Private Medicine Cat's Den SLEEPWALKER ───〃exploration

[Magpiekit]

MAGPIEKIT

WE DON'T GET WHAT WE NEED

we're all wrapped up in GREED - THERE'S AN EGO TO FEED

Serpentberry's den was warm, comforting, the scent of herbs thick and it had been a place he would often wander to find the older kits to pester. Leafkit, Rattlekit and Thistlekit were rarely far from her side, often getting into things until she sent them scurrying outside and he would be waiting for them eager to play. The bitter plant smell drew him to the den for its familiarity but it did not have the same warmth, not exactly - there was something chilling in the air, a biting cold and stillness that made his fur prickle in uncertainty but Magpiekit was never the kind to outright dismiss investigation simply because he was scared. He had a thirst to know things, from the day he could crawl to the nursery den mouth to see the bright outside and burst of colors in newly opened eyes to his exploration of his new home here in the dreary territory of ShadowClan that seemed drenched in dark depths in every corner. Fear was the killer of knowledge, the teeth in knowings throat. So with his nose lifted and his steps uneven the kit ventured into the gaping maw of the den.
He expected to be bitten, chastised, but his presence seemed wholly ignored for a moment as he gazed at the cinnamon and rust colored feline hunched over in the corner, paws moving deftly over green in a gesture he recognizes faintly as sorting but does not understand the pattern. The different leaves and pale flowers, dappled berries and long stems all blend together at first, but eventually he notices the distinction enough that he can keep up with the movements, the visuals of each pristine little pile. Cicadabuzz works slower than Serpentberry did, there is a stern diligence to their posture quite unlike the vibrantly loud and exuberant medicine cat of ThunderClan.
He's sure he's been noticed now but he remains quiet, inching closer to watch with wide purple eyes, finding the repetition, the tedium, to be soothing in a way like watching pebbles roll down a hill or seeing the way water ripples when something disrupts it.
The scruffy kitten doesn't notice the berry rolling from the pile to stop at his paws until it touches him and he glances down - vibrant red and shining like a precious gem. Violet hues narrow as he takes it in, remembering distinctly a lesson whispered of warning from a patchwork maw, Don't eat the red berries. They are poisonous. Leafkit's indignant face flashes in his mind, the culprit behind the impromptu lesson that day. Serpentberry hadn't said anything about touching them otherwise so he dips his head and neatly picks it up between his teeth with all the gentleness of mother lifting her kit, teeth not piercing the smooth skin as he toddles forward to drop it back near the medicine cat in silence.

Ooc- @cicadabuzz

❝ i don't know euphoria - i'd like to meet her someday - c'est la vie ❞

MAGPIEKIT

— kitten of shadowclan
— He/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— Solid black w/low white & blue-violet eyes.
— Has 'wobbly cat' syndrome.
#9272ee

 

[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 look up right away. They are aware of the kit's presence—the soft shuffle of tiny paws, the slight shift in the air as he edges closer—but they do not acknowledge him immediately. If he is bold enough to creep into the den, then he is bold enough to wait. Their movements remain steady, sifting through leaves with methodical precision, sorting each by texture and scent, placing them into neat piles dictated by a logic only they understand. The repetition is grounding, an act of control in a world that often refuses to be tamed. When Magpiekit draws nearer, Cicadabuzz senses the weight of his stare, the silent hunger for understanding that so many kits possess but so few wield with intent. He is watching not just with the aimless curiosity of a child but with something sharper, something searching. Cicadabuzz recognizes it for what it is—a mind that refuses to be still, a creature who, like water, will find its way into every crack if left unchecked. They do not mind the observation. Learning happens in silence as much as in words.

The tiny berry rolls away from its pile, coming to rest against Magpiekit's paw. Cicadabuzz sees the way his gaze sharpens, recognition flaring behind those wide, unnatural eyes. He hesitates, thoughtful rather than afraid, before picking up the berry with the care of one who understands its weight. Cicadabuzz watches, impassive, as he returns it, placing it down with careful reverence. Only then do they speak. "Good," they say, voice smooth and measured, lacking the overt warmth or approval that another might offer but not unkind. Their eyes, black and unblinking, flick to the kit's face. "You know better than to eat it." A pause. "Most kits do not." They sweep the berry back into place with a paw, returning it to its pile as if it had never strayed. There is no need to praise what should be an expectation, but they do not dismiss the significance of Magpiekit's knowledge, either. He is young, but not ignorant. That is worth noting.

