Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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The air was damp and heavy, the remnants of an afternoon shower that had washed away the frost from every branch and stone. It was odd weather for the heart of Leafbare, and it left the air stuffy and dripping. She sat looking out at the thunderstorm that had left them in its wake, her amber eyes following the occasional lines of lightning that snaked down towards the ground. She wondered if it was meant to signal anything, given the upheaval of recent events.
She looked down from her vantage point. High in the pine tree, the enclosing shadows looked like blobs of paint seeping into the forest floor, while the sun, in its farewell, washed the canopy with a golden radiance. There really was something magical about this forest, she thought. That’s why she’d come, that’s why she’d stayed, and that’s why she remained, amongst the bloodshed.
The thought of blood was a prompt. Twilightdance cursed to herself. She’d come out to scavenge for herbs, and half an hour later here she was, watching the sunset and dreaming about magical forests and omens, like some stupid little girl. I have to be more focused, she thought, mother reminded me half a million times… a lady needs focus. A lump grew in her throat as her thoughts strayed again, this time to another magical forest, in a land of everlasting Summer. Perhaps if she’d been more focused... what happened to Stormreign never would have happened. Maybe she would have heard the plans whispered amongst the Garden Keepers, seen the restlessness in their eyes from nights spent plotting and battle training, warned him--. She squeezed her eyes shut. That was the past now, and Nightclan was her home. She climbed down to the forest floor.
In the tree the air had been crisp and clear, but down on the forest floor it was choked with scents. It made finding herbs even harder than it had been before. She sniffed every passing bit of green, trying to remember what the Summerclanners had taught her, the places it should grow, the characteristics, but nothing smelled like catmint.
Everyone spoke of three of the Horsemen – War, Conquest and Death. But no one ever spoke of the fourth: Plague. The vile product of the first two, and the cruel mother of the last. It was bred in the foreign populations moving amongst each other in conquest, the exchange of blood in war, and the destruction of amenities in both, and the death was exacerbated in Leafbare’s clutches. Nightclan was suffering silently.
She’d done her best to manage the ails. With Pinesimmer gone, the Medicine Cat’s den had sat empty for a moon. She didn’t have the boldness to petition the issue with their new leader (as much as she tried to muster it) and to her knowledge, no one else had either. So, she’d been operating in secret – a few cats knew she’d been a faux Garden Keeper for a time, and when she helped them feel a little better, they went and whispered it to their friends. By this point, she’d treated at least a dozen patients. Blood and wounds were one thing, but greencough was another monster. She'd prescribe one herb and then another. Some seemed to be getting better, but others not. And one, Hyenaprowl, was growing terribly worse. She lashed out in exasperation, tearing a stiff plant from its roots. “Oh, Starclan, help me,” she cried out to the sky, beseeching the blood-orange heavens for guidance.
“StarClan can’t hear you,” Kier told her quietly. Only the glint of his pale eyes was visible through the a bank of dark ferns beside a towering pine, reflecting orange in the fading light. It wasn’t a threat, wasn’t anything at all really — it was just a cold, quiet statement. He’d been trailing the she-cat since she’d left camp, watching from the undergrowth.
The Clan, for whatever reason, would be more willing to listen to a she-cat in a medical role — listen to her gentleness, her fairness, her quiet nobility. He’d known Pinesimmer for a brief time and had understood, within minutes of meeting him, that he would have to go — even if he’d been willing to ally himself to Kier in place of his sister, he too much of a wild card, far more hindrance than help, and his obedience would have grown wearisome and troublesome. The disappearance of the last of Aspenstar’s bloodline at the same time as her had been suspicious timing, and Kier neither confirmed nor denied involvement in it. It served him well to have a measure of fear, of uncertainty, of mystery — what was he willing to do? What was he capable of? But the point was, Kier knew that if there was to be a medicine cat instated, NightClan wasn’t going to tolerate another Pinesimmer. And though he imposed his will on his kingdom, there was always a measure of tact, of watchfulness, of testing the waters — tyranny, violence, terror, they could be forced; a mouthpiece of StarClan, that had to be handled more gently. Cats bowed to terror; they might rise up up to religious interference. Kier had no way of knowing whether their gods conjured more devotion than thoughts of their very lives did.
