Private Backwritten ShadowClan cause who am I if not exploited? ִֶָ☾.⭒ — cicadabuzz

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F l e a p a w

ALL YOU HAVE IS YOUR FIRE
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(Takes place shortly after this thread)

Fleapaw hobbled into camp, the bundle of plants clutched between her teeth feeling heavier than it had any right to. The sharp tang of their scent tickled her nose—acrid and bitter, just like a certain bug-eyed freak that she couldn't wait to see again. Her paws dragged, exhaustion pulling at her eyelids. No one ever told her picking plants all day would be so draining.

She didn't need to see Cicadabuzz to feel the skitter of insects up her spine. Those black eyes were burned into her memory. Every time she returned to that den, she felt like an insect in a spider's web. That weirdo would no doubt have plenty to say about the measly haul she brought with her today.

She tried, really! Spent the better part of the morning digging in the dirt, plucking at anything that looked like a plant, getting stabbed and swarmed, just hoping that if she picked enough green things, at least one would be useful. But there was no way to tell until they looked at them.

Fleapaw hesitated just shy of the medicine den entrance, ears giving an uneasy twitch and tail curled low. She pushed air through her nostrils and forced her paws forward. "Got some stuff for you." The apprentice muttered through a mouthful of mystery plants, carefully placing them on the ground before taking a seat. Fleapaw puffed, blowing a strand of cobweb away from her face.

And I'm not cool, and I'm not smart
flea-cheeb.png
FLEAPAW
8 MOONS
SHE/HER
- Undersized cinnamon solid with folded ears. She's thin but stubby with very messy fur.
"SPEECH" - crimson | 'THOUGHTS/EMPHASIS' - crimson
Fleapaw values family the most with survival at a close second. In conversations, she is blunt, fun-loving, and clever. She is guided by her desires which often leads her astray. Despite her abrasive personality, she cares deeply for those she loves and will do anything to protect them. Due to her experiences, Fleapaw is corrupt and has minimalistic, if any, morals. She does not care for the warrior code and its restraints. Neither does she believe in StarClan. Growing up in a kitten mill, being separated from her mother, and ending up on the streets have deeply affected her view of the world.


And I can't even parallel park
 
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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 does not look up right away. The den is quiet, saturated with the sharp tang of crushed herbs and dust. A moth flutters near the ceiling, casting soft, jagged shadows along the wall. The moment Fleapaw steps over the threshold, the air shifts. Not with tension, not with any visible change—just a quiet awareness. Cicadabuzz knows it's her by the scuffing gait, the sour blend of effort and defiance she wears like a second pelt. They finish sorting a small collection of herbs with slow, precise movements. Only once it's laid in its proper place do they turn, silent as the dust in the air. Fleapaw's bundle lies between them, messy and sagging. Her tail flicks like it wants to lash but doesn't dare. Cicadabuzz regards the offering without comment at first, their eyes unreadable—more dark glass than expression.

Then, with that same slow care, they begin sorting. A delicate press of paw finds the cleanly uprooted dandelion. They brush soil from its roots, set it aside with the barest nod. Acceptable. The ragwort comes next—torn, but still viable. Cicadabuzz notes the jagged edges, the telltale sign of inexperience. They say nothing. Their paw hovers over the flowerhead. Foxglove. They pause. Their whiskers barely twitch. Foxglove is deadly. They crack the flowerhead open gently, and sure enough—seeds nestled within. Cicadabuzz gathers them carefully, separating them from the rest. Their movements do not quicken, though they are sharper now. More exacting. She brought poison. Not intentionally, not maliciously, but still. Had she been less careful, she could have been dead before she returned to camp.

They finally glance up, meeting Fleapaw's eyes with something unreadable. Not anger. Not disdain. Attention.

Cicadabuzz continues. One cobweb. Useful. Two weeds. Trash. A twig. Irrelevant. When all is laid bare—sorted, judged, understood—Cicadabuzz speaks. "You don't know what you're looking for." It's not a question. They gesture lightly to the plants that matter. The dandelion. The ragwort. The foxglove seeds, now carefully placed a short distance from the others. "This," they say, tapping the dandelion with one claw, "will help to lower a cat's fever, or to lessen their pain." Another tap. Ragwort. "This gives one strength, and aids the joints." And finally—foxglove. Their gaze lingers on her. "This stops a heart." Silence stretches again, thick and still. "You have energy. That's more than most." Their tone does not rise, does not soften. It's a flat, deliberate observation. "But effort without knowledge is just noise. Like a kit yowling into the wind."

