Icepaw was fatally struck by a monster while attempting to hunt by the Thunderpath. He was only 9 moons old.
Hawthornpaw is injured after narrowly escaping a monster.
FIRST
CLIMB DOWN l CLIMB UP
To that one anon who said the previous moon was giving them LoudClan flashbacks, I am so sorry 😭...
A very sad trivia fact: Icepaw’s warrior name would’ve been Icejaw 🥺! Not only did his warrior name sound so cool, but I can see how well it would’ve fit his character as a whole. He was very skilled at hunting, something that he enjoyed to do, and he died doing that to ensure his clan would be well-fed for winter 💔 ….
Lynxdawn had warned the clan not to share tongues with Shadowdive. His poultice was dangerous—garlic and burdock root, a mixture she’d ground herself, stored in beeswax-lined clay to keep its potency. Garlic was a medicine of last resort, one she rarely used. Its bitter stink clung to the den walls now, sharp enough to sting the nose. One bite could turn a belly sour; a careless lick might kill a kit.
“Someone needs to stay with him,” she said from the den entrance, voice flat with exhaustion. The crowd of cats pressing forward stilled. “He’s got a fever. He’s not thinking clearly. If he grooms himself—”
She didn’t need to finish the thought. Mallowstripe, hovering just behind her, let out a small noise in his throat—more worry than agreement.
“I’ll stay with him,” Wolfstar said before anyone else could speak. “Me and Mallowstripe can trade shifts.”
Mallowstripe gave a small nod, but didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Behind them, a dry cough broke the silence.
“We’re already down two warriors,” Ottersplash said hoarsely, his voice rough from disuse. “Now you wanna be down a leader and our only camp keeper?” His eyes were dull, sunken—not cruel, just tired. “I’ll watch him. I’m not allowed on patrols anyway.”
Snowspeckle’s ears twitched. “That’s not—”
Wolfstar lifted her tail, silencing her. There was a flicker in her gaze, hard to place—relief, maybe, or guilt.
“Alright,” she said. “You’ll take the morning watch. Stop him if he tries to get up.”
Ottersplash dipped his head but said nothing else.
Wolfstar turned to the others. “I’m leading a patrol at dawn. Thistle, Nightleap, Sandpaw, Kelppaw—you’re with me and Snowspeckle. We can’t leave the rats to breed. Not after this.”
That was enough. The gathered cats began to trickle away, ears low, shoulders heavy. Some had yet to eat. Most wouldn’t sleep well.
Mallowstripe lingered a moment longer, glancing into the den where Shadowdive lay unmoving, wrapped in sour-smelling herbs and sweat. Then he turned and padded silently after the others.
Ottersplash sat beside his former mentor, the older tom restless even in sleep, limbs twitching beneath layers of bandages and stinking poultices. The scent of garlic still hung thick in the den, clinging to the cold stones like smoke.
Sandpaw had come in earlier, eyes bright with anticipation for her first big mission. She’d said nothing to him—just stared for a heartbeat too long before leaving. He wished she’d spoken. He wished he had. Something encouraging, anything better than the dull, empty gaze he wore like a mask.
Nightleap had tried. She always tried. But he’d snapped at her, hissed so loud it echoed. He’d expected her to lash back, to scold him like he was a misbehaving kit. He wanted her to. Anything to feel something.
But she’d only looked at him with pity, and walked away.
Now he sat in silence, watching the rise and fall of Shadowdive’s breathing. The flick of his tail. The occasional spasm in his leg. Ottersplash’s claws itched. He wanted to hit him. Wanted to sink his teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder, to hurt him the way he hurt.
It was his fault. He’d stopped him. Held him back from helping Rippleclaw. If they’d attacked the twoleg together, maybe…
But he didn’t strike. Even now, alone, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Maybe it was apathy. Or maybe he was saving it for when Shadowdive was awake. Maybe he wanted someone to see. To stop him. Punish him. Anything.
