clans of england

LEAFBARE 2014

shadowclan

littlestar (mia)

smallclaw

n/a

total: 12

thunderclan

blizzardstar

paleflower

doe-eyes

total: 15

riverclan

milkstar

n/a

ravenpaw

total: 13

windclan

emberfang

n/a

briarheart

total: 14

skyclan

whitestar

ryecloud

mothdust

total: 10

DISCOURAGED: none

once upon a river weary [lynx]

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 1, 2013 10:18:13 GMT -8

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Dec 1, 2013 10:18:13 GMT -8

frostclaw

CROWNED BY SCARS OF YESTERYEAR

Despite being named for an element of leafbare, the season had never been Frostclaw's favorite. Her thick white fur kept her from feeling the brunt of the cold, but that wasn't the part that troubled her. Even as a warrior, she had worried about the elders and kits during leafbare, always eying the fresh-kill pile carefully assessing how long it would last. And now that she'd been entrusted with the deputy's postion that worry was worse. She sometimes slipped out of the warriors' den at night to prowl the perimeter of the camp, nodding to sentries as she passed. Other times her sleepless paws would carry her here to the river, or to the wetlands where the Clan's land-prey slept.

Now, though, she sat at the edge of the river, a frown slashing across her muzzle. The wind ruffled her fur playfully, and drew goosebumps into existence across her exposed scars. It whistled over the top of her ruined ear, and she flicked it in annoyance. Her blue eyes were fastened on the flow of the river beneath thin sections of ice, and she was giving serious thought to the idea that she could use her bulk and muscle to break through the ice and create a hole through which the warriors and apprentices could fish. Frostclaw herself had no especial talent for hunting, either in or out of the river. And, with prey scarce thanks to the ice, their most skilled cats would be needed to bring in as much prey as possible.

She stood and stretched, tail standing tall, and then padded carefully onto the ice. It held beneath her paws, creaking slightly but overall beingannoyingly solid. The deputy picked her way on the sturdier-looking patches toward the thinner section she'd been contemplating earlier. Cold seeped through the pads of her paws and the exposed flesh of her scars, a harsh bite as compared to the barely-there nip against her fur. Frostclaw reached one paw out and pressed lightly on the thinner ice. Her paw didn't seem to do much to it, aside from eliciting another creak. Carefully, she shifted closer and applied more of her weight to the paw. A crack appeared.

Frostclaw pulled her paw back and rearranged herself beside the thin spot, gathering her hind legs beneath her. She reared up and, forepaws together, crashed down on the thin spot. Her paws shattered the thin ice and plunged into the freezing river. On instinct, she scrabbled out and away from the intense cold, shivering slightly. The scarred she-cat sat and licked her forelegs, swiping away most of the cold moisture and warming her legs. Then, she turned her attention back to the hole she'd created.

No doubt it would ice over again by the next sunrise, but it would be thinner, and easily broken again. So Frostclaw simply crouched beside the hole and started crunching the ice between her jaws as best she could, tearing pieces away and spitting them out onto the frozen river. The hole widened slowly and unevenly under her steady and stubborn efforts, and she continued until she heard someone's pawsteps by the edge of the river. Frostclaw straightened and licked the remnants of ice from her muzzle before she turned to greet the newcomer. "Lynxstar," the deputy meowed, bowing her head for a moment.

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 1, 2013 11:02:15 GMT -8

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Dec 1, 2013 11:02:15 GMT -8

He’d rather hoped the river would be abandoned. It was an almost inappropriate sort of thought, especially for the leader of a clan that so desperately depended on the fruit of the river. In any other season, those waters would have been teeming with life. He could almost hear the echo of frustrated apprentices and laughing mentors from seasons passed. He remembered learning to fish with his own mentor, and later outings with his father. There was a certain satisfaction to the moment one’s paw connected with the sleek scales of prey – the flash as the animal flew from the depths of the riverbed. It was delicious, tantalizing even. But now, in the depths of leaf-bare, such memories were buried beneath layers of snow and ice. At times, Lynxstar enjoyed sitting at the banks of the river. His bulk would melt a small patch of snow, flakes sticking to his long fur. He would simply watch the ice, watch the water lazily passing beneath it. And the fish, those fish that flicked behind and around pebbles, tantalizingly out of reach. It was as if they mocked him, delighted in their winter refuge. But unlike the vengeful youth, Lynxstar only smiled at their mocking little dance.

