Honeysuckle Poison [Solo]

Churning waves had eroded away at the earth, leaving behind saturated earth somehow greater than that of the marshland's normal state. Desperate deposits of mud tugged at the pelts of every cat that dare trod the soaked soil. It threatened to slow their already weary steps and halt any further progress. But the crowd had pressed on with their fur brushing that of their kin for support.

Hope.

That was the very thing that had brought the clan cats back to their land. Something buried deep in the chest of them all, a warrior spirit, that made this all worth saving. Admittedly, the calico was thrilled to lay eyes on the seemingly barren land once again. For as much as the muck and filth had decimated the usual landmarks, Shadowclan territory maintained the integrity of its namesake. This was the marsh after all, and a marsh it would stay. Even though the sparse trees had been battered or fallen, with intense scrutiny he could make out the memory of what had once stood there. His green gaze trailed slowly over strewn remains of brambles and undergrowth as they neared the camp. Where the entrance had allowed access was now a mess of brambles and thorns. As if Shadowclan was not to return to their seasons old resting grounds.

Burntstag should have been the first, given his strength and size, to claw away at the barrier. But he hesitated. If it were possible, his eyes would have burned a hole in the spot they rested on and made up for the lack of his claws. There was no denying that this was home. It was as undeniable as the drive that had allowed the clans to thrive for generations while they were all the while teeming with rot and corruption on the inside. Goodness buried deep in the ignorant heart of tradition. He'd loved each and every single one of these Shadowclan cats as fiercely as his littermates. At the core of his utter disdain for the warrior code and the ancestors that sought to uphold it, Burntstag held a genuine passion for the lives of the cats here. Sure the ignorance had wormed its way in and buried deep, breeding an unholy devotion to the flawed system, but these were cats. As flesh and blood as he and Flintfang. They needed to be guided away from the ways that were tightening around their own necks like vines on a tree.

Finally, he broke his concentration to look at Scorchstar. The tom would not be a leader for change, would he? Burntstag had wrestled with the idea several times and ultimately settled on the offer. If the Shadowclan leader was willing to help lead them into the new era, he would not challenge the clan leadership. Unnecessary bloodshed was one of the many adverse side effects of clan life. Claws were necessary at times, though. Picturing the inevitable tension between him and Scorchstar seemed to work up a stone of apprehension in his stomach. Thankfully, it was something he could easily shake away. When the time came, Flintfang would stand at his side, both of them driven by the adrenaline of their own devotion to the future. He had to stop his whiskers from twitching. Soon it would no longer be the future. The present would be upon them before they knew it. He could nearly taste it on his tongue, as good as the sweet flavors of a freshly killed mouse. All the good that would come from a reinvention of the system, the plans weaving tightly together into a glorious new world where matters as trivial as the circumstances of one's birth would be long forgotten under the thriving of the forest cats. All he needed to do was share that future with the rest of Shadowclan before spreading to the other facets of the forest, ridding them of the mouse-brained leaders whose paws had pressed their faces into the moonstone.

Everything about clan life seemed to be this pristine systematic thing, doused in sacred ceremony and tradition. Yet cats were killed on the daily, scars inflicted from other clans wrought with infections. This was no way to live. Survival, leafbare, predators... those were the enemies. But the clouds over every cat's eyes prevented them from seeing further than their own whiskers and kept them from noticing the brambles in which they had been ensnared. This was no way to live. This was not a life he could come back to.

The warm pelt of Silentpaw alongside his helped to bring him back from the rabbit trail in which his mind had once more indulged itself. She would stand with him soon. Once he shared the future with her, their future would be secure as well. Nothing would ever trouble her mind again.

Hope.

Part of him hated being back in this forest, causing the frustration to prickle up underneath his pelt once again. The rest of him was at peace, a cold and determined fire churning within the stomach of the warrior. Burntstag knew it was time for him to fulfill the very thing he had groomed himself to do. From the tattered remains around them, a new era would rise.

A son of Lichenmask would be the one to save the forest.