Buzz buzz, little bee. Buzz, buzz. [Cicada]

[WOLFPACK]

AND I AM SORRY MY CONSCIENCE CALLED IN SICK AGAIN​

---

Aside from the brief time spent together to have his wound spatched up back when Shadowclan had first arrived in the territory, Wolfpack and Cicadabuzz hadn't crossed paths often. No conversations, no time spent. Hell, somehow the mottled tomcat had even managed to avoid having to visit the medicine cat for injuries. Then again, now that he thought about it, he hadn't really been getting hurt as often as he used to when he was on his own. That made sense, he supposed. He didn't have to scrap for hunting rights or the best dens anymore.

At least, not alone.

A benefit to clanlife outside of escaping the boredom of solo life and having access to better, stable resources.

"So what exactly are we looking for?' he asked as they padded along, having left camp behind several minutes ago.

Wolf had no idea what 'herbs' were or how Cicadabuzz was able to tell what was a useless weed and what was a lifesaving plant, but the large, scarred tomcat had still assigned himself to the others patrol as a 'guard' and to help carry what they found. Couldn't go losing the only cat that knew how to keep them alive to some fox or some weird marsh creature.

Besides, Wolfpack had his curiosities about the other, and he wouldn't learn anything if they continued to function outside of each others orbit.

@cicadabuzz
​

---

shadowclan deputy - male - a large, monochrome chimera with mismatched eyes and several scars​

​

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz walks a step ahead, their movements fluid, paws pressing soundlessly into the damp earth. The air is heavy with the scent of rain and leaf rot, thick with the quiet hum of unseen life shifting beneath the surface. They do not look at Wolfpack as they answer, their gaze sweeping the landscape with quiet purpose. "Sweet-sedge," they say simply, voice as even and unhurried as their pace. "It grows near water, in the colder moons. A thick root, white beneath the soil. The leaves are tall, green, with small flowers that most overlook. It isn't showy like some plants, but it does what it must." They pause, nose twitching as they scan the ground, the reeds, the slow-moving streams that carve through the marsh. Nothing yet. Their tail flicks once, then stills.

"It has a scent when crushed," they continue. "Sweet, almost cloying. Strong enough to cut through rot." A beat of silence, then a slight turn of their head. "You've smelled infection before, haven't you?" It isn't a question that needs answering. The scars Wolfpack carries, the life he's led—it speaks for him. Cicadabuzz doesn't ask out of cruelty, but it is not kindness either. "When wounds turn, they stink. The flesh darkens, the heat rises, and the body fights itself. Sweet-sedge doesn't cure all things, but it fights back. Keeps the infection from settling too deep, poisoning the blood."

Their gaze flicks forward again, scanning the terrain with the patience of one who knows their work cannot be rushed. The marsh sprawls before them, pockets of standing water reflecting the overcast sky. It is a place of decay and rebirth, rot feeding new life in an endless cycle. Wolfpack is quiet. Cicadabuzz doesn't mind. They aren't a cat who needs conversation to fill the space between breaths. Silence is natural, expected. After a few more steps, they add, "As I said, it only grows in leafbare. Most things die in the cold. Sweet-sedge thrives." Their tone is almost thoughtful. "A stubborn thing. Not easily killed. It lingers where others wither. I must gather it now, before the cold ends." They slow their steps, nose dipping toward the damp ground, searching once more.

 

[WOLFPACK]

AND I AM SORRY MY CONSCIENCE CALLED IN SICK AGAIN​

---

I can see why Sablestar made him our healer. he thought to himself as he listened to the other chatter on about the plant they were looking for. If their knowledge on the subject wasn't real then they were sure good at sounding like they believed their own lies. He didn't think that was the case, though. He'd seen enough cats come and go from Cicada's den to know that whatever the cat was doing, it was working.

Enough for Wolfpack to listen when they spoke.

"Sweet-sedge. Good for infection. Thrives in cold weather. Got it." he echoed, tucking it away in case he ever needed it. "Could have used some of that the other day when my patrol hit that fog wall. Smogmaw mentioned bogs producing gas, but it smelled more like a body left rotting in the sun to me."

