Open Camp patient and inscrutable ] frog attack

[cicadabuzz]

Cicadabuzz moves with quiet precision, their paws a whisper against the packed earth of their den. The scent of herbs thickens the air—sharp, musty, bitter, sweet—all interwoven into the familiar tapestry of their work. They sit in the dim glow filtering through the entrance, their tail curled neatly around their paws as they inspect the stores with a practiced eye. Some of the leaves have grown brittle with age, curling in on themselves like dying insects. Cicadabuzz brushes a paw over them, testing their texture before flicking them aside into a small pile of useless scraps. No point in keeping what won't heal. Their ears twitch as they sort, setting aside fresh replacements they gathered at sunrise. Lavender, pungent and vibrant. Yarrow, crisp and ready for use. Dried marigold petals, still potent enough to serve their purpose.

They work methodically, nudging each bundle into a neat line along the makeshift earthen shelves. Their den is small but well-kept, every herb given its place, every root and leaf accounted for. A stray poppy seed rolls from a bundle, and they pin it under a careful claw before flicking it back into place. For a while, the only sound is the rustle of plants, the occasional sigh of disturbed dust. Cicadabuzz does not mind the solitude—it is steady, reliable, like the rhythm of the wind in the trees. Their mind wanders as their paws work, drifting between memory and instinct, noting what must be replenished, what is still plentiful. Slotting the last of their new stock into place, they lean back, surveying their work. The den smells fresher now, like new growth rather than decay. They allow themselves a small nod before sweeping the discarded herbs into a heap, ready to be taken away. Another task complete, another step in the endless cycle of care.

[ please wait for @F l e a p a w before posting ]

 

[F l e a p a w]

Fleapaw was herding frogs through camp, batting and trying to encourage them where she wanted them to go. But she wasn't just messing around—oh, no, no, no. This was important business. She'd been trainin' these frogs for weeks, carefully selecting only the strongest, meanest, and most battle-ready of the pocosin's finest.

They weren't just any frogs, but her elite frog warriors. Today, she brought them into camp to familiarize them with their battleground and prepare them for war.

Since the scuffle with Thunderclan, Fleapaw couldn't stop thinking—what if ThunderClan retaliated? What if one day, they got tired of sharing and wanted to strike back? If Flea were them she'd strike at the heart, launch an attack right on the camp.

Well, If those mouse-brained losers ever raided ShadowClan, who would expect an army of trained, battle-ready frogs to rise from the mud? Fleapaw could imagine them now, swarming her enemies, their battle croaks echoing into the darkness.

It was fucking genius.

She just had to get them used to camp first. But uh, that part was not going so great.

The little bastards were faster than she remembered. They were supposed to be marching in formation, but instead they were hopping around like little fools, ignoring her very clear instructions. "Hey—Not that way! We practiced this! CROAK WARRIORS, FORM UP!"

One of them panicked and before she could stop it, the frog launched itself into the air. It soared ahead, stretchy legs carrying beyond her reach.

Straight into Cicadabuzz's den.

Oh… shit.

The rest of her army followed like a stampede, legs flicking up mud. Fleapaw sprinted after them, but it was too late—they were already getting into shit the moment she burst inside.

A frog landed in a pile of black seeds, sending them scattering everywhere, some of them sticking to its slimy body. Another landed in front of Cicadabuzz—SPLAT— its beady little eyes blinking up at the medicine cat.

The others—three of them—Bounced off shelves, Vanishing into nests, Knocking over arranged herb piles. Leaving a glorious trail of muddy prints on everything they touched.

Fleapaw dove after them, scrambling to scoop them up with her stubby little paws. But fumbling to catch them, she was no less destructive—her paws slipping, crashing through storage spaces and nests as she tried to wrangle her rogue soldiers.

She risked a glance at Cicadabuzz. Oh, yeah. I'm gonna to die today.

This was fine. Everything was fine.

