The Head of the Snake [PLOT TOPIC]

The days blended.

Every moment darkness bled through, swimming in glints and sparks through to his shivering pelt. Coldness his companion; pain his only comfort. Odd little flashes here and there swirled through, glimmers of conscience, a faint ring of awareness. Most of it became a dizzying twist that spun, spun.

Endless circles.

Bat.... Littlestream.... Starlord.... Strom....

His head lolled, his voice had gone hoarse long ago. Only the whistling of the wind and the yowls of distant voices penetrated his hearing. Cold paws cradled his chin, closed eyes half-opened and were greeted with blurs and swirls of pacing figures.

The wind howled.

Snarls all around, glittering green points glowed in the darkness. His nose had gone dead to the scent of misery and death long ago - rotten in the air, as thick as a second pelt. A fox pelt. Yellow eyes flashing, teeth shining with a mad, foaming grin. He could see his own eyes staring back at him from the frozen, dead depths of the river. Glinting yellow beneath the hood of a fox's skull.

The wind cried.

He shivered, clawing pain gnawing at his gut as he curled, a quiet moan dying in the chill air that stirred through the thorns at the entrance of his existence. It spread through his head like claws, choosing to settle in one place or the other at different times. He'd almost gone numb to it. Almost. The darkness held no light to it, no sparkle of green eyes, no comforting scent or warmth at his side. His eyes closed again, the buzzing tightness drifting into an eery feeling of floating away - flying with the wind....

Do you remember... what it was to fly?

He swore that in the muddled mess of himself, he could see a wavering shape, dark against darkness - yet the first glimmer of starlight, like bright pinpricks, swirled there. It was too bright; he had to squint, reality almost poking through, a halfway between the raging agony of existence and soft ground beneath his paws. Just a hint of sweet scent on the breeze. The figure wavered, growing stronger, eyes somehow holding the power of a raging river and the light of the stars narrowed at him. Its mouth opened, and it disappeared even as it spoke, light and clarity fading to twisting pain.

Hang on, kit.

Eris knows everything.

Once, Pyrik had found comfort in that thought. Someone on his side had the answers, even if he wasn’t brave enough to ask for them. Now, it was a threat. Had she overheard Roe’s confession? Had he, through his sudden rededication to his WindClan-based duties, given them all away? Or were they safe in their knowledge, ordered to meet with Eris for another reason entirely?

Fortunately, the road from WindClan’s camp to this “Fourtrees” place was a straight shot. As the land sloped down to a cluster of trees, Pyrik sighed in relief. At least he could check one worry off the list.

Shuffling his sacred pelt so it laid more securely across his back (he’d foregone the usual mud to hold it in place), the lanky tom continued on. He passed beneath two towering oaks—smack into a wall of rancid scent. Foreign cats, fear, and rot. Pyrik gagged, but forced his legs to carry him forward, trying to adjust to the smell with small, shallow breaths. Then came the cages. Asylum had always been gifted with their paws. On their own, the thorny structures were almost beautiful…but they were full. Pyrik had never seen living cats so quiet. He leaned closer to one of the cages as he padded by and immediately recoiled, not from the scent, but from the expression on the face of the ginger tom inside. At least dead cats sometimes looked peaceful.

His stomach crawled up his throat again, and he hurried onward, to Eris. When a respectful greeting stalled in his mouth, he bowed instead before shuffling back a few paces, a wavering smile visible past the fox’s muzzle. He’d never wished quite so hard for the days when Thalia was still stationed in WindClan. But he couldn’t let himself dwell on it. The others would be here soon.

Hayglow could barely breathe. Her heart thumped in her chest, so loudly that she feared that the Asylum cats would hear her. She was crouched in the undergrowth, practically flat on the ground as she prayed over and over to the Stars that she wouldn't be seen. Before her, she could barely make out the shape of a collection of large cats - two familiar pelts sticking out. The cats that had been taken. W-With any luck, she would be spared from fighting if she helped them. She just...Had to wait. She barely contained her tail thumping in nervousness, trying to steady herself and breathe. It wasn't working very well.

...Was this what a panic attack felt like? She wouldn't be surprised.


