{$title} -- please wait for at least 1-2 of the kittens to post before posting! also take note that i am posting late: this thread is taking place on 10-1-25
Cicadabuzz lingers in the nursery, the air heavy with milk-scent and warmth, the hush of moss muffling every sound but the tiny breaths of newborns. Their paws are steady, though they still feel the faint echo of tiring after guiding Wisteriastrike through the birth. Six kits, each small and fragile, each dragging a future behind them like threads they cannot yet see. Six tiny, wriggling lives. The medicine cat watches them closely, assessing their breathing, their size, the flex of their limbs. Nothing weak enough to warrant worry yet, though they are well aware of how such things can change in the blink of an eye. Regardless, relief settles across their shoulders, though it does not soften their expression.
Wisteriastrike is exhausted, body slack as she curls around her children. Her eyes are heavy but not without pride, a mother's gaze as she draws them close with a sweep of her tail. Cicadabuzz does not comment on her joy, nor the bonds already tying themselves between queen and kits. It is not their place. They are here as healer, as witness—and, in this strange arrangement, as sire. No mate to Wisteriastrike, no love exchanged between them, just a practical fulfillment of lineage and circumstance. In her exhaustion, the task falls to Cicadabuzz to name them. That, at least, feels heavy in its own right. Each name a weight they place upon a life, a first mark of identity carved by their voice alone. They shift closer, tail sweeping quietly behind them, herbs woven into the dark plume rustling faintly.
Their gaze lands on the firstborn—a chocolate tortoiseshell, fur patterned so that the face seems halved, the symmetry of a butterfly's wings. Cicadabuzz stares longer at this one than they mean to. A memory stirs, sharp as it is sour—their daughter, once Deathberrykit, bright-eyed and fierce, now answering to Cloudberrypaw. A request given to Sablestar, and honored, though it was not Cicadabuzz's wish. To them, the change was a theft—an attempt to soften the truth of the name they had chosen, to peel away its edge in favor of something easier to swallow. They had not argued; words would not have mattered then. But still, it lingered like burrs in their fur. Their voice is quiet, the tone flat, decisive. Sharp on their tongue. "Deathberrykit." It is no act of sentiment, no desire to memorialize. It is reclamation, a deliberate repurposing of what was taken from them. The name returns to where it belongs, in the fragile bones of a newborn who bears no resemblance to the first but carries the same inevitability of strength.
Their eyes move to the next—a white kit, faint silver shadows painted over the back and face, as if mist had settled on the fur and refused to leave. There is a coolness about this one, a ghostliness that seems almost deliberate even in such a small, damp body. Cicadabuzz tilts their head slightly, considering. "Elderkit," they murmur. Elderflowers bloom pale and quiet, their medicine both soft and sharp. The name suits. Their gaze turns to the one which bears a likeness to Elderkit—the third is pale cream and white, the fur touched with a warmth that recalls the edges of a sunrise through thin clouds. Small gray spots curl on the kit's fur, nothing bold but enough to break the uniformity. Cicadabuzz thinks of petals, pinkish and white, beautiful and deadly if one forgets their danger. Oleander. A poisonous flower dressed in innocence. The irony pleases them. "Oleanderkit," they say, not unkind, but with the firmness of truth.
Their gaze shifts to the fourth. A tortoiseshell again, this one patterned with distinct markings, not unlike the beetles they have seen crawling in the woods—the shining, golden tone in the red patches is what most catches their attention. There is life here, bright and restless even as the kit fidgets blindly against its mother's belly. Cicadabuzz names it with little hesitation. "Goldenrodkit." A flower, yes, but one that grows wild and strong, stubborn in its spread. One with use, used to heal, and matching in color to the spots upon it.
The fifth kit makes them pause. Its tabby markings climb its spine in a way that intrigues, curling like the segmented body of a centipede. From the tail, up, all the way to the face. Stripes curl down like skittering legs over the kits flanks, while two lines curl down its face like the mouthpiece. They state it plainly, voice as level as if discussing herbs. "Centipedekit." Neither soft nor cruel; it is simply what it is, an acknowledgement of the image upon the pelt. The last kit draws Cicadabuzz's gaze longest. Darker-furred, its back marked heavy like a beetle, its chest bearing another stark white mark like a mirror of the first. The image is obvious, but the name Beetlekit sticks bitterly on their tongue, lacking the weight they want. They dismiss it outright. The creature writhes with vigor, small and raw and unknowing, and Cicadabuzz finds the word that clings sharp to their thoughts. "Maggotkit."
They do not flinch as they say it. Names are not meant to soothe. Names are truth and burden, signposts for what might come. The newborn does not care, not yet. But one day, it will wear the name like a pelt that can never be shed, and perhaps it will grow into its weight. Perhaps all of them will. Finished, Cicadabuzz sits back, tail folding around their paws, herbs brushing faintly against the ground. Six futures set in motion. They do not look to Wisteriastrike for approval or denial. The queen may cradle them in warmth and pride, but it is Cicadabuzz who has marked them for the world.