And so, he needed someone he could manage. Not a religious fanatic, because they would be of no use. Not an idiot, because the Clan would never listen to them. Not someone cruel, because too much cruelty lost its effectiveness — there had to be hope layered onto it; an icing of reassurance that this, at least, would not change; that amid their suffering, there would be this one fine thing. If he slapped their face bloody and then offered some gentle praise, they would be giddy for it, would roll over and take the violence for the second of reward. He needed someone respected, but malleable; someone kind, but aloof enough to have some distance from those they cared for; someone who could be so blinded by the idea of doing good that they wouldn’t look down to where Kier was leading their paws. StarClan was a fading light in NightClan; Kier just needed someone who wouldn’t notice him snuffing out the candle. He didn’t care about NightClan’s sickness, about their suffering — it served him to have them a little weak, a little needy, and it made him feel intoxicatingly strong to preside over these big, fierce warriors, unaffected by their ails. But he needed what a healer could do for his ambitions.
And so, he’d heard whispers of a nurse. A healer dealing in muddled, invented tinctures. His torture had turned gentler, a quiet voice at their shoulder — who is she? And when he’d gotten a name, it had all fallen into place like a beautiful mosaic. She was trusted already, and such goodness, such selflessness… Well, it was a very fine thing. And though he still carried a faint, murderous ire, detectable only in his careful quietness, that she had been operating under his nose and against his wishes, the opportunity she presented was greater than the satisfaction of crushing her hopeful insolence into emptiness.
“What a wonderful thing it would be if they could,” he continued, slipping out of the ferns to linger beside her for a moment, forepaw slightly raised and unblinking eyes unmoving from her, before he raised them to the sky and sat down. “But I fear StarClan has grown weary of this place. With no one to hear them but I… Well, anyone would grow tired of speaking to an audience who doesn’t listen.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Despite the dense, muggy air, she felt herself shiver. When she turned to find him, the moment was almost surreal; he swam amongst the shadows so well he seemed a part of them, and when he detached himself he looked as if he took a part of them with him. She was lost for words; to her dismay her throat had gone dry. It took her a moment to swallow, to gather her thoughts from a mind wiped blank, and reply, her tone abashed, “Heavens, you scared me.”
But it didn’t take long for the control to return - for the reins to float back into her hands, for her shoulders to ease down into a more dignified position. Her head eased down too — a graceful curtsy of respect, a fluid, quick motion; low enough to show fealty, but not low enough to muddy her whiskers in the soft brown mush of a ground below them. But all the while her tummy fluttered with butterflies, and when she straightened, a cold unease crept up the small of her back.
She blinked at his ominous words. Such open blasphemy was not a fitting topic for polite conversation, and if it were any other cat she’d gently place it aside, and segue into more pleasant topics. But this cat was Leader. He would be the most informed of such things, after all — even if it was impossible to believe. Starclan, gone? Her amber gaze followed his eyes to the red sky, which hemorrhaged light by the second. His words floated around her. And when her gaze returned to the earth, the woods were dripping, the shadows were encroaching around them, and distant thunder rolled. Her unease boiled into dread; could it be true?
But why was he telling her this? A cat can’t be punished for helping others, the thought came wildly, defensively — so unabated that she almost blurted it out. And if she weren't so practiced, she would have. But she restrained herself. Focus. She didn’t know this cat yet, or what he wanted. She didn’t like playing uncertain games — that’s why she’d been hesitant to approach him in the first place. But she sensed that she was standing in the middle of the board now, and her only move was forward — she’d follow him down this subject. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Starclan is gone? If that’s true… what will we do?”