Theron meanwhile was pacing back and forth, tail lashing as her eyes kept locking onto the spot where Roe had barely moved for sunrises. It had taken only a moment, Lexine demanding more vengeance against WindClan, for him to be gone. Where could he have gone? An almost nervous hiss escaped her as she straightened up, claws digging into the ground. Couldn't he see how...Bad this was for him? She knew that they hadn't be...Nice to him, but the scars were a warning - much like the scars that barely missed her eyes. A reminder to know their place and do what they were told - nothing else. Of course, if she had her way there would be countless search parties out looking for him - tracking him but it seemed the matter with...Those he had told was more important. ...Blah, she suppose there was a point. What could Roe possibility do on his own, anyways? He knew he couldn't escape - that she would track him down. No doubt he would come crawling back in no time.


Lexine circled close near where the prisoners were being held - her eyes mostly focused on a brown and white form. Anger shot through her every time she crossed somewhat near him, wishing she could lunge forward and end his pathetic life. He had killed her brother yet Asylum refused to give her what she desired most. They wouldn't even make any moves against WindClan, despite them being the worse of the lot. Tsk. But...Orders were orders. She would get her vengeance one day. Her eyes flickered toward where Theron was pacing, huffing at the Captain's worry over Roe. He was a traitor. She should have seen how close he was getting to those blasted WindClan cats - perhaps she could have knocked some sense into him but it barely mattered. In truth, he had always been a weakling - often hesitating when things had to be done. They were better off without him and she just wasn't sure what Theron saw in the younger tom.

To find himself here certainly was a surprise, but the novelty of being held captive at Fourtrees had faded not too long after. These trees, though sacred to StarClan, loomed high, cursing the captive cats below to suffer without the guidance of the night sky. Dull eyes fixed between the milling Asylum cats. Deerhawk's unkept, thin pelt barely moved as he breathed. Sometimes the only way to tell if he was alive was to wait for a rare half blink. He somewhat deserved this treatment, he thought, when he had the energy to think at all. To kill without cause, without warning, it made him no better than a viper. As expected the Asylum had neglected to treat where his claws had been, where they'd been torn out. They grew back wrong, the flesh around them tender and hot and weeping, it didn't take a medicine cat to know they were most likely infected. It was meaningless to try to escape. To hope for freedom. Though death would only bring greater horror and revulsion to his fellow captives; the Clan-born dead were left to rot in their cages. The stench soaked into their pelts, into their meager prey, even into the water they drank. Was this what the Dark Forest was like?


In stark contrast came Brick. Still slightly damp from her swim, she paused outside the camp between the huge oak trees to groom down parts of her hare pelt. She kept it meticulously clean, especially the ears that so often got caught on various bushes and branches when she wasn't in the fairly undergrowth-free RiverClan. She had to look her best in front of Eris and the Captains. What they called her for she didn't really know for sure. She stopped grooming for a moment, staring ahead, as if she saw something strange in the bushes, but let out a high-pitched sneeze instead. Goodness! She hoped she didn't catch anything from that kit Honeytongue had found the other day.

With her animal pelt cleaned to her standards (hah, standard) she pushed through. The stench was awful, something worse than a whole pile of rotting fish, but she held her breath and kept walking, her eyes focused on Eris. She passed by a pacing Captain Theron, giving the uneasy-looking she-cat a friendly bump of greeting before continuing on her way. Maybe after Eris told her why she was here, she could talk to the Nightstriker Captain and figure out what was wrong. When her paws finally brought her to Eris, she gave her a respectful nod and cheerful mew, "Hello Head Eris!" Seeing Pyrik was there as well, she gave him a whispered, "Hi Pyrik!!"

Once again Raisha was in a prison, just as she had been her whole life. But this time she knew it as what it was, without the cloak that was the Asylum's lies. For the first day she had been here, the calico had refused food. She did not want anything her captors had to offer. But it did not take long for her to break on that front, indulging in the morsels of prey brought to her. It was funny, knowing she was in the same place as the Clan cats, she knew this from the bodies she could smell, no Asylum cat would end up like that. Even still she was treated better, as though she were truly Asylum. What a ridiculous thought was that! As though they ever really cared, ha! They were really trying to sell their role here.