​

shes got a knife ▬ι═ﺤ stab stab

• ooc —— STAMPEDEEEE
• 
  I extend my hand like a mob boss and allow you to kiss my ring but when you lean closer you see its one of those glow-in-the-dark spider rings you win at arcades [MUNCH] you disrespec me - and eat my spooky spida ring! which cost me 50 tickets at funtime arcade and pizzeria. VINNY! Hit her with da sticky hand!​
  ​
• FLEAKIT / FLEAPAW / FLEAFIRE
  - she/her
  - apprentice
  - 6 moons
  - speech thought
  - some physical powerplay permitted
  
  
  penned by user​

​

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ orange eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz does not react immediately. They watch, unblinking, as the frog lands before them, its slick body quivering in the dim light of the den. Its throat pulses, its small, wet eyes meet theirs. Cicadabuzz slow-blinks, deliberate and measured, as if acknowledging the creature's brief, insignificant existence. Then, with the detached ease of a predator, they strike. Their jaws snap around the frog's head, and a sharp, efficient bite ends its struggle. They drop the limp body to the ground without ceremony and turn, finally, to Fleapaw.

The scene before them is an atrocity.

Black seeds scatter like spilled night sky across the den floor. Leaves and stems, carefully dried and sorted, now lie trampled into mud, their healing potency lost. A frog perches atop an overturned bundle of yarrow, its sticky limbs smearing pollen across the delicate petals. Another vanishes behind a shelf, knocking over a carefully arranged stack of roots as it goes. The scent of crushed marigold and churned earth mingles thickly in the air. Cicadabuzz watches it all unfold in silence. They do not lash out. Do not yowl. Do not chase after the frogs, nor flinch at the destruction. But there is a stillness to them now, something cold and vast, like the hush before a storm.

They step forward, slow, deliberate. Mud sucks at their paws, but they do not rush. The weight of their gaze alone is surely enough to still Fleapaw's frantic movements. "You have made a mistake." The words are soft, almost eerily so, like the whisper of wind through dead leaves. They move past her, plucking a frog from a crushed tangle of herbs and setting it down with unnerving gentleness. A paw sweeps through the scattered remains of what was once a neatly sorted pile of tansy. They study the damage with the cool detachment of a cat assessing a fresh kill. Then, they turn back to Fleapaw.

"You will gather every seed. Every leaf. Every root," they say, voice as smooth and unyielding as river stones. "You will clean the mud from my den. You will re-sort what can be salvaged. And for every herb that has been ruined, you will replace it." Their tail flicks once, sharply. "All of it." A pause. Then, more softly, more chillingly, "Until it is done, any wound you receive will be left to fester." They let the words settle. A punishment with no room for argument, no space for negotiation. Should she be careless enough to be wounded, then pain will be her teacher. Her actions will remind her of what carelessness costs.

With that, they step away, already gathering what little remains untouched by the devastation. Their movements are calm, methodical, as if the mess itself is merely another task to be addressed. But there is no mistaking the weight behind their stillness, the carefully contained fury at the wreckage wrought.

 

[F l e a p a w]

Shit was falling apart right before her eyes. Fleapaw did her best to contain it but that only seemed to make it worse. Herbs were flying everywhere—she was getting winded—and Cicadabuzz was pissed.

The medicine cat didn't even need to say anything, didn't need to look at her. Fleapaw could feel the icy wind blowing off them and she knew it was just the precursor to the blizzard she had walked into.

She was still chasing one of her soldiers when she saw it—Cicadabuzz's jaws snapping scarily fast around the head of one of her frogs. The crunch sent her heart plummeting to the bottom of her chest.

"Booger, no!" She screeches.

Damn it, he was a good one too! Nice and strong. She had so many plans for him… Now he was gone. She barely had time to mourn before Cicadabuzz spun on her, their freaky ass, glassy eyes boring holes into her face. Fleapaw goes still, wilting under the medicine cats stare.

Most cats would've yelled—screamed—hit her. She preferred all that to this. "I'll uh—clean it up!" She blurted, fumbling at a few leaves on the ground—only to have them crumble into the mud. Shit

Fleapaw swallowed but found her throat bone dry. If it were anyone else, she would've flared up, blown sparks back in their faces. Braced for whatever came with teeth bared and fire in her chest.

But her situation with Cicadabuzz was different. She didn't like the herb muncher. Not even a little. They creeped her out—because who the hell liked sitting around munching and sortin' herbs all day like some kind of large soulless caterpillar?