Heavens, you scared me. He smiled wordlessly as he sat down, not quite an apology; there was something about the look that was so faintly mocking, that was gratified by the reaction, by the impact his presence could have. It was everything he’d ever wanted. He savoured her curtsy, her gracefulness, her pliant elegance; it filled his chest with concentrated pleasure, with the hum of victory. When she fell silent, he didn’t push her, simply let her get there by herself as he gazed up at the vast trees swaying in the damp twilight. He knew she would in the end, and ideas planted in minds were always twice as powerful if Kier had had nothing to do with putting them there. It couldn’t be traced back to oh — he implanted these doubts for his own ends; there must be no truth in them. Coming from one’s own thoughts, everything was always true. He just had to sit back and gently water them.
“No, not gone,” he replied at last, voice calm and quiet. Sorrowful, if sorrow was resigned to living in the dark. “But going. Our four Clans have always been the final bastion in the fight to retain our ancestral faith. But, what with Aspenstar’s crimes against them…“ It wasn’t his fault; it was his predecessor’s. He turned his head to look at her. “Not my faith, you understand, not my faith — I was raised beyond knowledge of StarClan. But since coming to NightClan, I’ve seen the wisdom of them. Seen the kindness. And the thought that if I could do something to keep StarClan for the rest of you, if I could maintain their guidance if only to give you all the faintest comfort, and I didn’t…” He raised his eyes back to the tree tops. “It hardly bears thinking about.” He trailed off, weary sadness a burden upon his back. He was so close to defeat. Finally, he spoke again. “The things I do are terrible, I know. You’d be forgiven for wondering what precisely the difference between myself and Aspenstar is — I’d be more alarmed if you didn’t. But what I do, I do to root out the rot that has seeped into NightClan’s very core. It’s this rot that StarClan sees…” Letting out a breath and hanging his head, he turned away. “But I don’t see what more I can do. With the loss of Pinesimmer, we’re in a sorry state, and there’s only so much I could do to save us. I fear the end of NightClan itself is in sight. And what a thing, to be the leader at its helm when that time comes.”
Sitting with his back to Twilightdance, he stayed like that, in hopeless, heavy silence, for a long few moments. Then, finally, in a quiet voice, and hardly daring to look over his shoulder at her, only the end of his muzzle showing, he asked, “you’ve been healing them, haven’t you? Our Clanmates?”
All he needed was a confirmation. He never actually answered her question; he just led her closer and closer to the point. To the revelation. Softly. Silently.
He knew. Of course he knew. It wasn’t like she she’d go about things in secret forever. It was almost a relief that he’d just come out and said it. But… he wasn’t angry. She couldn’t keep the curiosity from broaching onto her features, her surprise written on her raised brows. And just as he’d hoped, a hesitant realization was dawning on her.
“Yes, I have.” Her confession came easy. There was no use lying, she understood, and what was there to be ashamed of? Her voice was steeled now, and she stood a little taller; was that pride captured in amber eyes?
“I’ve been doing the best I can. With discretion, of course. Managing the situation, just until you select…” someone more qualified. Her voice trailed off as she swallowed the words. Lies tasted bitter on her tongue. She couldn’t tame the desire that twisted in her belly; the hope of where she dared to imagine he was leading her. She was greedily lapping up the bread crumbs as he laid them at her paws. Somewhere in the back of mind she was aware of that, sensed that this was too easy, too perfect. Her mother used to say it was ugly to be covetous — a lady should be content with her station. But a lady should also be wise. Their ancestors had been fading, she could see it now, no, she could feel it in the wind, it was so obvious. Starclan was supposed to protect them. They struck down evil with righteous bolts of lightning, they crushed it with boulders tumbling from the sky. They performed miracles that no cat could deny. But they’d been silent for so long… It was frightening to believe that this was the way the world was, that this hell was the natural order. There had to be a way to explain the endless bloodshed, the hate that had been allowed to fester. There had to be hope. The fact that he was confiding in her…
She raised her eyes, which had inadvertently lowered to the ground, and she really looked at it him for the first time. Her gaze caught on his ears. They’re so large he can probably hear me think. No, she reproached herself, it wasn't nice to make fun of others. But she wasn’t disparaging his appearance really, it wasn't how he looked, it was how he made her feel. It was the creep she felt tickling up her spine. He knew something about her, he knew what she wanted, he had plans for her… he was so wild — or is it passion? passion is good right? — so unpredictable, so sneaky… and yet… “what do you wish of me?” Her breath was no more than a whisper.