Whenever an Asylum cat would approach, she would sit up, tall and defiant, and fix them with a glare without uttering a word. These cats were not deserving to hear her speak. And she was afraid that, if she did, she might fall apart. And she refused to let any cat see how much she was hurting, how much these cats had broken her. They took away her life, so she would pay her dues. They could not keep her here forever. If she had learned one thing from the Clans, it was that they were defiant. They would not accept the loss of their own. (But then again, hadn't they accepted the loss of me? They never came for me. They never found me. They let me live this nightmare. I really am alone, aren't I?)

Maybe just this once, she would allow herself to cry.

The quiet, near-silent sound of her own breath was deafening - Zinnia wasn't a master of stealth, she wasn't accustomed to stalking the shadows and undergrowth. Watching, yes, but typically in plain sight. This was something strange and unfamiliar, but the knowledge that Hayglow and the rest of her comrades were waiting with her gave her the strength to press on. It wasn't like there was any going back.

(She had meant what she'd said a quarter-moon before. They were here because knew the risks, and they were willing to pay the price of freedom, whatever that might be.)

---

Flashlight was familiar with exhaustion. It was a feeling she didn't quite enjoy, but often strove for - excellence only came with practice, after all, and practice to the point of excellence tended to be coupled with exhaustion. That said, this was unlike what she was used to - she had never, as long as she could recall, been treated like this; and if she wasn't in any shape to voice her complaints, or any place to fight back - for StarClan's sake, she'd tried, that was what had led her here in the first place - her thoughts, at least, were still her own.

It was a sanctuary of sorts, one that nothing and no one could take from her; and so she had withdrawn into herself. When her voice threatened to break or falter every time she spoke at all, there was nothing more she could do to keep what remained of her dignity.

---

Once upon a time, in seasons past, Batbite had resolved to never get herself into a situation like the plague of the Righteous cats again. It seemed, though, that her fate was out of her control, as she found herself feeling just as hazy and exhausted as she had back then, occasionally calling out softly for names she knew with a voice more faded than she'd like. This time she was a little more aware of her surroundings, at least.

(Fourtrees. Go figure.)

The only things tethering her to herself were the distant knowledge (imagined or memory, she wasn't sure anymore) of her mate's presence, somewhere, and the reminder that every time past, every threat they had faced, they had succeeded in the end. A faint glimmer of hope in what had started to feel like the endless dark. They had survived before, they would survive again.

A lingering fear had settled over her, though, in her time. Would she among the survivors or the casualties?

(For all she cursed her rotten luck, she was painfully aware that she'd lived through far more than any one cat ought to be expected to. Considering that she didn't want to stop, the realization that she might never leave this clearing again was something that haunted her. There was comfort and yet more haunting in the knowledge that she'd taken Minkstream with her as she fell to her fate - they had known the risks when they took their chances, but she couldn't help feeling it was selfish, to take comfort in the fact that she wasn't alone.)

(What haunted her was this: that when the light did finally fade from her eyes, and they counted up her choices to choose her fate - they'd remember this moment. That they'd see her only regret was in her selfishness, something she'd never been able to overcome.)

"Strom," she murmured, so quiet she could hardly hear her own voice, the name familiar on her tongue and spoken with the reverence of a prayer. "I'm sorry."

(If StarClan had forsaken her, as she'd started to suspect, well. Love was sacred still, and him even more so in her eyes.)

---

With her fox pelt draped over her form, Thalia made her way to the meeting place. She wasn't sure why she was here, and that made her more nervous than she already was - she'd usually shed her pelt when she expected to only be dealing with Asylum cats, or when she was stationed in WindClan - when she'd been reasonably certain of her safety, that she could trust at least some of those around her - but she wasn't sure of anything anymore.

"Pyrik," she breathed a soft sigh of relief when she came to the place she was supposed to be, standing before Eris. "Brick."