@wisteriastrike + @deathberrykit @Elderkit @oleanderkit @goldenrodkit @Maggotkit and @ouijeejuice
Wisteriastrike is exhausted, body slack as she curls around her children. Her eyes are heavy but not without pride, a mother's gaze as she draws them close with a sweep of her tail. Cicadabuzz does not comment on her joy, nor the bonds already tying themselves between queen and kits. It is not their place. They are here as healer, as witness—and, in this strange arrangement, as sire. No mate to Wisteriastrike, no love exchanged between them, just a practical fulfillment of lineage and circumstance. In her exhaustion, the task falls to Cicadabuzz to name them. That, at least, feels heavy in its own right. Each name a weight they place upon a life, a first mark of identity carved by their voice alone. They shift closer, tail sweeping quietly behind them, herbs woven into the dark plume rustling faintly.
Their gaze lands on the firstborn—a chocolate tortoiseshell, fur patterned so that the face seems halved, the symmetry of a butterfly's wings. Cicadabuzz stares longer at this one than they mean to. A memory stirs, sharp as it is sour—their daughter, once Deathberrykit, bright-eyed and fierce, now answering to Cloudberrypaw. A request given to Sablestar, and honored, though it was not Cicadabuzz's wish. To them, the change was a theft—an attempt to soften the truth of the name they had chosen, to peel away its edge in favor of something easier to swallow. They had not argued; words would not have mattered then. But still, it lingered like burrs in their fur. Their voice is quiet, the tone flat, decisive. Sharp on their tongue. "Deathberrykit." It is no act of sentiment, no desire to memorialize. It is reclamation, a deliberate repurposing of what was taken from them. The name returns to where it belongs, in the fragile bones of a newborn who bears no resemblance to the first but carries the same inevitability of strength.
Their eyes move to the next—a white kit, faint silver shadows painted over the back and face, as if mist had settled on the fur and refused to leave. There is a coolness about this one, a ghostliness that seems almost deliberate even in such a small, damp body. Cicadabuzz tilts their head slightly, considering. "Elderkit," they murmur. Elderflowers bloom pale and quiet, their medicine both soft and sharp. The name suits. Their gaze turns to the one which bears a likeness to Elderkit—the third is pale cream and white, the fur touched with a warmth that recalls the edges of a sunrise through thin clouds. Small gray spots curl on the kit's fur, nothing bold but enough to break the uniformity. Cicadabuzz thinks of petals, pinkish and white, beautiful and deadly if one forgets their danger. Oleander. A poisonous flower dressed in innocence. The irony pleases them. "Oleanderkit," they say, not unkind, but with the firmness of truth.
Their gaze shifts to the fourth. A tortoiseshell again, this one patterned with distinct markings, not unlike the beetles they have seen crawling in the woods—the shining, golden tone in the red patches is what most catches their attention. There is life here, bright and restless even as the kit fidgets blindly against its mother's belly. Cicadabuzz names it with little hesitation. "Goldenrodkit." A flower, yes, but one that grows wild and strong, stubborn in its spread. One with use, used to heal, and matching in color to the spots upon it.
The fifth kit makes them pause. Its tabby markings climb its spine in a way that intrigues, curling like the segmented body of a centipede. From the tail, up, all the way to the face. Stripes curl down like skittering legs over the kits flanks, while two lines curl down its face like the mouthpiece. They state it plainly, voice as level as if discussing herbs. "Centipedekit." Neither soft nor cruel; it is simply what it is, an acknowledgement of the image upon the pelt. The last kit draws Cicadabuzz's gaze longest. Darker-furred, its back marked heavy like a beetle, its chest bearing another stark white mark like a mirror of the first. The image is obvious, but the name Beetlekit sticks bitterly on their tongue, lacking the weight they want. They dismiss it outright. The creature writhes with vigor, small and raw and unknowing, and Cicadabuzz finds the word that clings sharp to their thoughts. "Maggotkit."
They do not flinch as they say it. Names are not meant to soothe. Names are truth and burden, signposts for what might come. The newborn does not care, not yet. But one day, it will wear the name like a pelt that can never be shed, and perhaps it will grow into its weight. Perhaps all of them will. Finished, Cicadabuzz sits back, tail folding around their paws, herbs brushing faintly against the ground. Six futures set in motion. They do not look to Wisteriastrike for approval or denial. The queen may cradle them in warmth and pride, but it is Cicadabuzz who has marked them for the world.
@wisteriastrike + @deathberrykit @Elderkit @oleanderkit @goldenrodkit @Maggotkit and @ouijeejuice