Lynxstar passed through the last of the reeds, pushing aside the strands of icy-green. His eyes fell, almost immediately, onto a shape at the water’s edge. Disappointment settled in his stomach. It seemed his quiet respite would not be what he imagined. His eyes settled on the figure, one with a distinct snowy pelt and criss-crossing scars marring what could have been a beautiful body. Lynxstar almost froze, a slight catch in his throat. His jaw clenched, not with anger but rather with the sudden wave of grief that welled at the sight of her – even so many moons later. He forced it all away, shoved it far down inside of him. It was too late to turn back, to slink away from their shared memories. Her quiet voice summoned him, committed him. He approached her, staying a perhaps more than respectful distance away. He dipped his head slightly in reply, the respect due from a leader to his deputy. “Frostclaw,” He kept his voice even, his eyes on the water. He gazed at the small hole she had made, the drops that still rolled down her forelegs. His lips twitched, though did not fold down into a frown.

“Ice fishing is dangerous alone, even for as weathered a warrior as you or I.” It was an unwritten law amongst Riverclanners that when the river froze over, none ventured into the water (or onto the ice) alone. Too many had been swept away, their ice-cold bodies found days later, too many winter vigils held. He didn’t say more. He wasn’t the type to chastise. Though in a sense, he saw Frostclaw as an apprentice of sorts – as much his apprentice as Spottedpaw was. When he inevitably surrendered his remaining lives to Starclan, she would rise in his place to lead those that remained. The way Lynxstar saw it, his final duty was to train her, to prepare her for leadership. Perhaps he was preparing her for something even more. Atonement. The word floated into his mind. He dismissed it just as quickly as it appeared. One could not train, could not be taught to seek forgiveness – nor to earn it. And a small raw part of Lynxstar still believed Frostclaw would never atone. Though it all begged the question. If atonement, if forgiveness, had long since ceased to be possible. Why had he chosen her at all?

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 1, 2013 12:08:20 GMT -8

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Dec 1, 2013 12:08:20 GMT -8

frostclaw

CROWNED BY SCARS OF YESTERYEAR

Frostclaw knew the thoughts that darted through Lynxstar's mind when he first saw her. How could she not? The memories embedded in the sight of her scars, in the sight of his eyes clouded by grief, would drag the both of them to the same place. To a past agonizing and full of sorrow and regrets. Her own mind drifted to Tanglepaw and she mourned for a heartbeat before the look in his eyes changed, and she remembered why she'd done her best to tamp out any and all impulsive decisions in herself. RiverClan sat too many leafbare vigils beside frozen corpses with faces forever terrified and reaching for a surface they'd never reach. And she, like a foolhardy and ignorant apprentice, had made that split-second decision that she was better than that, that she could carve out a hole alone and not suffer the fate her Clanmates past had.

The distance at which he held himself was testament to his disapproval, even if his eyes did not go so far as to show it. His reprimand was couched in a harmless, factual statement, but it still made her bow her head like a scolded apprentice, resisting the urge to fuss over her paws to bring a barrier between them. In a way, he was her mentor as well as leader. Frostclaw would learn all she could about leadership by his side, and when the last of his lives faded and he joined the ranks of StarClan, she would ascend and guard the lives and livelihood of her warriors with a jealously fervent zeal. Each breath she drew was quietly unworthy, silently selfish until she had atoned. And would she ever? At this point, did she want to feel as though she were forgiven before her final breath?

So much of who she had become, who she had been for more than half of her life now was wrapped up in the guilt she felt over not being able to save her leader's son, her apprentice, a young tom who trusted her with his life. But simply stewing in her guilt and not changing was unacceptable. If she didn't change, then she was wasting the remainder of her life. Her legacy could not be just the tale of her apprentice's death written on her body. With all that in consideration, Frostclaw supposed that she did want to atone, but considered it a lifelong journey. And she had almost risked that lifelong atonement on a whim. Idiot. Her head really was all fur and cobwebs sometimes, just like her sister Swanface liked to scold her.

She lifted her head as she replied, voice quiet and respectful. "Ice fishing is always dangerous. But prey is scarce and I would rather take a risk than count the kits' and elders' ribs all leafbare." Frostclaw could not regret that. That much was practically its own form of atonement. Not since the day the medicine cat had released her from the medicine den had she ever put herself first. Even her time in that den had been torn between obeying the medicine cat and believing she should die for failing to protect Tanglepaw. Now, she knew that it was better to honor his memory with a life as devoted to others as she could, and that death would only soothe her own aching wounds.

And, unbelievably, Lynxstar had chosen her to follow in his pawsteps, to become leader after him. Frostclaw had been awed and humbled by his appointment of herself, as there was no better way to devote herself to her Clanmates than by the expenditure of nine lives and all their breadth in their service. She could not fail. She could not falter. So she would not make any more stupid, impulsive decisions.