(She trusted Pyrik with her life, lies or no lies; and Brick was... Well, Brick. She trusted Brick. Maybe not with her life, but she trusted Brick. She would have placed her life in Katana's paws without hesitation, and even now that impulse was there. Beyond that, she loved each of the cats she was raised with, cared for each in different ways - the way a family was supposed to. That was what family had meant, once. What it still meant to her. There was love in her heart for those who had raised her, who had taught her who they thought she was meant to be - for Captain Theron and Roe, for the long-gone Iniko and for Eris.)

(She had finally learned that love didn't have to mean trust.)

Cedarheart’s anger had faded away during the time she had spent here. Everyday, she had to gather the strength to even wake up. Her stomach felt hollow, her eyes dull. The wind swept over her, and she couldn’t do anything but absorb the pain, the cold, the hunger. Everything seemed pointless. She longed for her family, her clan. The only familiar faces she saw were those imprisoned with her. She found herself remembering the days she had been living back at camp. She hated it, hated the captivity, but this was far, far worse. She had never known a cat could be so hungry, so cold. The she-cat was lying in a small corner of her cell, completely unaware of the events about to take place. She didn’t bother to look up, the scowling faces of the Asylum jeered at her enough.

-

Griffon had been so confused lately. He wanted to know who he was, where he came from, but he was denied answers. He wasn’t sure if a record had even been kept of that. If he met his family, would they remember him? Or would his previous identity be lost to time, forgotten forever. He tried to push the thoughts aside, but they floated back into his brain. He walked faster, his dog pelt tight against his back. He had been called to meet with Eris, and he obeyed. He still was a part of the Asylum, even if he hadn’t been born into it. He wasn’t sure where his loyalties truly lied, but he would fight alongside his family. That was all he had now, since the truth had been uncovered. His kin, the others that had been stolen from the clans.

He arrived at Fourtrees, glancing around. He quickly neared Thalia, Pyrik, and Brick. "Hey," he said, an unsure smile on his face. "Do you guys know what’s going on?"

Lyralei's pelt prickled uncomfortably as she circled the edge of the clearing. Her eyes were narrow as she peered into shadows, scented the breeze, anything to try to get a hint of which direction Roe had disappeared in. She had heard of what happened, but... She sighed, tail flicking as her eyes landed briefly on Ivystar and Flashlight in their respective traps of thorns. Had they not attacked Raisha, they likely would have never ended up here. Instead, they had let their anger get the better of them. A poor trait to see in one who was supposed to lead, in her opinion, but she would refuse to voice it. Instead she turned her focus back to the gathering cats as they arrived, nodding respectfully to Eris as she moved past her continuing her rounds.

---

How long had it been? Murkystrike wasn't entirely sure. The lack of proper food and water had made her delirious and sluggish. At first she had paced her filthy cage relentlessly, hissing at any asylum cat that passed. Thoughts of her claws ripping through Tavora's pelt kept her fueled for far longer than any had expected, but she had eventually succumbed, just like all the others. She had done nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. Her only crime was trying to help, trying to get along with an Asylum cat. Even now, her lip curled weakly at the thought, but that and the slow rise and fall of her belly was the only signs of life remaining in the she-cat. She was exhausted, and what had once been an incessant gnawing at her belly had faded into nothing now as her thirst and hunger had surpassed anything she had ever known. It didn't even hurt any more, truly, but that in itself was something to fear. Her fur was matted and disgusting, she could feel it, but she hardly had the energy to wake up each morning let alone care for her appearance. Besides.... No one was coming. They had no idea where she was, despite how heartbreakingly close they were. Every now and then when the wind shifted she had caught the faintest scent of ShadowClan, and her heart had ached as she wondered what they were doing, how they were doing. Had her parents mourned her, and then continued on with their lives? Had Flintstar written her off as a lost cause, not worth trying to retrieve? And what of Mistyfalcon? She hadn't seen him be brought to this forgotten and forsaken place, so she hoped that he was still well. Even if she were to perish here, she was glad for the time that she had. Her eyes closed as she focused on her breathing, just trying to concentrate on keeping air moving into her lungs and back out.