Some crushed Sweet-sedge would have done them all wonders then. Instead, Wolfpack had ordered them into the branches of the great sycamore before Smogmaw and the rest of them puked all of themselves. Wolf wasn't far behind, honestly.

"How'd you even figure all that out?" he asked once they'd finished, thoroughly impressed and not bothering to hide it. How did a cat even figure that sort of thing out? "I'd sooner buy that you were talking to spirits than Sablestar, with information and skills like that."
​

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shadowclan deputy - male - a large, monochrome chimera with mismatched eyes and several scars​

​

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz hums, a low, thoughtful sound, their gaze still fixed on the marsh ahead. The quiet stretches between them, thick as the mist curling through the reeds. They do not rush to answer. When they do, it is not with dismissal, nor confirmation, but something steadier. "I have spoken to spirits," they say, voice as even as before. "But that is not where I learned." They let the words settle, watching Wolfpack from the corner of their eye. Some cats would flinch at the admission, or scoff, or press them for details. They hope Wolfpack listens, as he has been listening. Cicadabuzz finds this preferable. They turn their gaze forward again, scanning the damp earth for the familiar shape of sweet-sedge. Not yet. But soon.

"I learned from the land," they continue. "By watching what thrives and what dies. What the sick crave, what the wounded turn from. I have chewed roots that left my tongue numb and spat out leaves that burned my throat raw. I have seen what rots a wound, and what pulls the rot away." Their tail flicks once as they consider the thought of desperate cats. Some recovered; some did not. Regardless, Cicadabuzz had learned. "There is trial. There is error. Sometimes, the error is costly." Their voice is measured, but there is weight beneath it, something heavier than the damp air pressing down on the marsh. "But the land provides. If you are patient. If you pay attention."

They pause near the edge of a slow-moving stream, nostrils flaring slightly as they search for the faint, sweet scent they know so well. Nothing still. "The spirits do not teach like the land does," Cicadabuzz says finally. "They are distant. Unreliable. And when they do speak, their tongues are not made for clear answers. They twist to their own benefit. Lie if it suits them." A pause, another flick of their tail. "If I relied only on them, you would all be dead." They crouch, brushing their paw through the damp soil, feeling the texture of it beneath their pads. Still too soft, too loose. Not right. They straighten. "The land," they say again, final and firm. "The land is what teaches."

 

[WOLFPACK]

AND I AM SORRY MY CONSCIENCE CALLED IN SICK AGAIN​

---

"You too?" he scoffed lightly in disbelief, the kind that said 'why are you bothering with this charade?' .

It didn't necessarily annoy him to have another cat claiming to have been having secret meeting with the dead, but it was getting to the point where Wolf was just confused as to why they hadn't let him in on things already. He was clearlyalready on board with whatever bullshit Sable was pushing in order to keep his leadership, so why try keeping him out of the loop with all these vague answers and details.

But Wolf didn't press, letting the conversation steer toward something more interesting, in his opinion.

"There is trial. There is error. Sometimes, the error is costly."

There was something in that statement that was oddly alluring to Wolfpack, an echo of something so familiar. Cruelty, not for the sake of cruelty, but because it's what has to happen for things to get better. He wondered, vaguely, how many cats Cicada had accidentally sacrificed to their herbal experiments in their pursuit of finding out what worked and what didn't. How many had they hurt or killed by mistake. How many times had they almost brought themself to the brink of death over a misjudged dosage or the wrong thing consumed. How many hours spent staring into rot and festering wounds.

It didn't stop them, if they've figured this much out. he noted, something akin to admiration settling behind the acknowledgement. Because Wolf understood going to extreme lengths to get what you wanted– and from the sound of it, Cicada did too.

"You're an interesting cat, Cicadabuzz. I don't think many others would have had the stomach to discover what you have, and in such a short time, as well." Wolf answered as their paws stilled at the edge of a lazy stream.

For some reason, he hadn't expected the dark-eyed feline to be self taught. Had figured it was a talent passed from generation to generation and yet, impressively so, the point was apparently responsible for learning it all on their own.