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 1, 2013 17:41:36 GMT -8

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Dec 1, 2013 17:41:36 GMT -8

Others might have taken offense at her words, seen them as disrespectful. But Lynxstar was far past the age of picking apart every word thrown at him, searching for unintended cruelty. Rather, her words gave him pause to think, to consider. He remained silent for a long moment, looking across the river. The grass on the other side had a light covering of frost. It was beautiful, undeniably so. Yet the frost, the ice and snow, also made the world seem so breakable. At any moment, he feared making a wrong step, and shattering the life he had built. Life was a frail, fleeting thing. He saw it in the warriors felled before their time, in kittens who never gasped a single breath. Yet he also saw it in the way ice cracked and broke beneath his weight, the sounds of those shards was akin to a quiet scream. Winter was a cruel beast, in more ways than one. He glanced down at the small hole she had made. Doubtless the commotion from its creation, and then Lynxstar’s approach, had scared off any lingering prey. Yet already he could see the very edges being coated in the lightest feather-soft layer of ice. Winter was a cruel beast, but life would always rebuild.

“That is why, one day, you will lead them. I imagine that same part of you that is willing to risk your life ice fishing would rather gaze from the heavens at your own vigil than send an unnamed warrior to the sky.” The words were rumbling, but quiet. It seemed somehow impossible to make any sort of exclamation, to break the wintery silence around them that had descended when the birds fled to warmer climates. He sat in silence another moment, considering his own thoughts. In truth, it was that sentiment that had inspired him to seek her out, to create in her what had been nurtured in himself all those moons ago. Yet he couldn’t quite let it go. As much as her vigor, her passion for the clan, impressed him – his duty was to show her the way, not coddle her towards disaster. For, unlike him, Frostclaw had but one life. If she tumbled into those depths, was lost to the river, she would not rise again. The clan would suffer, the kittens and elders whose ribs she refused to count would willow away in her absence.

Though none would say it, or dare to ask, Lynxstar was not a young virile leader. Though he could well live another forty moons, grief and responsibility had weighed heavily on him. And in the course of leadership, lives had been lost. The clan quiet possibly could not afford the loss of another deputy, nor the time it would take to find a suitable replacement. “Think on this, Frostclaw. How would you have reacted if you had found one of our young warriors here in your place, balanced precariously over the water? I do not imagine pride would have been your only emotional response.” Then again, perhaps it would have been. Perhaps all Frostclaw could see were the benefits, not the consequences of such a risk. If this was so, it would define her as a leader, as a future of Riverclan. Indeed, it would harbor a very different path for Riverclan than the one Lynxstar currently led them down. He, perhaps, focused overmuch on these thoughts. This was such a little incident, of no importance really. But it saved him, saved both of them, from breaking that fragile level of superficiality to their conversation – to their very relationship. Because underneath it all laid the guilt, the anger, the blame and grief and questions. And even twenty moons later, Lynxstar couldn’t face those things, not yet.

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 2, 2013 17:46:35 GMT -8

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Dec 2, 2013 17:46:35 GMT -8

frostclaw

CROWNED BY SCARS OF YESTERYEAR

Lynxstar had the strangest ability to both make her feel like she was six moons old and blundering where she was expected to succeed and then turn around and ignite a warm ball of awe in her chest. Because she'd never sought out the position of deputy and other cats had devoted their every day to proving themselves worthy, Frostclaw had never thought of why she might be deserving. She had simply transitioned from what? me? to striving to prove herself a good choice, to herself, Lynxstar, and the Clan. And he seemed to know, after moons upon moons of unspoken grief and (she thought) resentment, that she couldn't bear to live when her death could save another's life. Not again. Her strong desire to live back then had made her use a lower-risk strategy, kept her from making a suicide charge to spare her apprentice, her leader's son.

And then he spoke and changed the unspoken agreement between himself, his ex-mate, and Frostclaw herself. She froze, wondering if he even realized what he'd asked her. Her whiskers twitched as she weighed the words in her mouth, worked them over and around her tongue. They buzzed in her mind and rattled around, and the filter that was thankfully fully functional asked if she really wanted to release them. Frostclaw found that she did, that she wanted to make an overture to change the balance, to make an attempt at mending unacknowledged wrongs. "As ever, my first fear would be for their life." The words pressed against the backs of her teeth, almost straining to get out now that she had released the first of them. "And as you said, I would rather trade my life for theirs than see them perish."