---

Following the events of the patrol that was carefully designed to subdue her, Blossomstep had been dragged to Fourtrees and thrust carelessly into a thorned cage. She was certain it hadn't been too terribly long, but long enough that her clanmates would have noticed her absence surely. As she had looked around, she noticed other cats from various other clans in varying states of wellness. One dark-furred she-cat was laying still, and the older she-cat hoped that she wasn't just imagining the rise and fall of breath. This place, once an area of coming together, had become one of death and dismay. She had been right to not trust the words of these maggots, the underbelly of their system was hidden to all but those who were unfortunate enough to be thrust into it. She still wasn't sure what exactly she had done, but if Dawnhawk's words were any indication.... He simply wanted her out of the way. Hunger gnawed at her belly, and she desperately tried to lick what dew she could find from around her, but it wasn't enough... Especially when she had already been weakened by a hurt paw. She wondered how Smokefeather and Beechface were, how Wolfstar was.... Had he even noticed she was gone? Had he attempted to find her? Her head dropped to rest on her front paws as she stared blankly out of the gaps in the thorns. Would she ever get out of here to see any of them again?

Eos silently stalked around the thorny cages of their prisoners, ears pricked. She tried to avoid looking too closely at any of the captives, knowing she would see Ivystar and Flashlight among them, as well as Raisha. The Riverclanners had been well within their rights to be angry, they'd been well within their rights to grieve. The scout could understand Flashlight attacking Raisha, although she shouldn't have. Grief was powerful, it could make a cat act without thinking. But Ivystar... The gall. She could have separated the fighting she-cats, yet instead she had chosen to join the fight. A leader should know better.

With a quiet huff, the scout continued in her rounds, giving the arriving cats and Eris a brief nod as she passed them.

---

Mistyfalcon silently crept alongside the mousehunt, shrouded in shadow. His ears slicked back and tail low as they came near enough to look down upon fourtrees. Even from this distance, the place reeked of despair, and all he could do was hope that his clanmates were among the living still. They needed to get the captives out, but if they were in as bad shape as Roe had proclaimed them to be in, that was going to be easier said than done. They were guarded, he could see... And keeping the guards distracted for Beecloud to do his duty wasn't going to be an easy task.

He never did prefer the easy way.

Quaildock stalked in the Shadows with the other Mousehunt cats. He hoped he was doing good at it. His yellow green eyes blinked, as he saw a bunch of Asylum guards. And some of those guards are some of our own. He thought. And mom and dad are being guarded by them. His ears slightly lowered at the though of his parents. He could only hope that they were still alive.

The murmur of whispered conversation upon the terse night air was briefly interspersed with soft interludes of quiet movements, restless pacing circulations adorned by the several Asylum fixtures stationed within the barren, unnaturally hostile confines of Fourtrees. It appeared as though all dwelling within the spacious cleft of sacred land were riddled with a lingering undercurrent of unease, apprehension curling sour upon the tongue and heavy upon the shoulders- the billowing restlessness of a caught snake confined to its rocky nest. Silky soft fur catching gratingly against tedious pieces of stiff and wilting foliage, the unbearably still night air trembled faintly with indistinct currents as Jayshriek carefully pulled himself atop a low-curling crest in the earth, darkness-rich coat fully enveloped within the wan shadows of the shallow hiding place. His, verging wholly silent, steps were uncharacteristically laden with precision and thoughtfulness, usually fluent grace overtaken with a methodical and careful approach that kept him slow and steady; entirely too wary of the possibility of the chips of stones and unfortunate pieces of debris revealing his potential whereabouts with a simple misstep.

Settling into a faulty semblance of resolute and unbothered silence, the gently moving rivulets of tension and apprehension seemed to stir and heighten around the dark-furred young tom, seeping into the unkempt mane of his coat with a biting chill.