Oh, Stars. He’d do anything to feel better. Even for a moment. But guilt was sticky—it clung like burrs to fur, catching in every breath.
A small part of him wanted to cry. But tears were useless. They wouldn’t bring Rippleclaw back. Nothing would. That was the worst of it—not the loss, but the helplessness. His brother’s fate was out of his paws now. Somewhere far away, suffering or dead, and there was nothing he could do.
He looked at his paws. They trembled.
He’d never been spiritual. StarClan was something distant—stories shared over meals and camp fires. He preferred things he could claw and chew and bleed.
Still, he bowed his head.
“Please,” he rasped, voice hoarse from silence. “Please. Mothsong, Longpad, Fennelheart… anyone. Help my brother. Guide him home. Please.”
“Night—”
He startled, fur bristling, as Shadowdive’s voice cracked through the stillness.
“Huh?” Ottersplash turned, flinching as their eyes met, even hazy as they were. The older tom blinked slowly, pelt rippling with shudders. Rat wounds twitching under his skin.
Ottersplash opened his mouth—he wasn’t sure why—but Shadowdive spoke first.
“Ni-leap,” he wheezed, breath catching. “‘M sorry. ‘Bout Rip.”
Ottersplash stiffened. His stomach twisted as Shadowdive drifted in and out of clarity.
“Couldn’t save ‘im,” the tom mumbled. “Saved Ott. One of your sons. I couldn’t save both. I’m sorry.”
Then his eyes slipped shut again.
Ottersplash stood frozen, breath shallow, claws dug into the cold dirt floor.
He wanted to scream. Wanted to tear open the roof of the den and yowl to the clouds until they sent Rippleclaw back.
He should’ve saved Rip, not me.
If they’d just worked together—if they’d done something—they could’ve stopped it. Or maybe not. Maybe the twoleg would’ve struck them both down. Crushed their spines. Split their skulls like bark.
But logic didn’t matter. Truth didn’t matter.
If I’d been caught instead, he thought darkly, would Rip blame himself?
Of course he would.
Even if Ottersplash had leapt in willingly, even if he’d known it meant death, Rippleclaw would’ve blamed himself. He would’ve blamed Shadowdive. That was who they were.
He sat back down, not bothering to fetch water. Shadowdive was asleep again, anyway.
So he sat, and watched, and let the silence stretch between them like a wound.
The rat mission had gone surprisingly well. Before sunhigh, the patrol returned with a full haul, and Kelppaw—thinking ahead—had brought baskets to carry the carcasses. She insisted that even if the meat was too sour to eat, the bodies had to be useful. Dropletpaw had been itching to experiment with mixing organic materials into her clay—maybe bones and teeth would fire well. Kelppaw, on the other paw, hoped she could render some of the carcasses into hide glue.
Sandpaw had just been excited to be on a real mission.
After careful inspection, Mallowstripe deemed most of the catch edible. Thistle and the apprentices spent several days helping him process it all into spiced rat sausage. Mallowstripe handled the butchering—he always did—but the apprentices got to stuff the cleaned intestines with salted meat and organs. It was messy, but kind of fun.
Kelppaw didn’t mind the work. It wasn’t weaving or pottery, but her sisters made good company, and to her surprise, she was even starting to like Thistle—though the reclusive molly seemed mortified by that fact.
Once the sausages were smoked and hung in the disused elder’s den, Kelppaw helped Snowspeckle sort through the leftovers. Everything that couldn’t be eaten was rendered, recycled, or saved for later projects. It was hard labor, and by the end of each day Kelppaw fell into her nest like a stone. She was almost as busy as Mallowstripe now, and she loved it—loved losing herself in craft until her paws ached and her mind stopped racing.
The work would take moons to finish, but once everything was stored or drying, Snowspeckle surprised her with an outing.
They set off toward Capri’s post, baskets full of salted meat and trade goods. The trek was slow but manageable, even as leaf-fall deepened into the biting chill of early leaf-bare.
