Crowcaller, what do you miss most about Shadowface? What about them drew you to them when you were young? Squallwatcher, how do you feel about RavenClan after the fire? What do you feel has changed the most? What do you miss most from before?
It looks over, the call of its name pulling Crowcaller’s eyes half-lidded and preemptively smug— though look has a distinctively watery appearance, with the cat’s snotty nose and slightly glazed eyes. This expression doesn’t change as the question rolls over, but it does… still. Sharpen, somehow, yellow eyes boring out of a lazy, nose-lifted relaxation. It doesn’t reply immediately, but the butterfly-pin look slides away before it does. When it speaks, Crowcaller’s voice is thick— nasally, stopped-up and… still dry, smooth despite the gravel of illness.
“I miss the prey they’d bring me,” Glib and thoughtless, if not for the hesitation before. The very tip of Crowcaller’s tail twitches, just once, and their eyes flick away. It sniffs away the worst of the mucous clogging their nose. “Nobody else gets that we hunters want to have prey brought to us, too.”
The next question garners a second look, a twitching of its whiskers. Something seems to soften in its eyes, though, and Crowcaller relaxes onto its side. Its lips quirk.
“Curious thing, aren’t you?” Its voice attempts to pitch, friendly and jibing, but it only serves to make its strained voice thready and half-whispered. Crowcaller clears its throat, makes a little humming noise.
It considers the truth— an egg, laid by a portion of the flock that had favored a bloodline for generations. Promised, in a way, to the little scrap of black fur squirming on the forest floor. Two slinking black figures, smart and ambitious and willing to make their own claim of proximity and patience and a little offering of their own, birthed hardly a fox-length from the crow’s first chirps.
How the crow had been promised to Shadowkit, and little Crowkit had stolen its affection from under their nose. How both of their parents had considered Hopper as Crowkit’s, for the way they tussled and laughed and learned to shred prey together. The rage of Shadowkit’s mother, the burn of Shadowkit’s jealousy.
How Crowcaller had been born to kinship with the crows, and not ownership. It grew with the crows as his littermates, far up from the crowded nursery of the forest floor— was sheltered as much by the bloodline which surrounded Hollowstride with its two-bird flock each time she left the nursery as it was by its own parents. How Crowcaller doesn’t think that any of them really understood his fascination, when Shadowkit began to learn to scale the tree he lived in.
How the crows had been promised to Shadowface, and how Crowcaller had not been any different.
But. This truth was soft. This truth gummed between its teeth and coated its tongue with mud-thick nostalgia. This truth was Crowcaller’s, and did not soothe any cat the same. So, Crowcaller hummed, and it picked a different truth.
“Our relationship was the product of a generations long feud between our bloodlines. Our parents both strove for perfection— in themselves and in us— and it sparked a great rivalry between us, even in kithood. Everything was about them, because everything I did had to exceed them. I spent many of my nights imagining how to one-up them, you know, and it was difficult, because Shadowface was, well and truly, the pinnacle of a Ravenclan cat. We made a good pair, in that aspect. Now, I know now that our rivalry was largely one-sided, but—“
Its thick voice falls back into that thoughtless cadence, this truth so unimportant that… truly, Crowcaller doesn’t pay much mind as to whether it lines up, narratively. This story could go on for quite some time.
He doesn’t flinch at his own name, but the swing of mismatched eyes is certainly hurried. Squallwatcher blinks— wide eyes, flickering ears, confusion pulling worriedly at the corners of his mouth— before the question registers, and his expression dips. His eyes drop to the ground, and he pulls a smile that is gone nearly as quickly as it had come.
“It’s— It’s still Ravenclan. It hasn’t really, um,” And he winces a bit, before he says his next words, “There are fewer cats, now, but it really hasn’t changed that much. Ravenclan has always been pretty… um, individual, I guess. They look out for themselves before anything else. I think everybody just… hides it less, now.”
Something about his own words ring oddly to him, and he pauses for a second. The hesitant pleasantry falls away, and the tom’s face is blank, eyes twitching side to side— and then he breaks the moment with a laugh. The sound is surprisingly warm, for what you’ve seen of the tom so far, and his expression is less tense when he returns to you.
“Sometimes I feel like I’m thing that’s changed the most. Like I’ve got this new, um… like, like I can’t r-reach them, anymore. And it feels wrong when I try.” His brow furrows a bit, but the placidity of his expression hardly shifts. The way he talks is… rather detached, for the content of the words themselves. “And I… I do miss wanting to. I miss feeling like these cats were… my family? Or… wanting them to be, I guess.”
But then he grins, eyes curving and whiskers pushing back. The picture of contentment, truly.
“It, um, it might be a strange thing to say, but— It was worth it.“ Undeniably. Unequivocally. He had Pollentuft, now— and that was more than that sparse handful of loose connections he’d hoarded before.