"You like to watch." It is not a question, but an observation. Cicadabuzz's tone does not carry judgment—only certainty. Their tail flicks once before curling neatly over their paws. "Do you learn as well as you listen?" A test, of sorts. Many kits watch but do not truly see. They peer into the world with wide eyes but let its lessons slip away like water through their paws. Magpiekit has already shown that he retains knowledge—does he know how to use it? Cicadabuzz waits, patient as stone, letting the weight of the question settle between them. If the kit chooses to stay, to ask, to seek, they will not turn him away. The world is unkind to those who do not know its dangers. If Magpiekit wishes to sharpen his mind against it, Cicadabuzz will not stand in his way.

 

[Magpiekit]

MAGPIEKIT

WE DON'T GET WHAT WE NEED

we're all wrapped up in GREED - THERE'S AN EGO TO FEED

His ear flicks at the acknowledgement, if Juniperstar was here she would call him the smartest kitten in the world, she would tell him he was so clever - the thought makes him miss his mother, he wonders again why he was here and not Asterkit, he wants to know why his mother couldn't come too, why they lived apart now, why Sablestar wasn't there at all. No one wanted to answer his questions. To push the thoughts from his head he focuses intently on Cicadabuzz's words, the way they spoke plainly to him as if he were not a kitten but an adult who just happened to be much smaller; there was some gratification in that to him, he liked being talked to as an equal or at least as close to one as an adult cat could give, there was a distinct imbalance of power between the medicine cat and a normal warrior he had seen as much plenty in ThunderClan; Serpentberry regarded herself as beyond the rules in a way that was obvious, loud, Cicadabuzz seemed to think little of the rules instead, that they were not so much beneath them as they just did not have time to fret of them. Magpiekit doesn't answer the first observation, that he liked watching things was not a question but a statement and it was true so he only nodded once, his head tilting side to side as he swayed, it was the next one that was more directly asking something of him.

"I like knowing things, but I worry my head isn't big enough for all of it." There was just so much information in the world, so many things to know and study and figure out and it was overwhelming to think about until you narrowed it down; in this den he could pretend nothing else mattered but those colorful leaves and the cinnamon feline's voice but once he stepped out there was a lot more to put in his mind, names of his new clanmates, the new types of prey on the pile, new trinkets he could gather and hoard in the nursery under the bedding to examine in private; he learned that frogs laid eggs like birds but they were soft and not hard, he learned that Timberfrost hated his tail bitten but tried not to show it depending on the age of the cat doing it - a kitten could get away with it, an apprentice not so much. Excellent information for him in his bid to determine what was too far in pushing the boundary of the rules he must follow.

"You know a lot of things." It was a toneless observation, mimicking the same one granted him, "Do they do different things? Since they are in different piles?" If he had organized these plants, he might have done it based on color mostly, the colors he liked in one and the icky colors he didn't in another but that didn't make a lot of sense because the colors here were much more divided, some leaves were different shapes, some had flowers and some didn't - there was a pattern, he'd noticed that already, but he didn't know what.

❝ i don't know euphoria - i'd like to meet her someday - c'est la vie ❞

MAGPIEKIT

— kitten of shadowclan
— He/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— Solid black w/low white & blue-violet eyes.
— Has 'wobbly cat' syndrome.
#9272ee

 

[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 eyes steady as Magpiekit speaks. The kit's mind is restless, a tangle of thoughts moving too fast for his small frame to contain. He reminds them of water—always moving, always seeking the path of least resistance but never still for long. His words are not careless, though. He thinks before he speaks, and that alone makes him worth listening to. They hum softly, the closest thing to amusement they allow to surface, and glance down at the scattered piles of herbs before them. "Your head is as big as it needs to be," they say, arranging a few stems with a practiced flick of their paw. "What matters is not how much you know, but how well you remember what you do know." Many cats crave knowledge, but few hold onto it. Fewer still know how to use it when the time comes. Cicadabuzz has seen too many cats dismiss warnings, only to return to the medicine den coughing up their own foolishness. A lesson half-learned is more dangerous than never learning at all.

