Mid Leaf-fall, late afternoon: ThunderClan camp.
A sombre, eerie silence hung over the ravine. At this point in the afternoon, the camp would usually be bustling with activity; patrols should be returning, apprentices should be bounding through the thorn barrier after a long day of hunting or training. Kits should be causing mischief and getting under the paws of warriors. Instead, everything was still, the day's productivity coming to a halt as the Clan formed in a ragged circle around three unmoving bodies.
The largest was positioned in the centre, its fur ruffled and damp, its limbs and neck twisted at awkward, unnatural angles. It showed no trace of the formidable regality it had possessed when alive.
The quiet was suddenly broken by a low, lamenting wail from a large tom; his white fur standing on end and his grey ears flat to his head. Beside him, a golden tabby she-cat pushed her way through the crowd and began to paw desperately at the second body, its black-and-white fur torn and bloodied almost beyond recognition. More voices joined the large tom, their pained yowls and shocked cries echoing around the walls of the camp.
A sharp cough from the outskirts of the group caused the mourning cats to quickly settle back into silence, heads bowing respectfully as an old and grizzled grey she-cat ambled her way towards the bodies. She began whispering hushed prayers as she nosed the three, too soft for the others to hear. A smaller grey cat approached her side, trembling, and awkwardly dropped a bundle of herbs at the elder one's paws, before being nudged in the direction of a snow-white queen. The old she-cat started to groom the largest body, attempting to smooth its fur and make it look more like a cat and less like a broken corpse. She stiffened as she noticed unusual marks on its neck, ones that did not befit the assumed cause-of-death. With one swipe of her paw, the fur was parted in a way that obscured the damning evidence. Tail slightly bristling, she turned her attention to the third body.
The third one was the smallest of the three; its pelt was torn by lacerations, its face was mangled and maimed. Its tail, however, gave the slightest twitch, causing exclamations of shock to ripple through the surrounding cats. That sign of life was the only good thing to result from that evening.
Mid Leaf-fall, moonhigh. ThunderClan camp.
Sandstorm sat outside the medicine den, her fluffy tail curled neatly over her paws. Yellowfang had assigned the young ginger tabby to guard the entrance to the den, for reasons unknown. I guess this gives me time to process my thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder at Cinderpaw, her former apprentice. The small grey cat was currently crouched over Brightpaw's nest, not taking her eyes off her sister. Cinderpaw had hardly spoken a word since Tigerclaw and Graystripe had returned to camp with the bodies of Bluestar, Swiftpaw, and Brightpaw.
According to the new Clan leader, the adventurous apprentices stumbled upon a pair of vicious dogs that had attacked them near the gorge, killing Swiftpaw and nearly doing the same to Brightpaw. Graystripe and Tigerstar showed up a few moments too late, to witness Bluestar sacrificing herself; jumping over the gorge to her death and leading the dogs to the same fate. It all seems a little too convenient for Tigerclaw. They were meant to be hunting on the RiverClan border, surely they would have heard the fighting and rushed to help sooner?
Since returning with the bodies, Tigerclaw had named Graystripe deputy, and set off for the Moonstone immediately. I'm not surprised, since Gray was his apprentice, but it's obvious some cats aren't happy with his choice, Darkstripe especially.
Sandstorm sighed, and began absentmindedly tapping her paw against the ground, a habit she had formed when nervous. The young tabby had never quite trusted the new leader. His constant cold front and apparent lack of empathy made her nervous, while that was part of what made him a strong deputy, she felt like she always had to be on guard around him. I've never shaken the thought that he was responsible for my father's death. The memory was as clear as if it had occurred yesterday.
She had been standing in the clearing as Tigerclaw dropped Redtail's lifeless body in front of Bluestar, claiming he was struck down by Oakheart, who in turn was killed by a rockfall. Graystripe, Graypaw then, had backed up his mentor's words without a hint of uncertainty. Sandstorm remembered the way Runningwind had fallen over his mate's body in shock, and the way Ravenpaw anxiously spluttered in disbelief as Tigerclaw spoke. I'm convinced he knew more than he let on. I wish I could talk to him. The young tom had disappeared a moon later.
Since that fateful night, when she was just a young apprentice, Sandstorm had been plagued with repetitive nightmares on occasion. Her father, the brave and noble deputy leading ThunderClan into battle, his outraged, pain-filled cry as sharp claws caught his throat, a dark shadow looming over the battlefield.
No. Not here, not now. You are a warrior, not a kit. You shouldn't let this affect your duties. You are a warrior. A warrior. Sandstorm stood up, heart racing, and shook her fur, hoping her troubled thoughts would leave as easily as they had intruded. She sat down again and resumed her position, fixing her gaze on a bright star overhead, trying not to let herself get caught up in memories again.