She knew that he was likely unaware of her own mindset during the first few moons after Tanglepaw's death. He had been immersed in his own grief, and Frostclaw had sworn the medicine cat to secrecy. Her own dear wish for death had never made it past the entrance of the medicine den, and she knew not how her long recovery time had been explained. But as the medicine cat explained it to her, Frostclaw's own lack of a desire to live robbed her body of its strength to recover. It had taken her brother bursting into the medicine den and spending sunrise to sunset hissing and snarling at her to kick Frostclaw out of her funk and give her the motivation to recover. Sleetwhisker hadn't breathed a word of how he'd aided her recovery to her knowledge, but that had only brought the littermates closer.

Nowadays the pair slept in nests near one another if not beside each other, and Frostclaw would smile and laugh at his antics and teasing of their sister Swanface. He was the only cat whose cracks about her ears or hearing never made Frostclaw feel deficient, and she felt confident cuffing him over the ears and threatening to make his match hers. Her brother was one of her best friends, and she had grown to appreciate him more in their warrior moons than she had when they were apprentices or kits.

The ache of her muscles drew her back to the present, as her body was still frozen in the same carefully respectful pose, head held with confidence and tail curled so that the fur around the tip covered the bare scar on her haunch. Frostclaw's blue eyes searched Lynxstar's face and body for signs of his response, for signs that she'd spoken out of turn or upset their careful balance. If necessary, she would bow her head and step down so that he could have a deputy he trusted more, could work better with in her place. And she would not be too proud to make such an offer, nor to accept a dismissal if it came to that. She had failed spectacularly in her youth, and a lifetime of atonement could not mend the grieving heart of another.

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 3, 2013 11:05:52 GMT -8

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Dec 3, 2013 11:05:52 GMT -8

He had never quite understood the whole point of a secret, at least not completely. Everyone kept secrets – about something they did, thought, or had said. There were sordid secrets, guilty secrets, sorrowful secrets, really just about every kind. Yet every single one of them, on different levels of course, did the exact same thing. They tore the holder – mentally – limb from limb. Lynxstar had yet to hear of a secret belonging to only a single person. Usually the secret started out small, confined to a singular being. But then that singular being felt some inexplicable urge to share this secret with another – but of course had to swear that other to secrecy as well. In that way, the secret had already expanded, doubled really. Could it even be considered a secret anymore, as the knowledge had spread so considerably?

And inevitably that one extra person sworn to secrecy would find the secret just a little too much to bear. So they would share it with one other person. And then they too would swear this individual to secrecy. Really the pattern went on and on and on. Eventually, it would be difficult to locate an individual who was not party to this particular secret – and who had in turn not been sworn to secrecy. The secret became so widespread, that not only had it lost its “juiciness”, but had become altogether both uninteresting and somewhat of “old news”. By this time, it was really only the original creator of the secret that felt so threatened and so attached to the secret. The knowledge of its spread and loss of subtlety would hit the creator like a ton of bricks – astonishing, horrifying and paralyzing all at the same time. And then what were they left with but the products of their own creation? Wouldn’t it have been better not to have created the secret in the first place? Why not have just outright told, it would have brought the same results.

These were the sorts of things Lynxstar had ruminated on, once upon a time. He had lingered over such inexplicable phenomena of life and society. Of course, he had been a much younger tom then, unburdened by power, leadership, or grief. Yet he found some of these ruminations trickling back to him, as he sat at Frostclaw's side. Particularly, he found himself focused on the concept of a secret. Lynxstar had kept many a secret - the greatest doubtless being the events that transpired during the bestowal of his nine lives. It wasn't that anything unusual had occurred, but rather the profound nature of the event was private - was meant only for those who would come to endure leadership in its fullest.

But apart from these sorts of secrets, there was another sort - the type one kept from one's self. This was the secret that was beginning to dawn on Lynxstar. Once upon a time, so many moons ago, Tanglepaw had bestowed upon his father the life of Forgiveness. Lynxstar turned his head slightly as Frostclaw spoke. But even as he concentrated on her words, the memory of that life coursing through his veins was fresh and sharp. It curled around him, filled every pore in his body. He let out a breath, her words washing over him. They had been keeping secrets, leader and deputy. They had been unspoken, yet known by all, shared privately between the two of them. Lynxstar could hear it now, as she spoke of sacrifice. Somehow, their conversation had shifted from her own noble desires to mistakes and shared griefs of their past.