At Magpiekit's next observation, Cicadabuzz gives the smallest tilt of their head. It is not quite approval, but it is not dismissal, either. The kit is paying attention. "They do different things," they confirm, nudging one pile aside to make space. "Some heal, some harm. Some will keep you breathing when your body wants to stop. Some will make that stop come faster." Their words are calm, as steady as the rhythm of sorting. They do not soften the truth for the sake of a kit's young ears—they have never been one to do so. They brush a paw over a cluster of long, narrow leaves. "These are for pain," they say, pushing them aside. A bundle of bitter-smelling roots. "Infection." A delicate, pale flower, soft and unassuming. "Poison."

They flick their tail and let Magpiekit sit with the words, watch the piles shift beneath careful paws. Let him see the way each herb has a place, an intention, a purpose.

Cicadabuzz finally lifts their gaze to the small, shadowy figure beside them. "Patterns are everywhere. In the way plants grow. In the way a body fails. In the way cats speak and lie and hide." Their voice is as even as before, but there is something heavier beneath the words. "You see the patterns, but do you understand them?" A pause. They study him for a moment, unreadable, then shift one of the piles toward him, one made up of sweet-smelling flowers with dozens of tiny seeds hidden away inside. "Tell me. What do you think this one does?" It is not a test, not really. There is no expectation that Magpiekit will get it right. But Cicadabuzz wants to know how he thinks, what logic he applies, how he chooses to approach the unknown. Curiosity alone does not make a cat wise. It is how they use what they learn that matters.

 

[Magpiekit]

He'll learn your face by heart

BUT YOU'LL BE IN BLACK & WHITE IN HIS EYES

The kit's nose wrinkles in thought, he had more growing to do so surely his head would get bigger, the abject horror of it not growing along with his body left him wondering what the point of aging was at all if he didn't have more room to put all the information he wanted in there but his attention shifted quickly as they started to explain the plants to him in loose detail, his dark toes flexing against the cold ground as he inched slightly closer, black fur nearly brushing cinnamon in his efforts to get a better look. There was nothing on the plants looks that told him what they did really, it had to be something else about them that taught you their uses - they had a smell that was somewhat more distinct from normal grass and leaves at least so that was a start. Maybe Cicadabuzz tested them out, but that lead to wondering how dangerous that was. The pretty white flower looked like something he'd wear in his fur, but a clipped tone called it poison.
His ear twitches, he thinks it odd that a medicine cat who was meant to preserve life would have something that ended it, but he doesn't voice that thought - he's not familiar with them outside the bare minimum of their abilities to heal, surely there was a reasoning for it beyond him even if the morbid nature of the idea was unsettling.

Magpiekit does not expect a lesson, he is not an apprentice and anything the older cats tried to imprint upon him were regarding his safety and the camp rules: don't leave the camp, don't go here, stay out of this...he was not yet old enough for the other learnings that cats like Tickpaw and Gingerpaw had. He had no mentor, he had a father and a pet father who watched him when his real one couldn't. The kit's purple eyes widen as he tilts his head up, the ever present tremble of his swaying form in every motion and he blinks slowly at the question given to him; obviously he didn't know, but Cicadabuzz knew that so he picked up quickly that this was a game. A game of thoughts, a game of words, an unraveling of how he viewed the world. Immediately his expression lightened, he loved games like this, loved picking stuff apart whether it physically in the form of scraps and insects he found to play with or mentally in asking questions and ripping apart the answers to understand why.

Magpiekit wriggled in gleeful amusement, his nose lowering to examine the plant and then the others the cinnamon feline had gestured to before. A flower didn't look anything dangerous, but his violet gaze drifts to the pale bloom that had been indicated as a poison moments prior, looking pretty meant nothing to a plant it seemed. Perhaps they looked pretty to hide what they were. The curled petals like tiny clenched claws held a lot of little specks, he wondered if those were important as they seemed like they could be shaken off the plant easily enough but had instead been preserved. It reminded him a little of dandelion puffs, the fuzzy seeds clinging to a bare stalk, blown easily away by the wind or a careless breath. He sees the pattern, but his understanding of it is frail like a fledgling, not developed, not refined.

"I don't know," He said quietly, because well he didn't, but he did know a few things, "But the seeds are important aren't they? Cause you kept them. Or you think they are. Cause if I didn't know I'd keep it too, cause it might do something." So either the flower was important and the seeds kept to see if they too had a use, or the medicine cat didn't know if either was and preserved both or maybe even the flowers were just a convenient way to store the seeds which were the actual important part. Many options, all of them lent themselves to his collecting tendency, his joy of gathering things to study them.

