Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Water fell slowly from the very edges of Prickletail’s fur, down to the muck and mud beneath the old, wizened tree he perched in. He hated it: the ice forever frozen on his coat, the horrible mud that he could never truly get off, even the way his pawsteps left frost in his wake. He was hungry, too, but at this point he knew better than to waste energy on hunting. Might as well instead spend the rest of eternity attempting to clean his pelt. Not like he had anything better to do.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The calico tom hadn’t joined the Dark Forest rebellion; indeed, it had been his smug maw that greeted the rest when they returned, battered and broken, defeated and dead. He hadn’t said anything- he was in no hurry to acquaint himself with “Morningstar’s” claws- but he had watched from the shadows, yellow eyes gleaming, and he thought they knew that. All attempts at recruiting him had failed; not that they were particularly invested in bringing along one half-frozen ThunderClanner, stuck here for perpetuity for a murder that hadn’t even been successful. No. He had learned his lesson. He watched, and he waited, and it came as no surprise when the others failed. They always would, as long as his compatriots continued to be so set in their ways. Revenge, for most of them, was a stupid goal. The cats they wanted to kill were long-dead, and so why did they target the Clans? Why go to all the effort of entering the living world when it would be simpler to kill StarClanners.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Division killed while crisis merely brought the forest closer together. A lesson that, while oft seen, was rarely understood. If they had really wished to bring the Clans down, it would have been as simple as asking him. If only these woebegone beasts had foresight, Prickletail mused, carefully grooming a forepaw. They fought and squabbled amongst themselves when their real target should be StarClan, cats with- with spotless pelts and endless prey, cats that lazed around all day in plentiful fields and forests, cats that had condemned them all to endless suffering! The calico tom let out a low hiss, sinking his hooked claws into the worn wood. And of course, “Morningstar,” Dawnhawk, Klaus, whatever you wanted to call him: he got off scot-free, having murdered who knows how many cats. And Prickletail? Prickletail was stuck here for all eternity because he lashed out at one.
