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.
Hush moves without a sound through the golden grasses that stretch from the farm to the wild beyond. The early morning sun lies low on the horizon, casting a pale, ethereal light over the field, turning each blade into a slender shard of gold. The world is not yet fully awake—a lull between night and day, where shadows breathe and silence is like a living thing. Hush is most at home in this hour, a creature of in-between spaces, always lingering on the edge of something unseen. Their paws make no sound as they step over tufts of frost-touched grass. Hush moves like a breeze might move—sweeping through faintly, barely brushing, but present nonetheless. There's a certain rhythm to their steps, an instinctual dance that keeps them balanced between tension and calm. Their gaze, sharp and all-encompassing, sweeps the landscape with an awareness born not just from necessity but from a profound sense of connection to the world around them. The sky above holds the first whispers of color, soft indigo melting into a muted violet, then a hint of blue. Hush breathes it in as if color itself could fill their lungs.
The farm lies behind them, a silhouette of slanted roofs and ramshackle fences, a place that has always felt like neither home nor cage. It is simply there, a constant background hum in a life of quiet, constant movement. Hush navigates these lands with a kind of practiced ease—not in haste, nor in dawdling, but in a pace that suggests they have always been meant to move like this. They know where the ground dips and rises, where hidden roots might catch a careless step, and where the grass becomes sparse, giving way to harder earth. As Hush walks, their ears catch the subtle murmur of a brook somewhere to the east, water trickling over stones in a language of patience and time. They think briefly of how everything here is shaped by patience—the wind that bends the grasses, the sun that paints the sky, the life that persists, quietly and stubbornly, through all seasons. Hush's own existence is no different. Every breath is a testament to resilience, every step a defiance of the silence that could swallow them if they let it.
They pause near a patch of wildflowers—late bloomers that have defied the cold in favor of one last display of color. Hush lowers their nose to them, not quite sniffing, more observing. It's not beauty that holds their interest—beauty is a fleeting thing, and Hush respects the enduring more than the ornamental. But the flowers' refusal to wilt, their insistence on growing even in the chill, strikes a chord within Hush. They understand what it is to bloom despite the odds, to survive because survival is not a choice but a commandment of the blood. A distant sound—a crow's call—pulls their attention upward. Black wings beat against the sky, and Hush watches, eyes narrowed slightly, as the bird circles and then drifts west, always watchful, always aware. Hush knows that vulnerability comes not from weakness, but from lack of vigilance. In this world, a moment of inattention could mean the difference between breathing and silence eternal. They move again, this time toward a small, barely perceptible path that winds through the thicker grass.
As they walk, Hush's mind drifts, yet not in the unfocused way of a dreamer. Their thoughts are like water running through a streambed. They think of the old trees that stand in the distance like guardians of secrets untold, of the way the seasons shift so gradually that it feels like the land itself is sighing into its next form. Hush pauses again, this time near a cluster of stones worn smooth by time and weather. They sit, not out of fatigue, but out of a need for stillness. In this moment of quiet, they feel the pulse of the earth beneath them, as if even the ground has a heartbeat. It reminds them they are part of something vast and interconnected. They are not just a solitary figure moving through the world. The sun climbs a little higher, and the light begins to shift, warmer now, touching the world with a gentler hand. Hush watches it for a moment longer, then rises, a soft sigh escaping as a plume of white breath in the cold air. There is no destination, no urgency. Only the journey, the eternal rhythm of movement and stillness, and the quiet understanding that to exist in this in-between space is to be alive in a way that defies simplicity.
Hush walks on, leaving only the faintest traces of their passage—tracks that will soon vanish into the shifting grass, as if they had never been there at all.