The faintest ghost of a tremble blossomed low and frigid against the curved expanse of Jayshriek's tight spine, the realization of the inevitable situation heartbeats away from unfolding setting his muscles to curl in upon themselves. Adrenaline was pulsing through the intricate webbing of his circulatory system with a great roar, white-hot flood of stimulation and instinctual preparation sharpening his senses to the point of being virtually unbearable. Every little shift, whether it be from the Asylum cats restlessly circling the confines of their new safe-grounds or the idle wriggling seeming to plague his comrades, resonated sharply within the hollows of his ears- pulsing in time with the sharp throb of his own rancorous pulse. The entire notion of leaping blindly into the awaiting jaws of certain death had felt foolish from the instance that Beecloud had initially traded word, but now gazing directly into the heart of the beast made everything all the more surreal, the more ludicrous. Perhaps he would be fortunate enough to lay sight on his mother and missing Clanmates for a final time before incurring the full wrath of Asylum, though he could hardly spot any familiar shapes in those confined to makeshift prisons of sorts.

In the dark, Ravenclaw's black pelt made her seem invisible. Only her piercing eyes would let anyone know that there was a cat there. She was with the rest of the Mousehunt, encircling Fourtrees and preparing for an attack. They were going to chase out the intruders or die trying. Claws digging into the earth, Ravenclaw knew that it would be the former. She would never die to rogues like these. She kept anxiously waiting for Beecloud's signal, wanting to race in there and tear their pelts off right now. Would her father be in there? If he was still alive, she could save him. She had to believe that she could.

Dawnhawk answered the summons as always, knowing exactly where Fourtrees was from traveling there many times. There was unease in his veins and ice in his heart. Something wasn't right. No matter how many cats he sent away or threatened into silence, he felt unsettled. He felt as if something was amiss, but he'd never be able to pin it down no matter how much he tried. He made it swiftly to Fourtrees with his one-eared fox over his body. The stench of cats reached his nose and his wrinkled it in disgust. They were sick, weak and dirty, but it served them all right. Traitors, liars, and those that had threatened the authority of the Asylum were all locked up here. He hadn't been to Fourtrees in moons.

He passed by the oaks and spared a glance at the Great Rock. What a sight for sore eyes this place was. His eyes then landed on Eris and he dipped his head respectfully at the Asylum leader. There were other Standards here, asking the same questions that he had been wondering. What was going on? He sat in front of Eris and waited, not bothering to speak or ask questions. She'd tell them when she was ready.

A movement in the corner of his eye into one of the cells caught his attention. A familiar dark tabby pattern... tattered and scarred to kingdom come made his muscles tense and his heartbeat quicken. The pale tom forced his eyes to look just enough to the side that he couldn't see the prisoner in his peripherals.

He's not my father anymore. He thought to himself with conviction, forcing the unease and tension settling in his body. He looked at Eris, though at some points it appeared that he was looking right through her.

---

Bloodstrike hadn't been out of the cell in many many moons. He was convinced that he had died and gone to the Dark Forest. He'd felt nothing but pain and a cloudiness in his mind. The stars had never been visible. The dark things around him fed him on occasion, but on the few days that passed where they didn't, his body would roll with pain. This had to be The Dark Forest.

There was more noise today than usual. It caused the dark tabby to shift uncomfortably as he tried to find a position to continue to sleep in. The noises weren't necessarily hostile... he didn't think. As long as no one said "Bloodstrike" he wouldn't be in any pain. He had learned that by now. As the voices became more frequent, the tom eventually sighed and lifted his chin from the soiled, earthy floor. Shapes and shadows had gathered just on the edges of his eyesight beyond his prison bars. There were a lot today...

"Come near me, and you will regret it." He growled, though it was quiet and garbled and could easily be missed if one didn't pay him any mind. With his one and only warning, Bloodstrike continued to watch the shapes gather and talk.

Roe’s disappearance was not good news. Rama surveilled the remaining prisoners with meticulous, if not detached, attention, trying her hardest not to blame her cohorts for the unnoticed escape. She was just as much to blame as they were. They had failed together.

Eris was, understandably, too distracted to handle the crisis at the given moment. Her meeting with the young ones was predetermined. She had much to discuss with them, though Rama was not privy to the details. It was just not for her to know. Her tasks for the evening were limited to tending to the prisoners. She passed out their meager rations for the day without a word. Their conversations sounded like the muted tweets of birds to her uncaring ears. Once in a while, a pitiful cry pulled her eyes back to a cage she had already patrolled, and she had to suck in a deep breath before powering on past the source of the wail.