Fleapaw also owed them twice over. She had begged and offered everything just to keep Tick alive when they found him rotting on the border, and in return, she was stuck cleaning Cicada's stupid den—her least favorite task. But they had held to their side of the bargain. Tick was alive.

Now she all but spat in the medicine cat's face. Flea wasn't sure she'd ever be able to make things even. The way they were looking at her now, she was fully prepared for there to be poison in her fresh kill tomorrow. But Cicadabuzz wasn't finished.

She listened, and it felt like bugs crawling under her pelt. That skittering sensation made her body convulse a little in an attempt to shake them off.

Everything was laid out in detail. She was to gather everything—every bit of crushed plant scattered across the den, clean the mud, corral the frogs... All that she expected. But then Cicadabuzz dropped a real bombshell. Forget about not being able to get her wounds looked at. She hated coming to the medicine den and hated ingesting herbs even more. If she got hurt, she'd just deal with it. That was how things were before she came to Shadowclan. At least that meant she wouldn't have to see their stupid face for a while—or pinch her nose against the foul bitter stench of these plants.

No the real problem was all around her. The apprentice blinked, head snapping back up to look at Cicadabuzz. Were they serious? She had to replace all of these damn herbs? Knew she should've kept her maw shut, but a complaint slipped out anyway. "Wh- How? I don't know what half of these are even called!"

Fleapaw suppressed a groan, finally taking in the full extent of the disaster she created. It looked bad, like really bad. Her tail drooped, dragging behind her as she took a step forward. "More likely to get a pile a weeds from me than anything useful." It came out more whiney than she would've liked, but her point stood.

____________IF I COULD PAINT THE SKY 𓆏 WOULD ALL THE STARS THEN SHINE A BLOODY RED?

• ooc: —

• 

• FLEAPAW she/her | shadowclanner | 6 moons
  → FLEAKIT / FLEAPAW / FLEAFIRE
  → mentored by POSSUMGRIN and FROSTSTORM
  → former mill kit and kittypet
  → some physical powerplay permitted
  → speech thought/emphasis attacking

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz listens without interrupting, their expression unchanging as Fleapaw sputters and scrambles, trying and failing to grasp the weight of her situation. The pathetic attempt at scooping up a ruined leaf is barely worth acknowledging. The excuse, the whine in her voice—it grates like claws on stone. They tilt their head slightly, regarding her with something too distant to be amusement, too cold to be sympathy. "You should have thought of that," they say simply.

They step forward, paws silent despite the carnage underfoot. A single dried stem clings to the mud on Fleapaw's leg, crushed underfoot without hesitation. Cicadabuzz's voice does not rise, does not waver. It is the quiet voice of inevitability. "You will learn their names. You will learn their shapes, their scents, their uses. By the time you are finished, you will know them as well as I do." The weight of the statement settles between them. It is not a suggestion. Not a threat. An order. Their tail flicks, gaze shifting to the wreckage once more. "Weeds or not, you will bring something back. And if you fail, you will go again. And again." Their eyes meet hers once more, impassive and depthless. "And again. Until you get it right." There is no room for argument, no space for bargaining.

They turn from her, moving with practiced ease to a muddied pile of herbs, nosing apart the damage, assessing what might yet be salvaged. It is a methodical, thoughtless act—an action to distract, to keep their frustration cool and in check. "Your actions have destroyed months of work," Cicadabuzz murmurs, not looking at her now, only at the scattered remnants of their craft. The loss is not merely an inconvenience. Some of these plants were difficult to find, gathered during the right season, dried with care. Some were already running low. They think of the marigold, now trampled, the scattered poppy seeds lost in the filth of the den. The sharp scent of crushed yarrow clings to the air, wasted. The loss of these herbs could mean that death of a cat that could have been saved otherwise.

Their claws flex against the earth. Fleapaw does not understand the weight of what she has done. Not yet. But she will.

"I have better things to do than watch you blunder through my den like a rampaging badger. And yet, here we are." They select a sprig of crushed tansy, turning it in their paw before letting it drop. Useless. "You will replace everything. And you will do it alone." A pause, deliberate, measured. "If you cannot tell poppy seeds from foxglove seeds, then I suggest you figure it out before you kill someone." They finally turn to her then, fixing her with their empty stare, something cold and unfathomable behind it. "You will not waste my time."

