The future's in your paws. Shape it well.Roleplay in a cat Clan of warriors. Based off the Warriors series by Erin Hunter. Takes place in an AU before the cats in the books existed.
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Milkkit hated the elder's den. It stank like nothing he had known before, and it was full of old cats that nobody wanted to see anymore. Or, at least, none that he ever wanted to see. But he was a good cat, and he had to make a good impression, so it was with a reluctant sigh and a longful last look at the nursery that he enterred the elder's den.
Upon enterring, he cleared his expression, putting on an excitable smile and trotted over to the closest elder. He had brought with him a small flower, the crumpled little thing ripped roughly from under the rock it had been growing and clenched between fangs as he brought it to the elder and laid it gently at his paws. Milkkit flicked his tail proudly, awaiting the inevitable praise that would come with such a thoughtful gift. "Good morning! My name's Milkkit. Could you tell me a story, if you have the time?" The small creamish-white tom-kit asked with the sweetest voice he could manage.
Company in the elder’s den was not uncommon. It certainly as much companionship and attention as Rowansong would have liked to have, but--he had made peace with that moons ago. At least, he’d told himself he had, and he wasn’t intent on changing his tune now. When someone brushed into the den, he raised his head from his paws and blinked toward them. His eyes traveled down toward the small shape and when he found it, Rowansong’s breath caught in his throat. A fringe-furred little wisp of white, blinking up at him with big eyes. Wide with an excitement that should have been a perennial concern on another cat’s face. For several moments, Rowansong could only stare down at the kit, caught between memories of training by the riverside, the sound of howling in his ears, and the sight of such a pristine pelt soaked through with red, red, red. His heart thudded. Familiar phantom pains thrummed through where Rowansong thought his legs lie.
Then he blinked. Milkkit. Not Egretkit, -paw, or -swoop. Rowansong blinked again and willed his heart to slow down. His eyes traveled down to the gift laid at his paws. ”Oh--oh! Thank you.” The words came out at first a little haltingly, but then he was purring. He swept the flower closer to him and said, ”That’s very kind. I will be sure to keep this close.” It would join the gift from Stormdance, and Minksplash’s pelt, in the things he kept in his nest. Why not keep it? He hardly knew Milkkit so well as he knew the aforementioned cats, but it was rare that he received gifts like this. And perhaps one day the little tom would become important to him. Even if he didn’t--well, Rowansong was a sentimental cat. He had few reminders of those he had lost. He supposed a memento was always nice.
Then the little tom was asking for a story. Rowansong built up his usual lop-sided smile before he spoke. ”It would seem you caught me at a good time,” he purred, ”for if you were a moment earlier or later, I may have found myself woefully busy with… idling by the riverside. Perhaps on the opposite end of camp than the usual today, just for flair.” Rowansong laughed, his whiskers quivering with it. The jest did put a small pang through his chest, but he dismissed it before letting it take root.
”If it is a story you’re looking for, then you certainly came to the right place. I hold many a tale to regale you with. You know, my stories have saved lives before.” That late-early morning spent with Murkyriver had never left his memory. And now… now, as a result of that, one of her kits stood before him, asking for something as simple as a story. Stars, it had been so long since Rowansong had had the chance to craft a story for someone. Murkyriver might have been the last. It felt right, then, that her progeny should be the next. ”Would you like to hear that story? It involves your mother. Or perhaps I could share with you of my time spent far, far away in Twolegplace. Or when I warred against a fox as an apprentice… I could even just share with you the beauty of our great lands. Though I will warn you, the words are only half so stunning as the sights themselves.” His smile softened and Rowansong lowered his head to his paws again, so he could be at eye level with Milkkit. ”All the same… it was those words that pulled one from darkness, so,” he laughed again, soft and stirring through Milkkit’s fur, ”they must be rather good ones. Or--” he hummed thoughtfully. ”Or perhaps it is not a story you seek at all. Perhaps you would be pleased with words of wisdom? That is an elder’s secondary great skill to storytelling.”
The elder-- Rowansong-- seemed momentarily disturbed by his appearance. Milkkit selfconsciously pressed a paw over the fur on his chest, smoothing down the tufts that stuck out like needles. His kit fluff had not gone away completely yet, and he hated the fuzz that would not lay down. The elder would not think poorly of him, would he? Milkkit's amber gaze narrowed on Rowansong. He looked more disturbed than disgusted. Perhaps Milkkit reminded him of something, or the gift brought back unpleasant memories. Whatever, it wasn't his job to police another cat's expression, besides whatever Rowansong thought hardly mattered to anyone, not now anyway.
The small kit pricked his ears at the mention of his mother. What of Murkyriver? Any tale with her must be worthy of legends. It was no wonder Rowansong would know it-- were it not an elder's sole job to recall legends and stories? Not that the tale would be old-- Murkyriver was still youthful-- but still, no one had mentioned this story before. A real pity, for he would have loved to learn every detail about his mother. Perhaps it would earn him a few praises from her as well. Yet, the elder had more stories, more offers of tales and even advice. Milkkit's tail flicked nervously. These all sounded good, and he could not settle on one choice without mourning the loss of the others. His claws dug into the dirt; he wanted to hear all of the stories, and get as much advice as possible. He wanted to be the best cat with every advantage he could have! There was no way any of these could go to waste.
"All of them. I want to hear everything you have to offer." His voice had lost some of its softness, a ringing defiance sharpening the edges of his words. He seemed to realise his mistake, and, softening his voice, added, "Please? I want to be the best I can be-- for the Clan, of course."