Triumph sparked in Kier’s gaze, and he was glad he was facing away from her; for a brief moment, his expression lit up with a wild grin, violent and overflowing with triumph. Then it settled back into weary calm. “Oh, you’ve been doing a marvellous job,” he assured her, quiet and warm, turning back to sit beside her. His voice was gentle and soothing, his gaze worried at the mere idea that he might have upset her. Reaching out a paw, he laid it softly atop hers for a moment, gaze unblinking; then, giving her a vaguely patronising little pat, he withdrew it a little too quickly to be natural, gut curling in disgust at the forced physical contact. “Don’t think I’m mad — I’d hate to think you might be nervous. There’s really no need. No, my dear, I’m tremendously pleased — if only every cat in NightClan had your initiative.” He smiled, so tired-eyed and harmless, so crushed beneath the weight of trying to keep the light of StarClan alive. His stomach twisted at the word initiative; it felt strangely like jealousy. Like anger. For a brief moment he wanted to tear her down from her high horse, her little perch — wanted to rip her down and press her into the dust and hold her eyes open, let her drink in the fate of her Clanmates, the ruination of them at execution after execution after execution. And then it passed. He pushed it back down.
What do you wish of me? “What do you think of me, to think I must wish something? Is it not enough to admire the selfless work you do?” He gazed at her profile for a moment, at the delicate softness of it, before raising his eyes back to the glittering stars. He was silent for a long moment, letting the cool silence of the night settle over them. Until, at last: “there is one thing, however.” His voice was absent and drifting, gaze still on the sky, like it was an afterthought. His ears swivelled ever so slightly back and forth; he could hear every rustle in every bush, but he ignored them. He’d learned how to long ago, no matter the discomfort of it, of all those overlapping sounds vying for his attention. It was half of where his focus, his meticulousness, came from. “Your nursing skills are fine enough — very fine; but they’re fit to cure a scratch, not save a life. And you want to save lives, don’t you?” He turned his gaze to hers, strangely slow, and for the first time his voice sounded like a threat. Cold and jealous and accusing. Condemning. Like that mere sentiment would march her to the gallows and imprint itself on her grave. It was gone a second later, like it had never been there at all, and the harmless warmth was back in his eyes, in his smile. “I know a little about medicine — herbs and stitches and the like. Not a lot, not a terrible lot, but enough. Enough to get by for the time being. And with my knowledge and your natural,” his gaze flicked down her body briefly, then back up, “talent, I hazard we could make something fine of you yet. If you’d like that.”
Of course she would. The smile on his face didn’t falter as he gazed at her.
And now she was beginning to believe it. The unease was still there, low-frequency interference that spiked when he touched her paw, when his eyes wandered down her body. But she was beginning to listen to it less and less, engrossed by the prospect of hope; shapeless, directionless, vague hope. Here it was, finally, something to clutch onto. After moons of empty wanderings, feeble grasps at reclaiming a past that was lost like tears in rain, here finally was a purpose, a clear way forward. “Yes,” she whispered, “I’d like that.” Her excitement gathered like springs in her toes.
I know a little about medicine. Twilightdance found that curious, and it summoned questions on why he hadn’t been doing more, why he was relaying it now like a quirky secret. But even those concerns she buried away. That was the past now, and who knew what he might have been doing behind the scenes? The only way was forward. She wanted to dive and grasp him by the collar desperately, beseech him to teach her all he knew now — stress that there was no time to waste. With the title bestowed on her there came excitement, but the awesome weight of her responsibility was dawning on her as well — she needed help desperately, no, the clan needed help desperately, and they didn’t have the luxury of waiting for her to go through the standard learning curve. They needed to begin now. But where should they start?
“I would be honored if you could teach me,” she dipped her head formally. “It’s really quite embarrassing… but I was searching for catmint when you came upon me just now, with no luck. You’re probably already aware— but a few cats have developed greencough— at least I believe it’s greencough, she thought— and they’re growing terribly ill. Perhaps that could be our first lesson?” Her smile was strained but hopeful.