It is a harsh punishment—but Cicadabuzz does not dole it out in anger. They are not lashing out, not raising their voice, not clawing at her ears or hissing threats into her face. Without another word, they turn back to their work, beginning the slow, careful process of reclaiming what little they can. The rest, Fleapaw will replace. One way or another. This is what she has done. This is what she must fix. And until she does, she will suffer for it.

 

[F l e a p a w]

Fleapaw couldn't believe what she was hearing. She gaped like a fish, her words tangling in her throat, claws scraping against the floor. Flea knew she fucked up but now Cicada was just finding stuff to torture her with. What was the big deal anyway? These were just a bunch of stupid plants—Couldn't Cicada just pluck more of them? Or, heck, send out a big patrol or something? They would gather twice as many faster than she could. And she was supposed to do it all by herself?!

Her lip curled, but she swallowed the foul words itching to crawl off her tongue. Instead, she found some comfort in the thought of taking one of Cicada's creepy-ass eyes out with a stick. Just a little pop—like a berry bursting under a claw. That made her feel a whole lot better.

Cicada saved Tick, so she was gonna try really, really hard not to act on her impulses. But damn it wasn't easy. Flea was pretty sure she gonna start spinnin' and puking everywhere just trying.

"Are you gonna tell me what they're called when I bring them to you?" She snapped, teeth clacking together, making her jaw ache. "How'm I supposed to figure all that out without someone who actually knows all that junk telling me?" Flea flicked a piece of ruined herb with her paw. At this rate, she was gonna be an elder by the time she repaid her debt.

The pile of shit she stepped in was so high that she could probably build a mountain out of it. Fleapaw's tailed whipped behind her.

She didn't want to be out there plucking dumb plants and learning their stupid names. That was weirdo stuff. No one liked that crap but them. "I get it! I fucked up! But this is—this is—" She huffed, voice pitching with frustration. Dogshit. That's what it was. It wasn't like she did any of it on purpose! "Sides, I got other stuff to do too, you know. Say I'm wastin' your time, but ain't you wastin' time getting me to gather all this for you? Ain't sayin' I won't make it right, I just…Possumgrin's supposed to be teaching me how to be a warrior! I gotta hunt every mornin', not to mention clean up this place every day." Her fur bristled, but she tried her best to contain the frustration that boiled over.

"Now I'm supposed to be sniffin' around in the dirt for plants I know nothin' about?" What was a waste of time was this wild plant chase. She was never gonna find all these. And they damn well knew it.

____________IF I COULD PAINT THE SKY 𓆏 WOULD ALL THE STARS THEN SHINE A BLOODY RED?

• ooc: —

• 

• FLEAPAW she/her | shadowclanner | 6 moons
  → FLEAKIT / FLEAPAW / FLEAFIRE
  → mentored by POSSUMGRIN and FROSTSTORM
  → former mill kit and kittypet
  → some physical powerplay permitted
  → speech thought/emphasis attacking

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz listens, unmoved, as Fleapaw spits and snarls, her frustration coiling around her like a struck viper. They do not interrupt. They do not shift. They let her rail against them, let her snap her teeth on empty air, let her voice pitch high with indignation. And when she finally stops, when she is left panting from the force of her own outburst, Cicadabuzz tilts their head just slightly and speaks. "You have many words for a cat who has already proven she cannot use them wisely." Their voice is eerily calm, soft, a contrast to the storm raging in the apprentice's chest. But there is no gentleness in it. Only quiet disdain. They step forward, deliberately, picking their way through the wreckage, their empty gaze locking onto Fleapaw like a bird eyeing something squirming beneath its talons.

"I wonder," they muse, as if speaking to no one in particular, "if your mother took one look at you when you were born and saw what you would be. A pest. A crawling, useless little thing, chewing through what others have worked to build." Their tail flicks once, lazily, though there is nothing idle in their intent. "Fleapaw." The name rolls off their tongue, like a bitter thing they are glad to spit out. "Fitting."