The spirits do not teach as the land does,"

Wolf frowned as he looked out over the territory, eyes trained for potential threats or signs of the herb, but ears trained on the words slowly being offered up to him. It was hard to tell if this was more of the charade and they were screwing with him, or if Cicadabuzz was just a special brand of crazy, but they seemed to believe what they were saying- about the spirits and land alike.

"If I relied only on them, you would all be dead."

"So it's safe for Sablestar to heed them, but not you?" he asked with a skeptical quirk of his brow, watching them crouch to paw through the damp soil underfoot. Seeing something in it that Wolfpack could not. "Sounds like you'd rather worship the land than a bunch of shadows and spirits." he noted idly.

Not a bad idea, really. While the deputy knew nothing about herbs and berries and healing, he too, was a student of the world. Had learned many of the skills he now had by watching and learning, trying and failing, enacting a similar version of 'trial by error' that the healer had in order to learn what worked and what didn't.

What had the spirits or the shadows ever done for him?
​

---

shadowclan deputy - male - a large, monochrome chimera with mismatched eyes and several scars​

​

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 28 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit ; mentor to magpiepaw
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz stays silent for a moment, their gaze fixed ahead, watching the stream slip quietly through the marsh, the ripples disturbed only by the occasional stir of an unseen creature beneath the surface. The words Wolfpack says are nothing new—skepticism is a companion Cicadabuzz has long grown accustomed to. And still, they hum softly, low and meditative, the sound vibrating through their chest, a hum more for themselves than anyone else. They don't answer right away, allowing the weight of Wolfpack's question to settle into the stillness between them. Cicadabuzz has always chosen their words carefully, and the question lingers in their mind longer than the time it takes to blink. When they finally speak, it's in their usual, steady cadence.

"Sablestar's choices are his own," they say softly, each word chosen deliberately. "But I did advise him. I told him not to trust the spirits too much. Not to lean on them too heavily. It is a dangerous thing, asking the shadows for answers. They will speak, but their words are not always clear. And when they speak, they expect something in return." They turn to look at Wolfpack, their gaze cool, eyes unreadable. There's a faint glimmer of something in the depths of their dark eyes, something that could be caution or understanding, but it is gone in a breath. "I advised him," Cicadabuzz repeats, "that there is a cost to everything. Not just with the spirits, but with everything. There are prices to be paid, whether you ask for it or not." They hum again, low, almost to themselves. "Spirits ask for things you cannot always give. The land, on the other hand... the land takes nothing but patience. And in return, it gives more than you can expect."

Their voice is calm, but there's a trace of something deeper beneath it—something heavier, as though Cicadabuzz has borne the weight of these decisions before, and they do not want others to carry them in the same way. "As for worship..." they begin, the word tasting strange on their tongue, "the land does not ask to be worshipped. It simply is. It does not demand reverence. It does not require sacrifices. It is not fickle or cruel in its intentions. It gives, and it takes, as all things do." They crouch low, their claws sliding through the earth as they continue their search, though their mind is far from the damp soil beneath their paws. It's something Wolfpack said that pulls them from their focus—a brief flicker of something that catches their attention.

"You think it crazy," they murmur, almost to themselves. "But that's the difference between those who choose to look at the world with their eyes open and those who simply let it happen around them. You've learned your way, and I've learned mine. Your world is one of blood and claw, and mine... mine is one of patience and roots." Cicadabuzz stands once more, lifting their head to gaze out across the marsh, their mind drifting as the words form on their tongue. Their attention once more drifts back to the original topic at hand. "The spirits... they do not teach the way the land does," they explain, the tone unwavering. "They speak in riddles, in half-truths, in shadows that twist in ways you cannot control. I have learned things from them, yes. But it is the land that teaches me how to use them, how to balance them with the living." They turn to face Wolfpack, their voice firmer now, "The spirits are there to guide. But they are not teachers. They are not foundation."

They stand tall now, their shoulders straight, paws planted firmly in the soft earth. The words seem to settle between them, as if they have always been there, waiting for someone to hear them. "What Sablestar chooses is his burden to bear," Cicadabuzz adds quietly. "But as for me... I trust the land to teach me. The spirits are fleeting, unpredictable. The land is constant." Their gaze shifts toward Wolfpack once more, sharp and steady. "And in the end, the land will still be here, even when the spirits are long gone."