A smile spread across Kier’s face, and it was gentle. “Brave girl,” he replied quietly, like he really did admire her sacrifice. And in a way, he did. She was walking into the gaping jaws of duty, eyes so wide, and they were going to close about her. Very sad.
As she went on, the smile settled into one of patient listening. He had been aware of the greencough, had recognised it within a day or two of the first case, but he didn’t say that, didn’t say that he had been planning to do nothing. They couldn’t do everything for them — if they weren’t fit enough to ward off a bit of lung congestion, they weren’t fit to live in NightClan. He just didn’t want to catch it, didn’t want the unhygienic phlegm and the sort, but so far shepherding the sick into dens and denying food and water in the hopes that the situation would take care of itself in the easiest way possible seemed to have worked. Plus, he'd taken to wearing a little bundle of sweet-smelling herbs around his neck and burning lavender in his den; even if they wouldn't ward off the sickness, at least they'd cover up the smell of it.
Instead, Kier nodded, quiet and contemplative. Regretful. “It’s a cruel disease. But now that you’ve caught it, treating it will be the simple part.” He smiled, and internally sneered at having to relent and do something to help them. “Catmint isn’t difficult to find once you know what to look for.” He rose to his paws and tilted his head further into the cool night-time forest. An invitation, a gentle smile. “Come.”
“If you can’t find catmint, feverfew and honey are good at a pinch — fever is the real killer when the lung failure doesn’t do it. A strong cat can survive a bit of wheezing, a bit of liquid in the lungs; what they can’t survive is a brain hemorrhage from a consistently elevated temperature. It’s best to bring that down as soon as humanly possible after you’ve taken care of the lungs — and if you can’t do the lungs, do the fever. Always do one. And the honey — well, the honey just stops the complaints.” He smiled at her. “A dying patient is one thing, a whiny one because their throat hurts is another.” He broke eye contact. “Not to sound callous.” As they padded through the damp pine woods, the abandoned garden finally opened up before them, wild and overgrown in the gathering moonlight. He padded straight through the old wooden gate without pausing; he’d laid idly on the path while his mate sifted adoringly through the poisonous plants enough times to have taken stock of where everything grew. At the end of one such path, Kier stopped and sat down, lifting one of the serrated leaves with his paw so Twilightdance could take note of it. He glanced down at it as he spoke. “It rarely grows in the wild — you’d have a hell of a time trying to find it. Best to make a kittypet of yourself and go looking in gardens.” He looked up again, a smile on his face.
His words were like a treat — her countenance remained cooly composed, but inside her spirits spiked at the tidbit of praise, the depth of her enjoyment perhaps only betrayed by the bounce in her step as she got to her paws to follow him.
She nodded along to his tutelage as they walked, jotting down mental notes like a diligent little student — and chiding herself for her own oversight. Of course fever is the silent killer. She could’ve deduced that herself. A medicine cat must be clever. The thought gave her pause — that’s right, she was a medicine cat now. With a renewed surge of excitement the realization began to settle in. She hardly noticed his callous comment — when he smiled at her, she shared it, wide and fierce. The manner of smiling her mother used to loathe — a lady must always be in control of her emotions, she could hear her now, how she presents herself, she must never be too high, never too low. Twilight lassoed her grin when Kier turned away, but even the intrusive reproaches couldn’t steal her joy from her in the moment. His words were honeyed, her cup of kool-aid needed refilling — he could’ve shouted a hundred expletives to the stars, and she would’ve cussed along with him.
When they entered the untended two-leg garden, she was surprised by the wealth of scents that wafted here. She’d never thought to look in a place like this — she’d always imagined the world of two-legs as sterile, far and detached from their own. But nature had reclaimed this place; she tried to take note of all the scents she passed as she followed Kier to the end of a beaten path. When she saw him lift the catmint leaf between his toes, she breathed, “there it is.” Looking for it had been a hell of a time, but it seems she’d found something far more important; a mentor. She smiled back, and then dipped her head, “you’ve relieved me of my distress, sir.” And then she raised her head, finally feeling confident enough to ask, “how did you learn all of this?”
