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 grace, their paws pressing lightly into the damp earth as they step beyond the camp's entrance. The air is cool, still carrying the sharp remnants of leafbare, but there is a softness to it now—a quiet promise of new life stirring beneath the soil. Their sharp eyes scan the landscape as they walk, cataloging the subtle changes—the thinning frost on the grass, the shifting scents carried on the breeze. They do not turn to see if Mistletoekit follows; they expect her to. If she is not keeping up, she will learn soon enough that Cicadabuzz does not slow their pace for idle paws. The young always have boundless energy, and the trip is not long. Besides, this is not a mere outing for the kit's amusement—it is a task, a necessary one, and Cicadabuzz will not coddle her through it. She may have stated she does not wish to help them with their work, but she will walk with them regardless.
They weave between sparse undergrowth, stepping over gnarled roots with ease. Their path is deliberate, leading them toward the patches of herbs they have tended before. The first stop is a small hollow where coltsfoot grows, nestled close to the shore where the soil remains damp. Cicadabuzz lowers their head, sniffing at the delicate, bright yellow petals that have just begun to unfurl. Their ears twitch. Good—these will be useful soon. Leafbare has left its mark on many lungs, and they will need strong remedies in the coming moons. Without preamble, they pluck a single flower, inspecting the leaves beneath it for signs of rot or frostbite. They find none. A satisfied hum rumbles low in their throat, and they tuck the bloom carefully between their jaws before straightening once more. Their tail flicks absently, signaling for Mistletoekit to keep moving.
The next stop is a patch of burdock root, though Cicadabuzz already knows what they will find before they arrive. The bitter scent of decay taints the air as they step closer, and their narrowed eyes confirm their suspicions—many of the stalks have blackened, rotted away by the cold that lingered too long this season. They exhale sharply through their nose. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. Dropping to their haunches, they dig carefully at the base of one withered plant, searching for any roots that might have survived beneath the surface. Their claws scrape against damp earth, parting it with practiced ease. A few heartbeats pass before they find what they are looking for—one, perhaps two, roots still firm beneath the rot. They extract the rotten roots, to dispose of far from that which still grows strong. They do not waste time lamenting what was lost. There is no use in it. Some herbs will return, others will need moons to recover, and some will need to be sought elsewhere. That is the way of things.
Cicadabuzz lifts their head once more, their piercing gaze sweeping across the landscape, calculating the next stop. There are still more patches to check, more work to be done. With a flick of their tail, they rise smoothly to their paws, stepping forward without hesitation. The land does not wait, and neither do they. "Come along, Mistletoekit. Don't linger."
@mistletoekit
They weave between sparse undergrowth, stepping over gnarled roots with ease. Their path is deliberate, leading them toward the patches of herbs they have tended before. The first stop is a small hollow where coltsfoot grows, nestled close to the shore where the soil remains damp. Cicadabuzz lowers their head, sniffing at the delicate, bright yellow petals that have just begun to unfurl. Their ears twitch. Good—these will be useful soon. Leafbare has left its mark on many lungs, and they will need strong remedies in the coming moons. Without preamble, they pluck a single flower, inspecting the leaves beneath it for signs of rot or frostbite. They find none. A satisfied hum rumbles low in their throat, and they tuck the bloom carefully between their jaws before straightening once more. Their tail flicks absently, signaling for Mistletoekit to keep moving.
The next stop is a patch of burdock root, though Cicadabuzz already knows what they will find before they arrive. The bitter scent of decay taints the air as they step closer, and their narrowed eyes confirm their suspicions—many of the stalks have blackened, rotted away by the cold that lingered too long this season. They exhale sharply through their nose. Unfortunate, but not unexpected. Dropping to their haunches, they dig carefully at the base of one withered plant, searching for any roots that might have survived beneath the surface. Their claws scrape against damp earth, parting it with practiced ease. A few heartbeats pass before they find what they are looking for—one, perhaps two, roots still firm beneath the rot. They extract the rotten roots, to dispose of far from that which still grows strong. They do not waste time lamenting what was lost. There is no use in it. Some herbs will return, others will need moons to recover, and some will need to be sought elsewhere. That is the way of things.
Cicadabuzz lifts their head once more, their piercing gaze sweeping across the landscape, calculating the next stop. There are still more patches to check, more work to be done. With a flick of their tail, they rise smoothly to their paws, stepping forward without hesitation. The land does not wait, and neither do they. "Come along, Mistletoekit. Don't linger."
@mistletoekit
