Cicadabuzz moves at a steady, unhurried pace, paws brushing through the damp grass that carpets the clearing around Fourtrees. The moon spills silver over their pelt, catching on the sprigs of mint and marigold woven neatly within the fur of their tail. The herbs whisper faintly with each step, a soft counterpoint to the rhythmic patter of Magpiepaw's paws as the younger cat trails close beside them. They are not pleased to be here. The thought weighs on them as heavily as the air, thick with the chill of early night. There are herbs to put away back in camp, an inventory that demands attention after the last string of illnesses. Every moment away feels like wasted time. But they had agreed—if not for themselves, then for the others. Rowanpaw's eager suggestion, Swallowbreeze's insistence on regularity. Cooperation is a duty as much as healing is. Cicadabuzz honors their word, even when it grates.
Their gaze flicks to Magpiepaw now and again, watching the way the apprentice's ears swivel, soaking in the night chorus of crickets and rustle of distant branches. It reminds Cicadabuzz of their own early moons—though they had been quieter, more inward, less prone to questions. At least, questions spoken aloud. Cicadabuzz slows as they draw near, pausing at the edge of the hollow. Their whiskers twitch, their expression unreadable, though inwardly they mark the irony of gathering here of all places—where leaders and warriors thunder their voices at gatherings, now softened into a quieter communion of healers. They do not voice the thought; there is no need. "Stay close," they murmur, low and simple, to Magpiepaw before fully leaving the faux-safety of ShadowClan's borders. The path is uneven with roots and damp soil, but Cicadabuzz moves with the ease of recognition, unbothered by the climb. The great trees loom above, their shadows long, their presence older than any Clan. Cicadabuzz's mind, though, does not drift toward reverence. It drifts to the herbs left behind, to tasks waiting in their den.
Their gaze flicks to Magpiepaw now and again, watching the way the apprentice's ears swivel, soaking in the night chorus of crickets and rustle of distant branches. It reminds Cicadabuzz of their own early moons—though they had been quieter, more inward, less prone to questions. At least, questions spoken aloud. Cicadabuzz slows as they draw near, pausing at the edge of the hollow. Their whiskers twitch, their expression unreadable, though inwardly they mark the irony of gathering here of all places—where leaders and warriors thunder their voices at gatherings, now softened into a quieter communion of healers. They do not voice the thought; there is no need. "Stay close," they murmur, low and simple, to Magpiepaw before fully leaving the faux-safety of ShadowClan's borders. The path is uneven with roots and damp soil, but Cicadabuzz moves with the ease of recognition, unbothered by the climb. The great trees loom above, their shadows long, their presence older than any Clan. Cicadabuzz's mind, though, does not drift toward reverence. It drifts to the herbs left behind, to tasks waiting in their den.