In the flick of a feather, he flies to your side

MAGPIEKIT

— kitten of shadowclan
— He/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— Solid black w/low white & blue-violet eyes.
— Has 'wobbly cat' syndrome.
#9272ee

 

[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 impassive as Magpiekit examines the plant, his small face twisting with the effort of peeling apart the mystery laid before him. The kit's mind is sharp, not just quick but meticulous, rolling over details like a stone sharpening its edge. They recognize the way his thoughts move—grasping at clues, testing possibilities, unraveling meaning like a tangled vine. It is a rare quality, especially in one so young. When he answers, his answer is simple but not careless. He does not pretend to know what he does not, and that alone earns him a flicker of approval in Cicadabuzz's gaze. They have no patience for arrogance, for half-truths spoken with the confidence of knowledge unearned. But Magpiekit does not posture. He watches, he wonders, he pieces things together with the careful precision of a cat who understands that every detail matters.

Cicadabuzz nudges the plant closer to him, letting its delicate petals brush against the cool earth. "The seeds are important," they confirm, voice even. "They are the most dangerous part. The whole plant is poison, but the seeds hold its sharpest edge." They pause, letting the weight of the words settle. Most kits would flinch at the notion of poison, would recoil at the idea that something so small could carry death in its veins. They assume Magpiekit will not. He will listen, eyes wide but unwavering, his mind shifting to accommodate this new knowledge. Cicadabuzz wonders what he will do with it.

"Foxglove," they name it at last, giving him a word to tie to the idea. "If eaten, the heart slows. A cat will stumble, weaken, collapse. Too much, and they do not wake again." Their voice does not change, as steady as if they were listing the symptoms of whitecough or the uses of poppy seeds. Death is not something to fear. It is simply another truth, another piece of knowledge to be understood and respected. They watch Magpiekit carefully, gauging his reaction. Some might see fear, might expect a kit to shrink back from the reality of something so dangerous. But Cicadabuzz does not expect that from him. He is not the sort to turn away from things that unsettle him. "You asked before why a medicine cat keeps poison." Their tail flicks once, a subtle shift of movement. "Because sometimes poison is the cure."

Their mind wanders. Rests on the noticing of bright red berries missing from a pile. Of wide, frantic eyes meeting theirs as Hawthorne announced his father's passing. Their ear twitches as they push the unhelpful thought from their mind. They tap the foxglove with a single claw. "I have heard tell that you like to collect things," they observe, their gaze sharp but unreadable. They consider this, tilting their head slightly. "That is not so different from what I do. But collecting is not enough. You must know what you have. You must understand it, or it is useless." They gesture with their tail to the rest of the herbs. "You see patterns. You ask questions. That is good. But knowledge is not just about seeing. It is about remembering. About knowing when to use what you have, and when to leave it be." Another pause, another assessment. Magpiekit is young, but young does not mean incapable. They wonder how much he will hold onto from this conversation, how much will settle in his bones the way it has settled in theirs.

Finally, they push the foxglove back into its place among the sorted herbs. "You don't have to remember this yet," they say, though they suspect he will anyway. "But one day, it may be of use to you." And Cicadabuzz has a feeling that, when that day comes, Magpiekit will not have forgotten.

 

[Magpiekit]

He'll learn your face by heart

BUT YOU'LL BE IN BLACK & WHITE IN HIS EYES

He was a little pleased his observation was right in a way, not a whole truth and certainly not a correct answer, but a step on a path leading to it, the kit smiled in a way that was a little too wide, a little too much teeth before he dropped his eyes to watch Cicadabuzz push the piles back in order, "Foxglove.", he repeats and it is spoken with a quiet awe - a name to the image, no longer just a flower. It served a purpose unlike the other ones listed, not for pain nor infection, not for breathing. Quite the opposite really. Magpiekit is young, but he is not so sheltered and foolish as to not understand even if it was in a small way that sometimes not being in pain was better than being in pain regardless of the cost. He thinks of Littlekit, born quiet and frail and not long for the world - his sibling he never got to meet, only spoken of in reverent memory, would them surviving had been pain free or were they destined to suffer? He hopes they aren't cold in StarClan anymore, the place he knows cats go when they are gone. Where one day he eventually would go as well - why would he fear it? There was nothing to be afraid of when he knew what came next, no sense of dread or fear in his gaze as he listened. In a similar way to the medicine cat he acknowledged that death was not a morbid thing to be terrified of, but his understanding held the kitten innocence and simplicity of just knowing it was not a scary place.

