Investigate (Closed)

There was a clear hierarchy in the place where Crocuskit lived. It was strict and rigidly structured, a whole clan of cats were to follow a single figurehead. Mottlestar. This confused Crocuskit, the confusing part being Mottlestar herself. Mottlestar was small, smaller than Crocuskit as the she-kit reached six moons of age, already dwarfing many of her peers. It was hard to imagine that a cat so small held so much respect amongst Thunderclan that she ended up being their leader.

Would it not be a better idea to have a bigger, stronger cat as their leader? A cat that would be able to win fights or take a beating for their clan? A weak leader puts a clan at risk, right? Crocuskit had heard that sentiment at times, that a leader must be strong, brave, decisive, and always put their clan first no matter what. The conflicting concerns and biases she was starting to pick up nibbled at the young she-cat's head, but in a way that only made her inquisitive and curious about the small she-cat that led Thunderclan. What was it about her that made her Thunderclan's leader?

Crocuskit peaked around the corner of the leader's den, her large head disrupting the lichen that hung from the rock and shielding those that were inside. Large paws took one step in front of the other as she carefully slunk forward, not truly silent but she was trying her best. There lay Thunderclan's leader, snoozing away in a bed of moss and flowers, feathers, and other soft materials weaved within to show how decadent and well-liked the she-cat was. She was small, swallowed by the bits that adorned her nest, her long mottled coat clean but a bit mussed from the sleep she was having.

She leaned her head forward, tilting as she silently considered the battle wounds that peaked past the fur that never quite covered it. Crocuskit wondered how she got her wounds. Maybe Mottlestar was a tough fighter after all? Maybe her size was deceiving? She wondered...

She had always been a figure of peace. Love. Kindness. So much so that one of the foreign felines that had found refuge in her home deemed her name to be "Motherstar" instead of "Mottlestar." It was such an innocent slip of the tongue, especially when regarding the fact that her language was not the one that they had been born speaking, but it was such an accurate portrayal of the tortoiseshell that she never had the heart to correct him. If anything, it was an endearing nickname that he found it fit to say such, as he surely would have ended up calling her something else if her likeness hadn't somehow portrayed such a feature.

Even then, war came to her den-step. There was no avoiding the conflict of claws and teeth in the forest, there was no way to live a life without seeing battle. Even medicine cats saw it before them, patching injuries, perhaps taking a stray claw to their fur when a patient was too ill to truly be of sound mind and control their limbs. She'd seen it happen, as she'd be part of it many more times in her life.

It was fitting of a leader to wear the marks of battle. Scars hid themselves in her pelt, covered mostly by the short tortoiseshell fur that she donned. Bites clamped around her shoulders, a mangled hind leg which had only begun to ache again with cooler weather occasionally drifting through, a front paw that didn't look quite right. She was lucky to not have the same types of scars as some of her kits, but that did not mean she didn't have them. A leader who never fought was a poor leader. The clan shouldn't keep their leader from battle-she should be right there with them.

That was her philosophy, and one she would keep until her dying breaths.

Or slumbering, in this instance. Having taken the night patrol, she was due to get at least a bit of sleep. Curled up in her nest of comforts it was easy to allow the comfort of rest to take her away as she rested, one ear towards the entrance of her den should anyone need her. Though, as the young kit would slip in, the molly somehow remained undisturbed. Unawoken.

It wasn't until the kit's whiskers hardly brushed against her fur that the leader stirred. She was used to being around kits, having raised several litters of her own. Even then, it took her a moment to blink the grogginess of unfinished sleep from her eyes as her head raised, a yawn filling the space of her den. Prrt?~ The sound chirped, before she finally found who had come in. "Oh, hello, Crocuskit. Can I help you with something, friend?" Her head tilted, a slow blink of friendliness quickly following. "If you're looking around, that's okay too."