This is what happens when Cherrystone stays up until midnight drawing pictures of jacksepticeye and Markiplier. P.S. This physically hurt to write. Loudtooth is basically one of my cats in warrior form.
Nightpaw learned quite a bit during the week.
First, the second Whitestar led the rogue-hunting patrol out of camp, Frostydawn, the temporary leader, ordered each of the low-rankers to clean her den spotless. Nightpaw was assigned to carrying out old, useless herbs; she found a stash of strange, bright yellow-orange berries hidden in a leaf wrap and wisely chose to ignore them.
Blightpaw was humiliated endlessly by her sisters. Every night, she would limp into the den, bearing new scars, and curl wordlessly into her nest. Nightpaw would stare, concerned, for a minute, before settling herself.
On the third day, Frostydawn shrieked for them to gather. The pale gray tabby seemed to be relishing her temporary leadership, Nightpaw thought, as the she-cat dragged Loudtooth from the nursery.
"This dirty-pelted scum has only brought more snakes into our Clan," Frostydawn hissed. "It may be a good thing to have more cats to become servants, but I disagree." She shoved the queen to the ground and fetched a green bundle from under Tallrock. Out spilled vibrant berries, burning Nightpaw's heart as if she had swallowed one.
Loudtooth knew what was going to happen. She cast a sad glance back at the nursery, where her kits resided, sleeping peacefully. As Frostydawn nosed two berries toward her, she shut her eyes, letting the tears fall.
Nightpaw lowered her head as the screaming began. Nobody knew the name of the deadly berries, only that they felt like the consumer was being drowned and scorched to death at the same time.
She forced herself to look and regretted it.
Loudtooth was writhing, wailing, on the grass, foam spilling from her mouth. Her legs were locked up, her pale green eyes wide. That gaze held onto Nightpaw for a terrible heartbeat before they went blank.
"If anyone asks, she killed herself," Frostydawn hissed. "Now go patrol or whatever."
On the fourth night, Nightpaw was taking a bite of old mouse when a horrible feeling washed over her.
It was like someone had just keeled over and died; she felt immense sadness, followed by horror and anger. But then it was gone, having lasted only a heartbeat.
On the seventh day, the day her mother and father and sisters were to return, she and the rest of the camp paced the clearing. At exactly sunhigh, there was the thunder of pawsteps outside.
Whitestar triumphantly led the group into camp. He made a beeline to the nursery as the high-rankers made for their den and the low-rankers stayed to greet their family.
Tailed by Blightpaw, Nightpaw rushed to her father and sisters. They looked haggard and sad.
Without a second passing, she knew.
Dustfoot was dead.
And she crumpled soundlessly onto the grass at her family's paws, struggling to keep her wails inside. Blightpaw seemed to realize what had happened a moment later and sobbed openly into Duskpaw's shoulder.
She's dead she's dead she's dead. It's his fault.
I will murder him.