His collecting was noticed, giving him pause, he was unaware cats paid him much mind but Cicadabuzz's black gaze seemed to pierce everything, "I do." He answers in a shrill chirp of a meow, head tilting side to side in his idle movements, paws kneading the ground as he fidgeted not for lack of patience but because his limbs jittered in a way he could not fully control, "I like things that smell nice, that are good colors, that make noises..." Particularly smooth rocks, jagged rocks with glittering cores, intricately shaped leaves, beetle shells, bits of bone from a shrew that rattle pleasingly, among several other things he liked to hoard and examine but he never gave them much thought as to their purpose. Unlike the plants Cicadabuzz collected which benefited the clan, his own hoard benefited only his own delight. None of them had a purpose beyond pleasing him, the herbs at the cinnamon cat's paws were of more monumental importance than his own little pile of things, their uses seeming infinite-he wondered if a plant existed for any kind of pain. Perhaps he could find one to make him not think about his mother so often, perhaps he too could give her something to remove the near perpetual sorrow that seemed to cling to their gaze despite her love and adoration for him and his siblings. Foxglove, as it was named, did not seem to benefit him in anyway but he found himself repeating its purpose in his head all the same, memorizing the texture of the curled petals, the color, the way the seeds seem to cling fast to its core like burrs on a tail. What use would a kit have for poison? Poison is often the cure. For some things, perhaps, he could understand but not for others.
Magpiekit's gaze drifted out the den, he hears voices as apprentices chat amongst themselves returning from patrols with their mentors; one day he too would be able to leave the camp like they did. He thinks of Gingerpaw's comment of his mother and realizes that a cure did not necessarily mean that the cat had to be sick and suffering to be fixed. They could just be wrong.
"Have you ever had to cure a cat with poison?" The kit asks, unabashed and without any sense of trepidation.

In the flick of a feather, he flies to your side

MAGPIEKIT

— kitten of shadowclan
— He/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— Solid black w/low white & blue-violet eyes.
— Has 'wobbly cat' syndrome.
#9272ee

 

[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 answer right away. Their dark gaze lingers on Magpiekit, assessing, weighing the depth of the question—not just in its words, but in the mind behind them. There is no hesitation in the kit's voice, no fear in his wide violet eyes. He is not asking for shock or for reassurance. He simply wants to know. So they tell him.

"Yes," Cicadabuzz says, their voice as steady as ever, as if the answer is no more significant than listing the effects of foxglove. "I have."

Their paw moves absently over the herbs, brushing against the delicate curl of the foxglove's petals, but their mind is elsewhere. They think of Deathberrykit, a name meant to be a reminder of a cat strong enough to know when ending a life is kinder than prolonging it. They had been so small, so fragile, their tiny body wracked with fever, breath rattling like brittle leaves in the wind. Cicadabuzz had known, from the moment they laid eyes on them, that Deathberrykit would not survive. The infection had burrowed too deep, festering like rot in a wound unseen. But they had not wanted them to suffer. They had turned to the deathberries, a calculated choice, a quiet decision made in the stillness of the night. A dose too small to kill outright, but enough, they had hoped, to ease the pain. To make the passing gentle. A kindness, even if others would not see it as such.

Only, Deathberrykit had not died.

The fever had broken, the sickness burned away as if scoured from within. The poison meant to bring an end had instead carved a path toward life. Cicadabuzz had watched, expression unreadable, as the kit's breathing steadied, as they curled into their parent's warmth and slept soundly for the first time in days. Sometimes, poison is the cure. The memory lingers in the air, unspoken but felt, like the scent of herbs left too long in the sun. Cicadabuzz studies Magpiekit, wondering how much weight the kit will give to their answer, how many paths his mind will chase now that he has been given another piece of the puzzle. "It is a sharp edge to walk," they continue, returning to the present, to the here and now where Magpiekit waits for more. "Poison does not care for intent. It does not ask if you use it for mercy or malice. It only does what it was made to do. A careless paw, an uncertain mind, and it will turn on you instead." Their gaze is piercing, a quiet challenge. "Do you understand?"

