Hello fellow readers and writers. Here I present to you another one-shot from my Clans of the Valley Universe. This takes place during Itzala's Reign, only a few years after the cats ran away from the Tribe. I will warn you now that some parts of this are disturbing and may be too gruesome for a younger audience.
Thank you for taking the time to read, and I hope you enjoy this special look into the Clans of the Valley History. (:
Credit goes to me for this one-shot. Please do not copy or steal.
-Wolfy
Imagine…a hidden Eden…tucked away in the embrace of the mountain peaks…shafts of light shining down from the heavens on to the rolling green hills of the tundra, the light chasing the shadows gleefully underneath the ancient pines of the forests, the glaciers releasing their bountiful, life-giving water into the shining lake that divides the valley north from south. Misty clouds rise up and glide over the mountains, sighing as their rains trickle down the cliff-faces in a grand spectacle of rainbows that dance like the ethereal lights in the night sky.
So much beauty and life…one would never suspect the sickness that lay within.
"Itzala, please, we must turn back. It is not safe. The disease-"
"Will soon spread to our kin if I do not see for myself the destruction it causes. I am tired of being kept in the boundaries of my own territory while drones of cats die in the other established groups. Understand, Crane, that I do not wish to stand by idly while the sickness of the valley grows."
Crane, a lean, long-legged grey and white tom bows his head to Itzala, his amber eyes scanning the thinning pine trees ahead.
"As you wish, my lady, just know that what you may see could endanger your mind, much like it has already plagued the once peaceful dreams of some of your followers," he warns her, his voice slightly trembling.
Itzala pauses at the edge of the tree line, her tall, sleek physique towering over the tom like a supple willow tree. Her dark pelt is wispy and reminds Crane of smoke and fog, black fur dominating her face, back, and the top of her tail, her legs disrupted with stripes of foggy grey along with solid grey on her chest, tail, stomach, and ear tufts. Her light green-yellow eyes pierce the late morning dawn like a beacon, her jaw set in a stubborn line.
"I am not afraid," she meows, her thick tail tip twitching as she pushes aside the last of the bushes that lead to the lake.
What she sees grips her heart like a steel trap.
The bodies of tens of cats lay scattered around the lake, their pelts caked with mud and grime, as if they had run through the shallow parts of the lake in haste. Their limbs are at odd angles, most of the cats dead on their backs, their mouths parted open and their eyes staring sightless into the sunny sky, as if they had died in mid-spasm.
The lake-side slopes gently downward into the water where more bodies are floating in the shallows or are half on the shore while their haunches remain drenched in the water. Some bodies are surrounded by torn up vegetation, or puddles of yellow or red liquid.
Crane quickly empties his stomach behind a bush, his stomach heaving and his nostrils flaring at the smell.
Itzala calmly observes the scene, taking in details and diverting it to memory. She quickly realizes that this is no ordinary disease, that it has too many visible symptoms and too many victims from all ages to be natural. She decides to keep her conclusion to herself, knowing that it would only panic and disturb Crane even more.
"Please…h-help me…"
Crane gasps as he re-joins his leader, his amber eyes wide as he sees that one of the dead bodies is still moving, struggling to haul itself up from the lake-shore.
Itzala carefully walks forward, avoiding the puddles of smelly liquid as she approaches the young tom still clinging on to life, his once handsome white coat stained with mud and soiled with slime from the lake. His belly is swollen, distended to the point where even a pregnant queen would be worried about how she would give birth. His round blue eyes are blood shot, and his breathing is heavy and labored.
Itzala leans over the young tom, her desire to console and comfort him nearly over whelming, but she keeps a safe enough distance to remove becoming exposed.
"Young one, you must tell me from which group you came from. It is very important that you tell me so that I may prevent such death from happening again," she murmurs gently.
The tom swallows thickly, and Itzala can see that he still carries soft, downy kitten fur on his flank and ears.
He cannot be much older than 6 moons…
"I-I come from…the pines…the pines where they are th-thickest; the group…that Striker l-led."
The name sparks interest in Crane. "Striker? Wasn't he your brother, Itzala? They set up their camp along our eastern border…how could the disease have gotten so far already?"
Itzala shut her eyes tightly, blocking out the images of her strong and versatile brother from her mind. "Are there any from his group that are still alive?"
The young tom feebly shakes his head, his breathing even fainter now. "Striker…he s-sent us down to the l-lake…in hopes-in hopes that we would…meet up with s…someone from…from one of the other g-groups, but…anyone w-who saw us f-fled…"
"Cowards," she muttered under her breath, anger starting to rise within her.
Crane stepped closer then, his eyes glowing with sympathy for the dying tom. "If we had come sooner, we would have tried our best to help, even if it was as simple as providing your kin comfort in their final hours."
The young tom tries to smile gratefully, but is too weak to even move muscles on his face.
"Rest now," Itzala whispers, "Join your kin in our ancestors hunting grounds where you will never feel pain or loss ever again."
The tom slowly drifts off, his head gently resting back against the shore, his eyes closing as he lets out his last shuddering breath before he stills.
Itzala's anger boils up and over, and she lets out a frustrated screech into the air, the sound echoing throughout the valley.
Crane lowers his head, grief plainly seen on the planes of his face.
"We were supposed to be protected!" Itzala spits, standing and pacing in between the corpses, "We were supposed to be free from the evils of the Tribe our ancestors fled from…the Tribe who practiced ruthless rituals and who would gladly spill kits blood for entertainment…the Tribe whose curse brought upon the darkest abyss known to the stars…an abyss to where the cursed are sent to suffer in eternal punishment…"
"Itzala…"
The smoky she-cat whips around to face her companion, her green eyes glowing abnormally. "I swear on the life of my kin that if the Tribe has anything to do with this contagion that I will personally escort them all to the Realm of the Dead myself!"
Crane gives his leader a shocked look through wide amber eyes. "Do not speak of the Realm of the Dead in such company that we have, Itzala…you know words are-"
"Power. I know that, Crane, which is why I will use words against the Tribe if I must. If they wish to punish those who were meant to be more than pawns in their game, then they will have to think of a better way to enslave us. So long as I am breathing, Crane, I will make the valley a home that we can be free in; free from the darkness that we were born from," she says darkly, rage and hatred for the Tribe that had killed her younger sister and mother festering in her soul.
Crane watches her warily, but he too wants the Tribe to pay for crimes to his kin. "Then let them burn in their own contagion," he growls, coming to stand beside Itzala, "Let them cower under the strength and might of the valley tribes."
"Yes," Itzala hisses, "Let them burn and fester and rot like the sickness they made us into."