They give their full attention to Fleapaw. "You will come to me to learn what the herbs you seek look like. Sundown every three days. You'll learn their names." With that statement made, they move to place the herbs in their stock, carefully handling each. They return only to push the two weeds and the twig towards Fleapaw. "These are useless. Dispose of them."

 
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Fleapaw shifts uncomfortably, bored eyes roaming the inside of the den wishing that she could be anywhere else. The time Cicadabuzz takes to finish sorting herbs feels like an eternity. She just wants to get it over with and quick. There's no chance that she didn't grab a bunch of random weeds. Honestly, she would be surprised if anything she dug up is even useful.

When the medicine cat turns around she twitches to attention. Fleapaw would be lying if she said that Cicadabuzz didn't make her uneasy. Just looking at them made her pelt itch—and her eyes feel dry—and her chest burn. She hates the way they scrutinize everything, but most of all she hates how they look at her. Their gaze feels like a cold razor, peeling back her fur by the seams.

The apprentice sits stiffly as the medicine-cat begins to poke through the pile. Whatever is going through their mind is a mystery. She can't even read it on their face—there's nothing in those black eyes, only the focus of a thing fulfilling a task. Her curled ears twitch as they stop and look at the flower she's brought. The thing that makes a fun rattling sound when she shakes it.

When they crack the pods open, to her surprise, a bunch of little seeds tumbled out—the cause of the rattling. Part of her is a little disappointed, she'd hoped to keep it to show Stoat.

Their gaze snaps up to meet hers. The first thing they say makes her grumble a little. Well no fucking shit she doesn't know what she's doing. Maybe they might enjoy running around digging plants up, but she sure doesn't. There was never a reason for her to until now either.

Fleapaw sighs and waits for a good berating—something something about her being a waste of time, and why don't you know how to do this? Possumgrin does that plenty enough, so she's used to it. Fleapaw blinks as Cicadabuzz gestures at the yellow flower. They start telling her what it's used for and then each herb after it. They each do different things—the pretty dandy thing that reminds her of sunshine lowers fever and helps with pain—the weird awful tasting one is for strength and joints—the rattling flower stops a heart… Wait what!?

Fleapaw's head jerks down to look at the seeds that came from that stalk. "S-stop a heart?" She squeaks softly. Her heart was still beating so… she was fine, right? So maybe the stalk bit wasn't poisonous?

Amber eyes shift again to look at Cicadabuzz. What comes out of their mouth almost sounds like a compliment… But she knows better. Fleapaw doubts they're even capable of giving one. They only pick things apart, like a colony of ants dissecting another insect while it's still alive.

Fleapaw listens to them speak before opening her mouth. "I thought you wanted me to figure all this out on my own?" She then quickly tacks on, "—Not, that I'm complaining. Just you didn't seem to care before if I failed or not." Her eyes follow them as they carry off her herbs. Dread sloshes around in her already uneasy stomach when they return. She looks down at the twig already feeling the indigestion.

Fleapaw supposes she's lucky to have brought anything useful at all. Still, the idea of having to eat this crap makes her nauseous. But… maybe they forgot that stuff about making her eat the wrong ones? Fleapaw reaaally hopes so. "Yeah, sure thing Cicadabuzz." She slowly drags the twig and weeds behind her back with a paw. "So uhhhh, those plants I brought. Can you tell me what they're called now? And the one that stops your heart, I'm guessin' since I'm not dead, not all of it is poisonous?" Fleapaw bats her eyes innocently, giving Cicadabuzz her full attention.

And I'm not cool, and I'm not smart
flea-cheeb.png
FLEAPAW
8 MOONS
SHE/HER
- Undersized cinnamon solid with folded ears. She's thin but stubby with very messy fur.
"SPEECH" - crimson | 'THOUGHTS/EMPHASIS' - crimson
Fleapaw values family the most with survival at a close second. In conversations, she is blunt, fun-loving, and clever. She is guided by her desires which often leads her astray. Despite her abrasive personality, she cares deeply for those she loves and will do anything to protect them. Due to her experiences, Fleapaw is corrupt and has minimalistic, if any, morals. She does not care for the warrior code and its restraints. Neither does she believe in StarClan. Growing up in a kitten mill, being separated from her mother, and ending up on the streets have deeply affected her view of the world.


And I can't even parallel park
 
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