She was never talkative, but she had forgotten how to use her voice a long time ago.

---

Oftentimes, when Beecloud looked into his future, he could envision certain mundane moments with the clarity of a sacred spring of water. A few sunrises ago, he imagined his son’s warrior ceremony: the shimmering sunshine eclipsed by Nettlestar’s tufted fur, the contrasting colors of afternoon cerulean sky and stark ginger fur, the warm and endless breeze that blew pollen across his nose. It was all so effortless.

When he tried to summon it now, his mind was inconceivably blank and darkened by the haze of unknowing. He could perceive no future past the moment where his paws would hit the earth and start rumbling towards Eris. Beyond that mere second was a cliff. After facing that last image of the coming future, he would tumble down into the chasm he only knew as fate, the precipice of which he had marched himself towards like a prisoner to his execution.

It was all beginning to feel like a very lengthy string of lies and half-truths, beginning with “I have a plan” and continuing down the most logical stream of falsehoods until arriving at this, the greatest lie of them all: “I know with certainty that this will work.”

As he drew back into the bushes and hunted for pelt colors in the vague moving figments he could see beyond the veil of the underbrush, Beecloud saw no reason to be honest with himself, if deceit had gotten him this far. But his conscience was catching up. Fear became him as his huge claws gripped the melting snow, and though he tried, he could not find a method of redirecting all his trepidation. Disassociating himself from the emotional weight of the situation was all he could do. Beecloud allowed his eyes to flutter gently closed as he pictured a great wall of stones and sticks and mud forming between him and every cat he could hear shuffling in bramble cages. He set the wall betwixt him and his Clan, and his family, and his forest. This was not about him or the Mousehunt. It was not about captives, missing kittens, or war. It was simply the duty he had to the forest. It was the oath he had taken. He was here simply to play his part. When the curtain fell, he could take off the mask… but this was the performance and the final exam. What is a warrior without a Code, or without a forest to hunt in? Nothing, of course. It was just self preservation.

When he opened his eyes, Beecloud felt a little better, even as he felt his mental walls crumble. They were futile attempts at self-soothing, anyway. You cannot separate petals from a flower without the plant losing its substance. You cannot unbind a battle from its purpose.

There was one more lie he had told tonight, and it was that he was going to kill Asylum Head, Eris. He had no such intention. The end of her life was not the Clans’ to decide.

The warrior’s head swiveled. He could count perhaps five pelted cats in his immediate vicinity, at least that he could see through the brambles. There was no telling what they were walking into. As Asylum guards wandered nearer and nearer to the carefully positioned Mousehunt, Beecloud knew their window was about to slam shut. It was now or never; he could bear it no longer.

The moment came and went in a blink as the warrior’s legs pushed off from the bushes. As his front paws slammed into the ground, leaving heavy pawprints on the soft dirt, his future faded from all imagination. Truly present, he raised a huge caterwaul from his place on the southern side.

“FOR THE CLANS!” Beecloud snarled. “Mousehunt! Go! Free the warriors!”

And it had begun, and screams deafened Beecloud’s ears, and he grabbed the nearest cage in his front teeth, and he tore it apart, and he locked gazes with his beloved’s bright green eyes. There was not enough time for a reunion.

Beecloud felt lightning in his joints, and he ran like WindClan. Springing to life, his paws connected with Eris’s face. Gripping her shoulders, he wished he would have paid more attention during their last encounter. If he had, he would have noticed how well-built she really was. It would not be so easy to bring her down. Gathering up her scruff in his jowl, he yanked her whole body down to the ground so that her head whipped with a stomach-churning thud. “Hello there!” he gasped. “Awe, don’t tell me you don’t remember me. How many other toms have you horribly maimed and traumatized? I thought what we had going was special, Eris!”

Beecloud used Scruff Shake on Eris. Eris is stunned for _ turns.

Beecloud
100/100 HP
215/240 SP (-25)

Eris stunned
112/120 HP (-8)
300/300 SP

---

ooc: One last reminder that Beecloud and Eris’s battle should not be interrupted! Thank you!

Okay now go crazy