They do not bother to conceal their contempt. This is not simple frustration. This is not mere annoyance. Fleapaw has made a mess of what sustains the Clan, and now she dares to whine, to act as if she is the one who has been wronged. Cicadabuzz leans down, their voice dipping low, barely above a whisper. "Tell me, Fleapaw," they say, dragging out her name like a claw across bark, "why should I trust you to train as a warrior when you can't even complete a task a kit could manage? If you cannot handle a simple errand, why should I—or Possumgrin—waste our time on you?" They let the words sink in, watching for the flicker in her eyes, the moment the weight of what they're saying registers. Then, without waiting for an answer, they straighten.

"I will not repeat myself," they continue smoothly. "You will gather what you destroyed. I do not care how long it takes. I do not care if you miss your morning hunt or if Possumgrin has to train without you." Their gaze sharpens, turning colder, crueler. "If you cannot tell a marigold from a leaf of dead bracken, then you will bring back everything you find. And if I find a single wrong herb, if you waste another second of my time with your incompetence—" They take another step closer, their breath now brushing against her fur, voice quiet enough that it forces her to listen; "...then I will make you eat it."

They do not raise their voice. They do not need to. Their eyes say enough.

Then, just as easily as they had closed the distance, they turn away. They step over a splattered pile of herbs, tail flicking dismissively. "Go." The word is the first whisper of wind in the eye of a hurricane. "Or stay here and whine like a flea on a dying rat. It makes no difference to me." They do not look at her again. They do not need to. Fleapaw will either do as she is told—or she will choke on the consequences.

 

[F l e a p a w]

What did she expect from a cat like Cicadabuzz? Pity? A little bit of understanding.

Flea learns that quick—left gasping, spitting her frustrations out like bile, only to realize she might as well have been talking to the air.

They don't care. What do they care about? Plants? Certainly not about how she feels or about unfairness. Life isn't fair, and she should've known that all too well by now.
And when those eyes turn on her, there's no anger in them, no righteous fire, only a sinking coldness that makes her skin crawl. The way they speak—it's casual, like they're discussing the weather.

Pest. Useless.

Nothing that Flea hasn't heard before.

Then, they mention her mother. Fleapaw sparks like a live wire, pelt bristling. "Don't talk about my mother, you bug-eyed freak!" The insult tears from her throat, a snarl warping her muzzle as she flings spit in their direction.

"You're named after a bug too! An annoying ass tree thing! Which one of your insect parents gave you those eyes!?" It's the best insult she can think of, but it doesn't matter—they're already talking again. Already dismissing her, like she's not even worth the breath.

How many times has she been told she's a waste of time? Possumgrin doesn't hide his distaste for her, doesn't care if she knows that he'd rather be doing anything else. But she waits… and she listens… and holds her tongue even when he treats her like shit

Fleapaw clings to the shred of hope that that one day, he'd see her—that he would find some use for her. That she'll make him see that she can be more. That she will grow into a great warrior—better than anyone else. She will. She has to...

But what if I…can't? If she stays weak and useless—and then she can't protect them like she promised. Shouldn't I be bigger by now?

A waste. It's all a waste.

But she still remembers the skirmish. How Sablestar used her. How that warrior wrangled her like a rat. She lost count how many times had someone bigger than her shoved her into the dirt like that. Fuck she's hit the ground so many times now and its getting so old.

A snarl builds in her throat. She wants to lash out, to vent her anger, to make Cicada hurt like she hurts. Fleapaw wants so badly to make them sorry, but... she can't. They are bigger. Stronger. And she thinks of Tick. How easy it would be for a cat like Cicadabuzz to take away what they've given.

He could get hurt. That thought is a shield for them, or maybe a chain—one she can't break, not without hurting something she cares about. It wasn't always that way.

Her chest heaves. The frustration builds and builds so much that it makes her head spin. Cicada is so close that she can feel their breath tickling her face—warm—bitter. They push into her space. Taunting. Daring her to do something. Those black eyes bore into her own, and she can see herself in them in painful detail. Had she always been so… brittle looking? "You—" Fleapaw's nostrils flare. The den felt so cramped all of a sudden. The smell of herbs was potent, clogging the air, making it hard to breathe.

Whatever this feeling is, she hates it more than anything.

It isn't until now that she realize just how hard she's been biting down. A bitter metallic taste coats her tongue.

