Hello and welcome to Purrgatory! We are an 18+ Warrior Cat Roleplay set in an AU where the clans were unable to leave the forest territories and perished!
It has been 100 or more years since then, the clans of the forest are but distant memories to any cats still alive, stories passed down to kits of strangely named wild warriors and leaders with nine lives but the time of the clans is upon us once more and the stars shine yet again.
Cicadabuzz moves with unhurried precision, their paws making no more than a whisper of sound as they weave through their den. The air inside is thick with the mingling scents of drying herbs—sharp tansy, earthy burdock, the faint sweetness of sweet-sedge just beginning to take hold. Newleaf has only just begun, and though the frost has receded, the land is still shaking off the last clinging grasp of leaf-bare. Many of their stores dwindled during the cold moons. Now, with green returning to the world outside, Cicadabuzz must begin the slow work of replenishing.
A bundle of withered coltsfoot lies before them, its brittle stems cracking under the slightest touch. Useless now. With a flick of their tail, they sweep it aside, gathering the remains in their teeth to dispose of later. They will need fresh growth soon—something to ease the coughs that always linger in the wake of leafbare's chill. The thought does not trouble them; they know where to find it, where the damp earth cradles the first sprouts of the season. They move next to their stores of marigold, carefully nosing through each dried petal. Still potent. Good. Their claws work with deft efficiency, rearranging the stacks, ensuring each bit is placed where they can reach it when needed. Every herb has its place, and Cicadabuzz knows them all by scent, by touch, by the way their colors shift in the dim light filtering through the den's entrance.
A faint breeze stirs the hanging herbs, rustling leaves like whispering voices. Cicadabuzz does not pause. Their mind is a still pond, unshaken by unseen currents. They select a bundle of dried yarrow and pull it toward them, inspecting the pale flowers for any sign of rot. Satisfied, they tuck it back into place. A moment of stillness follows. Cicadabuzz sits back on their haunches, exhaling softly. The scent of earth clings to their fur, mingling with the crisp fragrance of herbs. Outside, the world is waking—newleaf's promise carried on birdsong and the distant murmur of moving water. But within the den, time moves at their own measured pace. There is always work to be done, always something to prepare for.
They reach for a sprig of lavender next, bringing it close, breathing in its calming scent. Not for any patient—just for them. A moment's indulgence, a quiet anchor amidst the ever-turning cycle of seasons. Then, just as quickly, they return to their task, methodical as ever.
@Timberfrost
A bundle of withered coltsfoot lies before them, its brittle stems cracking under the slightest touch. Useless now. With a flick of their tail, they sweep it aside, gathering the remains in their teeth to dispose of later. They will need fresh growth soon—something to ease the coughs that always linger in the wake of leafbare's chill. The thought does not trouble them; they know where to find it, where the damp earth cradles the first sprouts of the season. They move next to their stores of marigold, carefully nosing through each dried petal. Still potent. Good. Their claws work with deft efficiency, rearranging the stacks, ensuring each bit is placed where they can reach it when needed. Every herb has its place, and Cicadabuzz knows them all by scent, by touch, by the way their colors shift in the dim light filtering through the den's entrance.
A faint breeze stirs the hanging herbs, rustling leaves like whispering voices. Cicadabuzz does not pause. Their mind is a still pond, unshaken by unseen currents. They select a bundle of dried yarrow and pull it toward them, inspecting the pale flowers for any sign of rot. Satisfied, they tuck it back into place. A moment of stillness follows. Cicadabuzz sits back on their haunches, exhaling softly. The scent of earth clings to their fur, mingling with the crisp fragrance of herbs. Outside, the world is waking—newleaf's promise carried on birdsong and the distant murmur of moving water. But within the den, time moves at their own measured pace. There is always work to be done, always something to prepare for.
They reach for a sprig of lavender next, bringing it close, breathing in its calming scent. Not for any patient—just for them. A moment's indulgence, a quiet anchor amidst the ever-turning cycle of seasons. Then, just as quickly, they return to their task, methodical as ever.
@Timberfrost