Since Rippleclaw’s disappearance, something between Kelppaw and her mentor had cracked. She stumbled over her words now, avoided silences she used to fill with chatter. Snowspeckle kept her usual stiff posture, tail high and steps steady—but her eyes darted too often, her paws never fully settled between strides.
They traveled in that thick, uncertain quiet until the rusted hulk of the dead monster came into view.
Jade sat on its roof, her silhouette outlined against the grey sky. She spotted them quickly and gave a tight, pained look before hopping down to meet them.
It was a strange greeting.
Until they saw who she was sitting with.
“Hey, Snowy! You bring me anything?” Archstar called lazily from the top of the monster, waving with one paw like they belonged there.
Snowspeckle stopped dead, then turned on her heel.
“Absolutely not.”
Jade rushed forward to intercept her. Kelppaw hesitated, awkward and uncertain.
“No—please,” Jade said quickly, her voice tight. “I didn’t know clan cats were coming today. My gramma—”
“You have two seconds to tell me why the fuck that gib is here before I go back and get a battle patrol.” Snowspeckle snapped, already halfway turned around, voice low and sharp.
Kelppaw shifted, glancing between her mentor and the fallen leader, who still acted like this was all a joke.
“They came to the boathouse after the exile,” Jade said quickly. “Gramma took them in. The housefolk like them. She said if they behave and help out, they can stay.”
“That explains the collar.” Kelppaw murmured, squinting at the purple scrap tied around Archer’s neck—just like Jade’s green one, or Capri’s red.
“It’s called a bandana,” Archer said proudly, smoothing a paw over it. “And it’s Archer now, not Archstar.”
Snowspeckle looked like she wanted to spit.
“Please stay,” Jade said. “SaltClan always brings good trades. I’ll even throw in a bushel of mullein.”
Snowspeckle’s ears twitched. She looked at Archer like she could set them on fire with a glance.
“We did come all this way,” Kelppaw offered, trying to sound cheerful. “It’d be nice to practice trading.”
There was a long pause. Then Snowspeckle sighed, the fight draining out of her shoulders.
“Fine. But I don’t want to hear a single word out of you.” she growled, glaring up at Archer.
Archer rolled onto their back atop the monster, showing their belly like an oversized kit. “I’ll be good. Promise.”
Kelppaw burned with all questions she wanted to ask—but she knew better than to encourage the gib.
To her surprise, the meeting went smoothly. Archer lounged quietly in the sun while Jade handled the trades with practiced ease. Her gramma, Capri, was still resting at the boathouse, but the stockpile was full and the exchange went quickly.
Kelppaw traded all her rat sausage and glue for thick twoleg blankets and tarps—she and Mallowstripe had plans to insulate the nursery before the first snow. Snowspeckle bartered for catnip oil, hooks, fishing line, and netting.
While her mentor spoke to Jade in hushed tones, Kelppaw found herself awkwardly sitting beside Archer again.
“Don’t worry,” the gib chuckled, not even looking at her. “I’m sure she won’t trade you.”
Kelppaw didn’t answer.
“How’s SaltClan?” they asked, smiling like they already knew.
She just gave a polite nod and turned her attention back to her mentor.
“Alright, let’s head out,” Snowspeckle called, baskets full and overflowing.
“Bye, kitties!” Archer waved their tail, oblivious to the way Jade groaned beside them.
Snowspeckle muttered under her breath, “I don’t even know what I’m gonna tell Wolfstar.”
“Walk up to her and say, ‘your sire says hi,’” Kelppaw teased. “I dare you.”
They both burst into laughter as they turned for home.
Briarkit didn’t ask for much. She was a quiet kit, drawn to the same solitude her mother preferred. She didn’t complain when she had to watch over Pantherkit and Leopardkit, or when Nighthowl drifted off mid-story again. Even the apprentices cooing at her like she was some helpless newborn didn’t bother her that much.
But her nest—That was sacred.