It struck him then. Had he ever truly forgiven her? But more than that, had he ever even tried to forgive her? He had seen Tanglepaw's life as a message to himself, a message that Tanglepaw forgave his father for his failure, for letting his fragile life slip away. But perhaps, all these moons, Lynxstar had been keeping secrets from himself - simply refusing to look closely enough to acknowledge the message Starclan had sent. Lynxstar's head hung, a weight descended onto his shoulders. In mere seconds, he seemed to age. When he spoke, his voice was low - beaten down by age and grief, yet strong with a sudden certainty. "Sometimes, such a trade is not ours to make. There can be no fault in the fate of Starclan."
They still, perhaps, spoke hypothetically of the ice-fishing incident. But the undercurrent had changed, evolved into something far more powerful. Though Lynxstar could not yet say the words, could not force them past his lips, he had opened his eyes. He was staring down the secret he had kept from himself for so long. And though it could take days, moons even, something had changed.

Forgiveness was at hand.

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 13, 2013 15:55:19 GMT -8

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Dec 13, 2013 15:55:19 GMT -8

frostclaw

CROWNED BY SCARS OF YESTERYEAR

Today seemed to be a day for Frostclaw to be quietly blindsided by her leader's words. Once again, she found herself bowing her head, tail curling tight and secure around her paws. Hypothetically, they spoke of an ice-fishing accident, and her response was disproportionately respectful and humble. But she could conceive of no other way to respond to such words. The subtleties of their conversation alone were enough to make her feel as though the beginnings of a massive boulder spanning her shoulder were being chipped away.

Behind them, bit by bit, the ice and cold reclaimed the small hole she'd torn and bitten open, frost curling over the moving water, weaving itself into an icy scab. Soon, it would be nothing more than an uneven section of ice, a disturbance in the frozen flow. A scar. If only her own had healed so quickly, or so simply. Frostclaw nodded and swallowed around the lump in her throat, imagining herself as the hole in the ice. Far more slowly than the hole, she would heal. Bit by bit, tendril of frost by curling crystal of ice. Each would make up more and more of her healing, and once it had finished, she would be whole again. Visibly recovered from a significant wound, but whole.

And when she was whole, she would pit that wholeness in service to Tanglepaw's memory, in memory of the life he'd given up while both struggled to survive and defend RiverClan. Her eyes widened a fraction, and she listed slightly. Defend RiverClan. That thought had never occurred to her before. It had never occurred to the warrior that her apprentice--her little brother in all but name--had been just like any other warrior or apprentice of the Clan. That he'd grown up knowing that his life would either end in service to his Clan or in the elders' den, and that he would have, like any other apprentice, acclimated himself to the thought that he could die at any time, should that be what RiverClan needed of him to remain safe. He had made the sacrifice of his ancestors before him, and that was what constituted a real warrior.

The lump in her throat larger than ever, Frostclaw managed to drag quiet words from her jaws, the tremor in them faint. "And for all its seeming foolishness or uselessness, we all give ourselves to RiverClan in the end."

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once upon a river weary [lynx] Dec 15, 2013 10:32:07 GMT -8

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Dec 15, 2013 10:32:07 GMT -8

Lynxstar’s lips twitched, something between agreement and pensive denial. Frostheart’s words were soft in his ears, wrapping around him. They were both speaking of everything, and nothing at the same time. And he couldn’t help but wonder where it had all come from. Certainly it hadn’t sprouted from a hole in the ice, metaphorical or literal. Maybe these words had been lingering around them, out in the open, just waiting to be noticed. And a hole in the ice was what it took to be heard. Perhaps, in retrospect, it didn’t matter how long it had taken or what had been the impetus for such words. Perhaps all that mattered was that someone was finally listening.

“I’m not sure I believe that.” He spoke the words quietly, almost to himself but just loud enough to float to Frostheart’s waiting mind. In a way, he was committing a sort of blasphemy. The warrior code taught, if nothing else, that service to one’s clan was noble – that one lived and died in the service of their home and their gods – the ancestors that watched them from the heavens. But even before Tanglepaw’s death, Lynxstar had struggled to reconcile himself with such an idea. His ears flicked back and forth, subtly – a sign of his inner battle. Words longed to spill from his tongue – to speak words against what they had been raised to believe and the faith that had kept them strong for so many moons.

He had spoken truth, moments before, in discussing the fate and desires of Starclan. He believed with all his heart that he could not change the destiny chosen for him, or for his clan. But the idea that life was a service to one’s clan, that it meant nothing more, didn’t sit well with the aging leader. He shifted his paws. If anything, it seemed to him, their lives were a service to the overall entity of life itself. He did not serve Riverclan alone. No. Lynxstar lived for the clan, but also for the river itself – for the reeds that sprang on the banks, even for the moors and forests of Windclan or Thunderclan. He lived for them, for the peace they so desired, for the life and culture they had painstakingly built. For when he died, there would be no more clan. There would be death, and he would watch life. But in death he would be what perhaps they had all been all along – not River or Wind or Shadow or Thunder – but simply Clan itself.