You've relieved me of my distress, sir. Kier smiled, and it could almost have been called genuine. He let the leaf slip from his paw and padded back a few paces to sit down on the buckled, moss-soft footpath. Grass grew up between the cracks, washed silver by the moonlight and swaying gently in the cool, damp breeze. He grew a little more comfortable around her, a little more unburdened, a little more easy and free with his tongue. "Oh, here and there," he replied, and the warm openness in his voice, dismissive and vague, was the closest Kier came to truth. He didn't mind the forwardness of her question; the peaceful night-time sounds had lowered his guard and unfrozen the walls around his heart. Reminiscing wasn't an unpleasant thing; he didn't miss the moors, but he did sound a little dreamy, if only for the easiness of life back then. Usually, his kithood in his memory was a thing of horror, of portions of black blankness where he couldn't remember how he'd gotten home from places; now, it was simple. Nostalgia had a way of twisting things. He wouldn't remember it that way in the morning. He'd remember the sick fear. Things that happened on their journey south. Things that happened to him. Things his father didn’t believe. "I traveled a lot before I came here. With my family." His eyes were on the treetops around the garden, calm and young and gentle. There was the wisp of a smile on his face, his voice quiet and harmless. It was hard to reconcile the tom there, looking suddenly so young, and the tyrant back at camp. "You learn a lot. When you have to. It was... fun." He smiled, still not looking at her.
And then reality creeped back over him like an oppressive shroud and the smile turned uncertain. Kier faltered and turned his head to look at Twilightdance like he was seeing two of her — the innocent and the one he had to manipulate. For a moment, he looked fearful. Reluctant. And then the shroud consumed him entirely again and the uncertainty turned back to sweet-tasting coldness. Honeyed ice. "And you'll learn, too," he assured her kindly, and the difference between Kier's unfeigned gentleness and this insincere, sticky comfort was suddenly so obvious. When it was all the Clan heard, it sounded uncannily genuine; now, with something to compare it to, the hollowness echoed. It was slow in such an unnatural way. So purposeful. "Because you have to." He smiled, and it wasn't the same one as before. It was the smile everyone knew. He stood slightly and shifted closer to her, sitting down again at her side and leaning into the small space between them like they were discussing secrets. And they were.
Secrets didn't have to be true.
"Now that you've accepted the post, I can speak freely," he told her, voice a low murmur like he was conscious of being overheard. "StarClan's connection is weak, as I said before, as we've all seen — and I worry about the Clan's reaction." His eyes flicked up to hers. "Their safety, you know. A Clan without guidance will do... dangerous things." He shifted closer. "What they need is a little reassurance. A few omens, a few signs, to convince them StarClan is still there. It isn't lying, it isn't deception — we'll be giving them comfort, so they can go about their days without fear. StarClan will understand — they'll rejoice. And if the signs happen to mention... me," his eyes didn't leave Twilightdance's, unblinking, "then that will be all the better for the stability of the Clan."
The last thing standing in his way was a lack of religious legitimacy. He needed the medicine cats as prophetic puppets, needed their deception about his divine right to rule. He needed them, needed their influence — the influence that, as of now, was greater than a leader's. They were the last great power in NightClan, the last entities that held power greater than his own. He needed them in his pocket before they realised how much freedom they truly had; they were the last remaining threat to him. He needed them as symbolic mouthpieces to preach his divine right — and then, while they were doing that, he needed to destabilise their entire foundations so power was centralised entirely in his paws. No more StarClan. No more questions. He would pick StarClan apart stone by stone, and by the time they were gone, by the time he was the sole divine influence over NightClan, they wouldn't know what had happened. Lilacpaw was already eager, already unscrupulous — all he needed now was Twilightdance's tenderness. They would trust her. They would follow the unwitting Judas to the slaughterhouse, follow her gentle voice and eyes so worthy of trust, and she wouldn't know what she'd done until she'd toppled an entire religion. And by then, Kier would be too powerful to care about her grief.
