating!” Oilstripe cried, stomping after each word. “I see ghosts, Weedfoot, real ghosts. I see StarClan whenever they come to visit. I’m tired of pretending I don’t.” She wildly waved her tail to the empty spot beside her. “Puddlespeckle has been here all night. He hasn’t stopped complaining about how long it took us to find his body. I’m tired because he’s been ranting in my ear all day!”

“Oilstripe—” Weedfoot tried to interject.

“You want to see Fennelspot?” Oilstripe snapped. “We’ll see Fennelspot. He knows they’re real. Locustseeker proved it to him. And once he makes you believe, he’s going to tell the entire Clan. I won’t have my friends look at me and think I’ve lost my mind.” Oilstripe stomped up to Weedfoot and paused beside her. “If you believed I was seeing things this whole time, you should have said something. I don’t need you to pity me.” Oilstripe marched past Weedfoot and whipped out of sight.

“Oilstripe, wait!” Weedfoot cried. She ran after Oilstripe. All the clever and soothing words she planned to say fell away as she hurried deeper into the rising chaos.

(Weedfoot: 79, female, deputy, charismatic, very clever, formidable fighter)

(Parsley: 124, female, elder, righteous, great speaker)

(Oilstripe: 34, female, historian, charismatic, ghost speaker)

(James: 106, male, caretaker, charismatic, den builder, formidable fighter)

Graythroat recovers, but her tail is scarred.

[Image ID: Graythroat stands with a scar on her tail, saying, “Do I look wonderful or do I look wonderful?”]

---

“Do I look wonderful or do I look wonderful?” Graythroat purred. She stretched her scarred, freshly healed tail as high as she could. Most of RippleClan were enjoying their sunhigh naps, soaking in the sunshine of a uniquely warm winter’s day. Mousepaw and Rattlepelt, meanwhile, were more than happy to look at Graythroat’s new scars.

“They don’t hurt?” Rattlepelt wondered, her eyes following the trail of each scar like one watches a river’s current.

“Not at all,” Graythroat insisted. “I’ve always wanted a battle scar. I wish it covered more of my tail though. It’s hard to see without craning my back.”

“It’s a shame it isn’t from a grand battle, then,” Mousepaw mumbled. “Shadowdrop says you killed a fox minding its own business.”

“My brother also said a fox may have been the beast that took Puddlespeckle from us,” Graythroat huffed, tucking her tail away from Mousepaw’s judgy gaze. “Foxes are dangerous.”

“Not much more than a cat,” Mousepaw pointed out, whiskers twitching. Before Graythroat could come up with a clever response, something shifted in the corner of her eye. Downstar limped out of her den. She managed well on three legs, although the splint that bound her broken bone would likely come off soon.

“Mom, look at my scar,” Graythroat chirped. She wiggled her flank in front of her mom. Downstar studied the scar quietly. She then limped in front of the Shiprock, her face still and expressionless.

“All cats old enough to catch their own prey, gather below the Shiprock for a Clan meeting!” Downstar called, making Rattlepelt and Mousepaw jump. The sleeping masses scattered around camp stuttered to life, trying to collect themselves. Fennelspot stumbled out of the medicine den with weary eyes.

“Downstar, why are you calling a meeting in the middle of the day?” Fennelspot yawned as the rest of the Clan tried to wake up.

“You’ll see in a moment,” Downstar said softly. “Graythroat, come sit by me.” Graythroat happily trotted up to her mother. She nuzzled her mother with a deep purr.

RippleClan was slow to gather. Their yawns and grumbles turned into quiet questions as they glanced between each other. Graythroat’s paws danced over the sand as she silently yowled for the group to come together already. Graythroat couldn’t take the suspense!

[Image ID: Downstar faces Graythroat, now called Wildclaw. Under Wildclaw, it says LEVEL UP! GRAYTHROAT -> WILDCLAW. Fennelspot sits in the foreground, saying, “Downstar, I don’t know about this.”]

“Since the day she became an apprentice,” Downstar began, “my daughter Graythroat has put her all into the defense of this Clan. She would gladly lay down her life if it meant RippleClan would survive.” Graythroat puffed out her chest. “She is everything I would want in a strong and loyal caretaker. She takes initiative to keep us safe and will always rise to the occasion. Her new scar is proof of this commitment. She deserves to be honored for her bravery. As such, today she will earn an honor title, which she will carry with her to StarClan.”

The rest of the Clan faded away. An honor title? Graythroat was getting an honor title? She was getting a new name? Only the greatest in the Clan ever got an honor title! And they didn’t get theirs from their mother!

“Downstar, I don’t know about this.” Fennelspot’s worry tried to pierce Graythroat’s fog of joy, but Graythroat ignored him. She stood in front of her mother, chin and tail high, ready to erase her new name like pawprints in the sand.

“Spirits of StarClan, you know every cat by name,” Downstar declared. “I ask you now to take away the name from the cat you see before you, for it no longer stands for what she is. By my authority as Clan leader, and with the approval of our warrior ancestors, I give this cat a new name. From this moment on she will be known as Wildclaw, for her wild and daring spirit deserves to be honored.”

Wildclaw. Wildclaw. Wildclaw! What a beautiful name! Wildclaw’s heart fluttered as her Clan’s sleepy voices called her new name. It sunk into her very being. It was everything she was, deep inside. She didn’t care that the strained looks in her Clanmates’ eyes did not match the pride of their voices. She was proud of herself. Her mother was proud of her. That was enough.

(Wildclaw: 22, female, caretaker, fierce, trusted advisor)

(Rattlepelt: 13, female, artisan, fierce, prey cleaner)

(Mousepaw: 7, female, codekeeper apprentice, loyal, oddly observant)

(Downstar: 89, female, leader, adventurous, trusted advisor, very clever)

(Fennelspot: 87, male, cleric, insecure, trusted advisor, incredible runner)