Magpiekit is young, still wrapped in the innocent belief that death is not something to be feared. He is right. But Cicadabuzz knows better than most that it is something to be respected.

 

[Magpiekit]

He'll learn your face by heart

BUT YOU'LL BE IN BLACK & WHITE IN HIS EYES

Cicadabuzz answers in a calm, unashamed tone and the kit's purple eyes widen and then narrow in thought - they do not elaborate more and he doesn't suspect they will after the silence drags on for a few moments in the aftermath of the answer but knowing the truth was often enough in a way. There is a weight to the way they speak next that he doesn't full comprehend, a combination of having not lived the life of the ShadowClan medicine cat nor having lived much of a life at all given his youth, but he can still hear the heaviness even if he can not connect with it.

Do you understand? He does, maybe not exactly the way Cicadabuzz intended for him to understand but he knows that poison was not something to be handled carelessly whether its intent was pure or not. Eating the berry killed you, but holding it didn't, but how easily one could become the other, a stain on a paw raised to wash, a crimson drip onto a piece of set aside prey. That the herbs fought back to their collector made this trinket hoard far more deadly than his own, at most he might scrape a paw pad on a rough stone or pierce his skin with a sharp old bit of bone - nothing that a few licks wouldn't solve. Something like foxglove though, it wasn't the kind of dried flower he'd want nestled among bits and baubles in his nest and he had even been thinking about gathering flowers near the edge of camp too. Not that he expected to find any there, it occurred to him then that the loose wildflower within reach did not match the appearance of either toxic bloom he'd been shown that day, purposefully removed from wayward kits who nipped first and thought second. A picky palette kept Magpiekit free of such thoughts, not so much self-preservation as a general dislike of bitter tastes and most the new prey he'd tried. Frogs were okay. His violet gaze drifts then focuses back in, he hadn't answered outwardly.
"I do."
Outside the den he hears Timberfrost's voice, his own name softly called to find where he'd scampered off to, it was hard to see him here in the depths of the hollowed roots of this ancient tree and he knew he should answer the call less he worry the caregiver but he found himself lingering for a moment longer eyeing the piles with a curious hunger to know more. "Thank you for telling me things. I gotta go." He chirped finally, most cats might dismiss his questions and interests in the oddities of the world but the cinnamon feline had not. He would wander back later. Magpiekit stands awkwardly, jittering limbs stumbling him forward briefly to gently collide into Cicadabuzz's side, "Oops, sorry.", before he is arching his back in a stretch and turning around to plod clumsily out of the den back to the nursery where presumably they were all going to take a nap. He loved those and if he was quick enough he could get a nice spot next to Stoatkit to settle into.

In the flick of a feather, he flies to your side

MAGPIEKIT

— kitten of shadowclan
— He/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— Solid black w/low white & blue-violet eyes.
— Has 'wobbly cat' syndrome.
#9272ee

 

[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 move when Magpiekit collides into their side, merely flicking an ear at the brief, clumsy contact. The kit's weight is light, inconsequential, yet it lingers in a way that is not entirely physical. They watch as Magpiekit turns and makes his way out of the den, his jittering steps carrying him back toward the safety of the nursery. He will return. They know this as surely as they know the way herbs sprout after the first thaw. His curiosity is not a fleeting thing—it roots itself in him, growing, twisting, reaching for knowledge like vines seeking sunlight. Cicadabuzz wonders what he will do with the things he learns. Some cats seek understanding for comfort, others for power. Magpiekit, young as he is, has not yet chosen which path he will walk.

For a moment, they say nothing, listening to the sound of his uneven footsteps fading. Then, in the hush that follows, they lower their gaze to the scattered herbs before them. Deathberries. Foxglove. Sometimes, poison is the cure. Their mind drifts to Deathberrykit—tiny, burning with fever, slipping away despite all efforts. They remember the decision, the moment of quiet resolve, the berry pressed against a too-small tongue. The expectation of stillness. The unexpected miracle instead. Cicadabuzz does not dwell on it. They never do. With the same deliberate grace as always, they return to their work, sorting through the herbs with a steady paw. Magpiekit's words linger, but the moment passes like all others. There is always more to do.