Technically, she slept in the shared nest with her mother. It was warm and nice and smelled like Thistle. But her real nest was a separate little bundle she’d crafted herself: a carefully shaped bowl of moss, lined with silky scraps from twoleg fabrics, tufts of wool, dove feathers, and the soft, clean fur of her favorite cats.
It wasn’t just a place to sleep. It was hers.
She’d dragged it into the clearing during lessons, curled in it during story time, and let only her mother touch it. Everyone knew that was the rule.
After a small trip up the coast with Lynxdawn and Thistle—splashing in the shallows, pretending to be a mighty sea-lizard, toppling towers of driftwood—Briarkit came back exhausted, sea salt in her whiskers, sand in her paws.
All she wanted was a nap.
But when she stepped into the nursery, her breath caught in her throat.
Her nest was gone.
In its place was a damp lump of moss, uneven and clumsy. Her materials were missing. The corners of the nursery were bare.
She stared at the moss, willing it to change back. Maybe it wasn’t real. Maybe she was too tired and it would fix itself if she just sat long enough.
That’s how Sandpaw found her.
“Hey, Briarkit, it’s dinner time!” the apprentice called. When silence answered, she padded into the den. “Whatcha doing? Don’t you know it’s—”
“My nest.” Briarkit’s voice was flat. Her eyes didn’t move. “It’s gone.”
Sandpaw laughed like it was a joke. “No it’s not, silly, it’s right there! I replaced it earlier.”
Briarkit flinched. A tight, hot knot twisted in her belly. “You did what? That was mine! How dare you!”
Sandpaw blinked. “Whoa—Briarkit, I—”
“I worked so hard on it! I picked every feather! I made it!” she wailed, her voice rising into a high, panicked pitch. Her chest heaved. “It had all my favorite things! It was perfect and you ruined it!”
Sandpaw’s ears drooped, she hadn’t expected this. “Hey, I’m sorry, no one told you—but nests need changing every few moons or they mold.” Her voice softened. “I changed everyone’s. Yours was getting really dirty, and I didn’t want you or the little ones getting sick.”
Briarkit sniffled hard. “Where’s my stuff?”
“It’s in the pot by the entrance. I didn’t throw anything out, I swear.”
She darted out and returned with a clay jar, placing it beside the kit gently.
Briarkit leaned over it and began pulling things out—feathers, fabrics, tiny tufts of fur. All accounted for. But her muscles still trembled with leftover panic.
“You okay?” Sandpaw asked. She wasn’t used to kits, let alone kits this particular. She shifted on her paws, awkward but sincere.
Briarkit didn’t answer at first. Her ears twitched. Carefully, she began rebuilding. Kneading the moss. Turning it with soft, practiced paws. Feather by feather, fabric by fabric. She worked quietly, her expression focused and small.
“I’m okay,” she whispered at last.
“I’m really sorry,” Sandpaw murmured, crouching beside her. “I didn’t know it was so important to you. I should’ve told you first.”
Briarkit gave a tiny nod. “It’s okay. I’m sorry I yelled.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Sandpaw nuzzled her. This time, Briarkit didn’t flinch—she leaned into it.
“Let’s go eat,” the apprentice said, tail flicking. “Mallowstripe made a fish mash for you and fish gumbo for me.”
Briarkit followed quietly, lingering close to Sandpaw as they settled into the meal.
Just before bedtime, as her mother called her over, Briarkit hesitated. She looked around like she was checking for eavesdroppers.
“Hey, Sandpaw…?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think…” Her voice dropped low. “I could have a tuft of your fur?”
Bluesky has once again caught yellowcough. He is scared that the clan will abandon him if he becomes too much to care for.
Rather than go outside in the bright sunlight to play with her littermates, Locustkit prefers to huddle by herself in the dark and quiet of the medicine cat den, her head hurting too much to move.
Locustkit has a permanent condition, persistent headaches.
Breeze is trying to set a good example for the younger cats, but it’s hard when two of her three kittens never want to come out to play, too consumed by their illnesses.
