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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Every step sent a jolt of pain to his neck. He could still feel the claws rush across his throat, leaving the once medicine cat almost without a voice and with a line of skin that would separate him from those he loved forever. Especially falling into the ranks of those that had come after his home: NightClan. But he had been gone so long, he was scared no one would remember him. So NightClan is where he found himself; a washed up, scarred SummerClan medicine cat without a word to his name.
Memories of those who he loved where still fresh on the mud splashed coated toms mind; his pale green eyes still narrowed in their pain. The crying of Sun, Doe screaming on his behalf, Devotedcrow not being there for the Clan. No deputy, no leader, it had all be on his shoulders. Him standing up to protect his Clan is what left him almost dead and with hardly a voice. Swallowing was painful, talking was worse. Yet he still felt the guilt. He let so many cats he loved down.
Now he found himself in the home of the ones who ruined living and eating with them, sharing tongues and hunting. But what else could he do after being gone for so long? Go back to the place that eh couldn't protect? Have to come face to face with the ones he loved and let down? It took him forever to even come back to Clan territory, let alone then one that drove him from his own. But what would be the better place to hide from his failures? No one would come looking for him in NightClan. Doefreckle was Doe, moving from love to love; his sisters would have forgotten him by now.
He was just Vulturemalice, and he would make it.
NightClan territory was different to him, the tall trees and sweeping boughs. But he had grown used to the darkness, it was something that had always been apart of him, no matter his connection to StarClan when he had been a medicine cat. They had never talked to him anyway; he had just healed with the herbs that he knew and had help guide his Clan leader, only to have that all fall apart.
So looking at the fat blackbird before him had the tom hesitating. He was never a hunter, despite his lithe body and quick paws. With a hiss, he lunged, paw shooting out to catch the wing only to be left with a pawful of feathers. Spitting, Vulturemalice abandoned his quarry and collected the few feathers, hoping that would make the elders happy and least.
Having Vulturemalice was rather a point of pride for Kier — a sort of trophy unimportant and useless in its own right but very rewarding to say one owned. SummerClan’s old medicine cat; the one who had stood up to ol’ Aspenstar. Very nice indeed to add to a sick little collection of his power and SummerClan’s incompetence — their continued subjugation at NightClan’s paws, began under his predecessor and perfected under him. It would be most gratifying to have Foxstar come visit again and be able to say oh yes, BY the way, that medicine cat of yours came calling. Yes, you know, looking for a HOME. With us. Isn’t that funny?
From the shadows of the treeline Kier sat and watched him now, trying and failing to make a home for himself in NightClan. A smile was on his face at the tom’s humiliating incompetence. Really, he was utterly useless — if it weren’t for the worth of his name, if it weren’t for the game of calling him a Clanmate and essentially keeping him as a well looked after prisoner, he’d be absolutely inconsequential to NightClan. It was already unfair, the special treatment he got — Kier’s laughing order that he wasn’t to be put on trial, the extra allowance of food; cats had begun to whisper, to throw glaring looks at the former medicine cat. But as soon as Kier tired of the game, he’d be as good as dead. Everyone knew that, and it made the resentment easier to swallow. Vulturemalice was just an unwitting actor in a little stage play of Kier’s direction, a little play everyone had to participate in and delight him with till he grew weary of your character.
Finally, with a laugh as the black feathers rained down, he rose and made his presence known, unapologetically cheerful in the face of Vulturemalice’s foul temper — one of the many perks of tyranny; your mood was the only one that ever mattered. “Yes, I’m afraid it’s rather obvious warriorhood was not your calling. But neither was medicine, was it, Vulturemalice?” He gave him a goading little grin; the SummerClan reject was such fun to bat around. At least his name fit in. “And now my own daughter has expressed her interest in it,” — that wasn’t true; she’d made some childish, passing comment about medicine and he’d latched onto it, seeing the potential of having his own malleable kit instated in a position of power within the Clan and eagerly pushing her towards it; even better that she wanted to make him happy — “really, what use are you?” He tilted his head and gave the former medicine cat another sweet little grin, practically batting his lashes. “What can you do right?” He laughed again, a sound that bubbled out of him as he gazed into the other tom’s olive eyes.
Kier had no reason to stroke Vulturemalice’s ego and flatter him — he couldn’t very well leave now, could he? No; if he thought he could have his little rebellion in NightClan and leave when he yearned again for SummerClan, he’d rather find the borders closed and the guards armed. But he wouldn’t be cruel to him. Once he’d gotten past the asserting his dominance and accepting submission stage, he’d find a deserving use for poor Vulturemalice. Medicine or otherwise. But out here, in the dark, lonely woods that were his home and the other’s rebellious phase, he didn’t need to be kind. He was doing him a favour by letting him stay here; he should have been kissing the ground he walked on.
The smugness that was radiating off of the dark pelted toms fur was almost overwhelming; it was a choking feeling that closed his throat and caused Vulturemalice to duck his head and dig his claws into the damp soil underpaw. The smell of the wet soil, the dampness seeping up between his toes brought him back to better times with a freckle nosed tom with dark chocolate eyes that were almost always glimmering with amusement at him. This was his happy place, a spot that grounded him and kept him from doing anything rash. Dandelions and starry nights flashed through his mind, letting the skinny tom control his breath and let his heartbeat slow.
Turning to Kier, he kept his muzzle low and eyes averted and meowed, "You know I was never meant to be a warrior but I'm trying my best to be one for NightClan." The last words were mousebile on his tongue, a lip curling feeling that he did his best to repress. Even now after finding refuge in the Clan that ruined his own he could hardly say the name of it and he knew that Kier knew it as well. Being a medicine cat from another Clan, one that NightClan had conquered, Vulturemalice was a prize to anyone. With his select set of skills, he was more useful that dead.
"I'm doing my best to brush up on my hunting skills," he continued with a slight snarl, claws curling out into the earth under him, digging out scars in the dark leaf material under his feet. The anger would always be more towards himself for not being able to do more for his Clan in the time being, letting all those he loved down. "At least the elders and queens wiill have some feathers for their nests, so it's not a huge loss."