"Soulless bastard." She hisses through her teeth, blood painting them in a thin film of reddish pink.

"You're gonna die alone." She has to get out of here and quick. "Least then all these damn plants you love some much have something to rotten to feed them." She turns sharply, crushing leaves beneath her paws, barreling out of the den before she can hear another word. Tears well in her eyes, droplets shake free as she slams into someone. Fleapaw doesn't stop to see who it is, just hides her face and keeps running.

- Exit Fleapaw -​

____________IF I COULD PAINT THE SKY 𓆏 WOULD ALL THE STARS THEN SHINE A BLOODY RED?

• ooc: —

• 

• FLEAPAW she/her | shadowclanner | 6 moons
  → FLEAKIT / FLEAPAW / FLEAFIRE
  → mentored by POSSUMGRIN and FROSTSTORM
  → former mill kit and kittypet
  → some physical powerplay permitted
  → speech thought/emphasis attacking

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz does not move. They do not blink. They simply watch, impassive, as Fleapaw spits and snarls, her words sharp-edged but brittle, flung like claws against stone. She fights with everything she has, but Cicadabuzz already knows—she has nothing. Her insults do not wound. Fleapaw calls them a bug-eyed freak, and Cicadabuzz thinks, Unimaginative. They have heard worse, from sharper tongues, from minds far crueler than hers. The insect insult is almost laughable, if Cicadabuzz were the type to laugh. She flails at them, grasping for something that will land, but her words are as ineffectual as her paws. She is desperate to be seen, to make them feel what she feels, to claw something raw and ugly out of them. But there is nothing to pull. No wound to dig into, no soft flesh beneath their words.

She bristles like a furious kit when they mention her mother—ah. A sore spot. A fragile place. Cicadabuzz does not bother storing that knowledge away for later use; they are not cruel for cruelty's sake. But they take note of it nonetheless. The past haunts Fleapaw more than she would ever admit, and it has left her scrabbling at the edges of the world, desperate to carve out a place for herself. Pathetic.

Then she speaks of their name, and Cicadabuzz's ear flicks, just once. A tree thing. For all her thrashing, Fleapaw understands nothing. Cicadabuzz's name is not just an insect's—it is a song that hums through the trees, a voice that outlasts the seasons. Cicadas do not die in the cold; they wait beneath the earth, patient, knowing they will rise again. They outlive those who scorn them. They return, over and over, whether others want them to or not. Fleapaw, though. Fleapaw is what she accuses them of being—a pest. A creature that feeds on what others build, that bites and gnaws and flails, desperate to prove itself, yet too small to matter. Fleas scatter when threatened. They hide. They dig into the skin of others, clinging for survival, but they have no strength of their own.

She is living up to her name perfectly.

Still, Cicadabuzz says nothing. They let her break herself against the silence. And break she does.

Cicadabuzz watches it happen. The anger turns inward, the weight of her own thoughts pressing down, crushing her like the dirt beneath an unrelenting sky. She is small. She knows she is small. That is what cuts deepest, not anything they have said. She is fighting something far older than this moment, clawing against a fear that has gnawed at her for moons. For a flicker of a second, Cicadabuzz almost feels something like pity. Then she speaks again, and the feeling is gone. Soulless bastard. Die alone.

Cicadabuzz tilts their head, considering. Bastard? Likely. Soulless? Perhaps. But alone?

She hurls the words at them like a curse, but Cicadabuzz does not see themself in her prediction. They do not fear dying alone. They do not fear death at all. There is nothing Fleapaw can say that they have not already accepted. That is the difference between them. Cicadabuzz does not rage against their nature. They do not claw and spit and beg to be anything other than what they are. Fleapaw's fate, though? That is something else entirely. Cicadabuzz does not turn as she bolts from the den, trailing the scent of blood and tears behind her. Their gaze follows, empty as the space she leaves behind. The herbs she crushed still lay beneath their paws, ruined and useless, but Cicadabuzz does not look at them. Instead, they stare at the den's entrance, where she had vanished, and think, She is going to break. Not now. Not yet. But someday, when she has no one left to snarl at, when the fight in her finally eats itself alive, she will crumble.