Private Camp crawl outside to sing ───〃𓆦 cicadabuzz

[Fleecefur]

Her arrival is never ceremonious or forewarned, never any indication she will appear outside the brief burst of chilling air as her form materializes at the back of the den in silence, they will never acknowledge her and she knows this so she waits patiently for the moment where the den grows empty, the cats passing in to deliver prey, get a wound checked, a cinnamon apprentice dropping off a mouthful of what looked like weeds, and then once it is only them she speaks.

"What if I could offer you something to prove my sincerity?"

She asks, tone still cool and collected but a smile forming on her maw,

"A boon akin to what I've given already."

They know, surely, they have already been chosen and those dark eyes can see that which normal cats are unable to. She wonders why they had never called to ask questions already, but knows the hesitance and disinterest is there due to how she holds herself. Part of her finds it endearing, the other infuriating.

"It comes with an obvious string, I'm sure you can tell what it is but the offer alone is honest."

Fleecefur is not so naive as to think it will gain her trust in folds, but she desires ShadowClan to lean to her wants and desires more and more with each passing day, her claws sinking in further; Sablestar was easy to convince, his pride and the reward given for a task done enough to cement that dedication even if he may not fully consider her an ally - it was enough that he did not outright dismiss her and its the same agreement she wants from the cinnamon healer among other things but those could come later.

What she offers is not mere fallacy, there is weight and knowing that a medicine cat would grasp where a normal cat would not and it is her hope that while dutiful to their work they might strive to prolong it in a way no one else could offer. Time was a gift, afterall, the most cherished sort of thing you could give another and so few were capable of doing so. The stars thought it delegated to their chosen only, but the light did not shine down far enough to illuminate here - they couldn't reach what was already so far. They couldn't hope to compete with her centuries long wait. Fleecefur had been patient, she was not so foolish as to toss it all away on a whim and wouln't bother to meddle further to ensure she wasn't pushed out.

OOC- @cicadabuzz

BAA BAA BLACK SHEEP HAVE YOU ANY SOUL? NO SIR, BY THE WAY, WHAT THE HELL ARE MORTALS

FLEECEFUR

— Dark Forest Denizen | Former ShadowClan Deputy
— She/Her
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— A tall black color point molly with blue eyes.
#b84d47

 

[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 does not react to Fleecefur's arrival. They never do. They continue their work with steady, unhurried movements, sorting through a bundle of herbs with practiced ease. The scent of crushed thyme and marigold lingers in the den, mingling with the damp chill that heralds Fleecefur's presence. Cicadabuzz does not look up as the she-cat settles in, waiting as she does for the den to empty. When she finally speaks, her words are smooth, careful, laced with the kind of amusement that suggests she already knows what Cicadabuzz will say. They do not interrupt, nor do they glance at her. Instead, they pluck a sprig of yarrow from the pile, toying with it between their claws in absent thought.

A boon. A gift. A string attached.

Cicadabuzz does not need to ask what she means. They have seen enough, felt enough, to understand without needing it explained—a boon akin to that which has been given before. Sable. The weight of Fleecefur's presence is not one that can be ignored, even if they pretend to. The offer she extends is real, as real as the cold air that lingers in the wake of her arrival. They do not respond immediately. Words are a thing to be measured, weighed against the silence that so often serves them better. Instead, they consider.

Time.

For most, it would be a temptation. Time is the most valuable resource, after all—the one thing that no herb, no remedy, no careful tending can truly restore once lost. The sick grow weaker, the old grow frail, the dying slip beyond reach no matter how tightly their kin might cling. If there were a way to grasp time, to stretch it, to make it linger just a little longer—would it not be foolish to turn away? Cicadabuzz thinks of their work. The endless cycles of gathering, treating, learning. The responsibilities that do not cease, even when exhaustion threatens to creep into their bones. They have no patience for sentimentality, but they do have an understanding of necessity. More time means more work done. More injuries treated. More knowledge gained. More purpose fulfilled.

They know what the cost is. They know what it means to accept anything from a cat like Fleecefur. And yet… does it matter?

Fleecefur's claws are already in ShadowClan, weaving through it like roots breaking through stone. The damage is done, the deal made long before Cicadabuzz ever had the choice to weigh in. Turning away does not remove the presence of her influence. It does not stop what has already begun. But acceptance? That grants something tangible. And though they know the price, they know too that it is one they have already paid. There is no turning from their path, not now. At last, they lift their gaze to her—not a look of surprise, nor wariness, but something deeper. A quiet, knowing understanding. They see her for what she is, just as she sees them. Cicadabuzz exhales slowly, setting the sprig of yarrow aside.

"I accept."

There is no hesitation in their voice. No fear. Just quiet acceptance of what they have already decided. More time means more work. That is all that matters.