Lost and Found [Semi-Open, Windclan Cats]

Brookclover had done all she could to aid her fellow Windclan cats who had gathered together inside the decaying twoleg shelter. What remained for Windclan was disheveled but strong. They needed to rest, that much was true and perhaps the only thought of the Shadowclan leader's that she agreed. But that was a conclusion that she would have easily been able to come to herself without the direction of that fish-loving, swamp cat. Her tail fluffed out at the thought of being lead by Scorchstar. He seemed a decent enough cat but he was not nor would ever be, the leader of Windclan.

In her desire to seek out fresh air and clear her head, the russet warrior briefly left the clan behind. They were safe for now and she would busy her paws with hunting as was the usual task. It seemed natural to be out, scenting the breeze and hoping to find a decent catch. But as she glanced over her shoulder and the familiar orange and white pelt was not there, the crushing realization that this was not normal came over her. Green eyes darkened as she slowed at the neutral expression on her maw faltered. Finchbreeze wasn't next to her. A majority of the clan was missing. Right after the loss of her kits was this great affliction that seemed to rip apart the rest of her world.

The determination that her best friend was still alive kept her going. Her best friend, her constant companion. As she glanced at the sky, she just knew they would be reunited once more. This wasn't the end. A deep breath helped to still her beating heart.

Brookclover carried on. The shore wasn't far. As much as she found the thought of fish distasteful, the idea some of it may have washed up was appealing. That would feed a few. She scanned the shore with this futile hope, disappointed when the success did not come. Her tongue longed for the water but she held off for now. Hunting was more important, and not just for the rumble within her own stomach. Before she could carry on, something moved from the seemingly endless depths of mud, where she had pulled Elmskip from not much earlier. Her eyes narrowed, seeking out the source of the movement. After a few moments, the shape began to form.

"Ravenkit?"

By now, Ravenkit had spent quite a bit of time being cold, and though he’d tried his hardest, he was beginning to think it wasn’t the kind of thing you could just “get used to.”

Mud had worked its way into his long, thick fur. At some point earlier, he’d tried to move out of it, but his aching body quickly convinced him it wasn’t worth the effort. While mostly unharmed, a miracle in itself, Ravenkit hadn’t gotten out of the flood without his share of cuts and bruises. Considering his previous experiences with injury had consisted near-exclusively of getting thumped on the head by other kits, to him, this was in a class all its own. Then there was the matter of his stomach, which had gotten fed up with being empty and started gnawing on itself.

But Ravenkit was an optimist. This place was full of new (gross) scents, which meant new (also probably gross) things to explore. And no matter how cold and sore and miserable he got, at least he wasn’t in the water anymore. As long as there was solid earth beneath his paws, everything would be okay. His mother would be here soon. He’d eat, she’d get the mud out of his fur, and—for better or for worse—things would go back to normal. He just had to wait.

”Ravenkit?”

Ravenkit would’ve responded to anyone, but it did help that he kind-of-sort-of recognized that voice, in the way he kind-of-sort-of recognized any voice that wasn’t his mother’s. Heartened by the realization that he’d waited enough, it was time for things to start getting better, he twisted around to peer up at Brookclover. Now this was worth moving for. When he tried to speak, the words grated; he didn’t remember swallowing sand, but his throat sure felt like it. ”H-hi.” The kitten blinked, processing the unfamiliar sound of his own voice. His surprise didn’t last long. ”Who are you?” In Ravenkit’s defense, things had been very quiet on the shore, and talking was a good distraction from everything else.

"Brookclover." She offered, with a rather abnormal gentleness to her voice. Seeing such a small and innocent creature resonated with her. The warrior had always possessed a caring spirit, even if it was at times overshadowed by the ambition that crept into her regal nature. Something about the circumstance, likely coupled with the loss of her own litter, caused her chest to constrict for a moment. If Ravenkit was out here alone, it meant that Cypressfang was likely lost to them. Brookclover inhaled slowly. As the breath left the sides of her maw, she leaned forward to tug the kit from the mud and place him onto a more solid piece of the shore. She was hesitant in her approach, pausing slightly as if to ask permission from the young tom himself. But she did not leave him long to grant it. Nor was the kit likely old enough to fully understand a formality like this.

As her tongue rasped over his coat, the warrior removed the muck and debris that had collected in several mats throughout his short fur. In her short life, Brookclover had never seen a kit in such a position. Other than Cricketkit and Ryekit. Silently cursing the stars for such a memory, she tried to force away the picture of her sons. Their short time in life had been little more than a collection of heavy scarlet drops and the welcoming embrace of mud. Neither things had provided much comfort or welcomed them into the world. Because they were not even given the courtesy of being allowed to gaze upon the world with open eyes. While she had quickly found herself enamored in the return to warrior duties, and relief in the lack of motherly duties, the she-cat possessed more than enough heart to mourn in the cruel loss of her young. And as such, the memory had stuck with her.

How she longed for Finchbreeze to be with her in this moment, to provide comfort not only to the kit but to her as well. Brookclover shook her head slightly, flicking away droplets of thick mud that had accumulated as a result of her efforts, "There is no need to worry now, Ravenkit. You're with Windclan now." What's left of it, at least.

Brookclover. Ravenkit scrunched up his nose as hard as he could, trying to think, just in case the name jogged his memory; predictably, he came up with nothing. If he’d ever seen Brookclover before, he’d been too engrossed in food, fun, or sleep to notice her. Then again, it was hard to remember most things right now. His head hurt and felt weirdly empty at the same time, full to bursting with something that took up no space. Wrinkling his face up made it hurt more, so he quickly stopped.

Ordinarily, he would have protested upon being picked up. From the moment he’d learned how to walk, he’d decided it was much better than being lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped all the time, even within the confines of the nursery. What was the point in having four perfectly good paws if he wasn’t going to use them? Today was different in this way, too; by the time Ravenkit realized he was airborne, he was also realizing he’d left the mud, which canceled out any negative feelings he might have had about being carried. Before he knew it, he was on solid ground. Actual, miraculously solid ground, not goop or slush or sludge. Some distant part of him wanted to run around on it, to test it, just to make sure it wouldn’t turn squishy again. Instead, he sank down as if he himself were made of mud, unresisting as Brookclover’s tongue cleaned the grime out of his pelt. The earth remained steady under him.

Brookclover was nice, he decided, despite the carrying. She wasn’t his mother—though her reddish-brown fur resembled Cypressfang’s in one or two places, the rest was all wrong—but she was here, which was the important thing. Still, he had to wonder... As quickly as the uncertainty sparked, Ravenkit smothered it. Finding Cypressfang herself would come later, after food and a nice, long rest. It would be an adventure! Maybe he could drag Brookclover along—

Suddenly, Brookclover was talking again. Ravenkit shook himself awake in time to hear most of what she’d said. ”’m not worried,” he said, giving himself another firm shake. This was debatably true; he’d been scared, mostly, then tired, but worry had probably wormed its way in. Not that he’d admit to it. The way he saw it, he was safe now—no reason to panic, much less recall the points where he might’ve been panicking. ”Can we go back to camp?” Though he’d been the one to mention it, Ravenkit perked up at the word “camp,” fixing wide yellow eyes on Brookclover.