Open PAFP Camp FAN THE FLAME = [ bugging cicadabuzz ]

[nightkit]

Nightkit has grown, she thinks. She's capable of full sentences, of standing her ground against the ruder cats that walk the soggy grounds here. She believes she understands the politics that she is told about after much begging- the spat between Thunderclan and Shadowclan, Thunderclan and what it is, what the battle for their independence was. She believes in her leadership, in what points the way. Her eyes crack open as dawn encroaches upon the camp. It had begun to warm, not too sharp and cold outside anymore, her short fur making it difficult to stay outside for too long. That was changing- the days were warming, the ground underfoot always wet.

But she wanted to help. Nightkit wanted to prove that she could do what others could not at her age. She is better then them. She rises before Ember has even moved, a nose nudging at Lightkit in briefly farewell before she pushes from the nursery, heading to where she knew Cicadabuzz and Magpiepaw were. The news that another set of kits has become apprentices only stung as brief as she realized as a requirement had not been ticked off of the list. She is not yet six moons. Nightkit thinks her mother must tire of telling her that. A breath leaves her as she stands in front of the den that houses sharp smells and quiet conversation, injured and sick cats alike.

If the warriors refused to take her on trainings with apprentices, she could turn her attention inward, to something just as important as claws and words. Herbs and splints. Nightkit presses into the den without invitation, eyes adjusting in a brief moment, vision turning towards where Cicadabuzz is moving within. "I want to help." She says, a declaration with no greeting. She would not be turned away.

____________________ REMOVE YOUR NAME ☆ MAKE YOUR PROMISES ____________________

• "speech"
  // please wait for @cicadabuzz
  

• 

• NIGHTKIT she/her, kit of shadowclan, three moons.
  ☆ a sh black torbie with no white, golden eyes, and an unkempt 'mane' lining her head and back of neck. looks at you with intense eyes, and is normally reserved but not quiet.
  ☆ mentored by who / mentoring no one
  ☆ ember xx frond | sister to lightkit
  ☆ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ☆ penned by dallas ↛ dallasofnines on discord, feel free to dm for plots.

 

[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 startle when the kit enters unannounced. They rarely startle at anything. The scent of Nightkit reaches them before her voice does, young and determined, carrying the crispness of morning air and the clinging damp of the outside world. The statement—"I want to help"—is direct, devoid of hesitation, but Cicadabuzz does not immediately respond. Instead, they continue what they are doing, their movements measured and unhurried. They are sorting through freshly gathered herbs, separating the leaves that have signs of rot from those that are healthy. The faintest tilt of an ear acknowledges Nightkit's presence, but their attention remains fixed on the task at paw. A long silence stretches between them, filled only by the rustling of herbs and the distant stirrings of waking camp life.

Finally, Cicadabuzz lifts their head, their gaze settling on Nightkit—not dismissive, nor welcoming, but assessing. The kit stands tall, or at least as tall as her small frame allows, her stance rigid with defiance, like she is already bracing for rejection. It is not the first time Cicadabuzz has seen this look in a young cat's eyes. They consider her, the sharpness in her voice, the fire behind her words. It is a familiar kind of fire, one that either tempers into something useful or burns out before it can truly catch. They exhale, slow and even, before turning to a neat stack of borage leaves. Without a word, they nudge them toward Nightkit with a forepaw. The leaves, fresh and slightly crumpled from travel, hold the faintest trace of morning dew. A simple test. Nothing demanding, nothing beyond what even a kit can handle. Yet, how Nightkit responds will tell Cicadabuzz much.

"Sort these. Good from bad." Their voice is quiet, unhurried, but firm. The words are an offering, not an acceptance. "Any wilting, holes, rot—you set it aside." They watch as Nightkit stares at the leaves, waiting, perhaps, for more instruction. But Cicadabuzz does not elaborate. They do not coddle. If Nightkit wants to help, she must learn that help is not given—it is earned. The medicine den does not have the luxury of indulging half-formed whims. She will either begin, or she will not. Cicadabuzz resumes their own work, their movements fluid as they inspect a bundle of thyme, though their attention remains half-fixed on the kit before them. If Nightkit is to prove herself, it will not be through words alone.