Recap: Rhydderch, reluctantly, joins the rebellion of the city. This probably was not a good idea. Others however are less enamored by the idea of rebellion.

All we do is think about the feelings that we hide

All we do is sit in silence waiting for a sign

Sick and full of pride

-Drive, Halsey


The streets are in his veins. It's a network of grit, black water, acerbic and bitter. His is an incomprehensible language, a mess of harsh city sounds, but he speaks it. He is the only one here who does. Some of the queens might, the ones who hide their dark faces in dark shadows, but he only speaks to who is allotted to him. Provided he's in a speaking mood, of course.

He does not belong in this crowded house, where proud family ties are flaunted at him from every angle. He thought of himself as something akin to Rhydderch, once, and maybe that was why he came here in the first place. His cold bones ached for a little warmth anyway, and the idea appealed to him, of course, a reckless vagrant tom with passing interests in the occasional queen. Just passing. Nothing permanent; the streets refuse to leave him, and he never likes one thing for too long. He wants to leave now. He doesn't care about what Rhydderch has done for him, the children he has spawned, the gouges he has taken from the queens' hearts.

He'll be moving on soon. Essentially, Rhydderch has already left too. Tillman's was never the right place for a tom such as Rhydderch, bright and bold, such a beautiful liar. Skah likes to think, in a way, that he is a prodigy. He has learned from the best. And he'll leave, without a whisper, and it is likely he will not be missed. Skah has hard edges. He is too abrasive, many find. He refuses to care.

He is not sentimental, not made for small trivial things. He visits, for one last time, his favourite queen anyway. She is not pleased to see him, for her countenance is not typically of a pleasant nature.

"Hello, love," he greets, as he stops by her cage. She's in the bathroom, conveniently placed on the ground row, right beside the grey one with eyes as wild as his own. "I'm leaving."

Most queens cower, and he does not like their craven helplessness. Skylla is not so meek; she will fight him on every front, and he still bears her scars. "Are you taking me with you?" Skylla asks, blue eyes baleful. She often confuses Skah, because sometimes, she seems to like him. He knows that no one in this place really cares for him, however. There are a few too many vendettas against him at Tillman's, and Skylla probably has one too.

Skah rolls his mismatched eyes at her. "Does that sound like something I'd do, even if I could?"

"Why the hell are you telling me then?" she snaps. "Tease."

The white tom just shrugs. He felt like telling someone. "If I die, I need someone to honour and cherish my memory."

"Ah, yes, and I'm just the cat for that." Her belly presses against the floor, swelled at every curve. She's quite pregnant, and they're his, of course. He won't let any other delinquent tom in this place touch her. He's not sure how leaving will affect that dynamic. The Bayard has no use for her, if she won't give him kits. She'll just have to tough it out.

"What about the litter, Skah?"

He gives her a clinical glance. "What about them?" They'll be born, they'll be sold, and at some point in time, they'll die. That's all he needs to know. He has fathered a score of litters, and each is no different from the last. They aren't special; they're cattle. In this way, Skah is the perfect tool for Bayard, a tom who harbours no affections for anything save his own life. It's such a shame that the tool has developed an irreversible wanderlust.

Skylla snorts, and hunches further over her stomach, tail brushing its side. "Nothing. Where will you go anyway, you furry idiot?"

Skah stiffens. "I have a plan, have a little faith. I take it you've heard of PureClan, yeah?"

At this, her mouth goes a little slack. Her eyes, always so sceptical, are full of disbelief. "Oh, no." Her doubt is written all over her face, but luckily for Skah, he places little value in what others think.

"Oh yes, love," he replies, and this is it, his ambitious farewell, his final parting moments in these rows of prison cells, and he thinks his exit is fitting, as sudden and unexpected as his arrival.


Skah's not good with directions. North and South look the same to him, and East and West are just blurry horizons. He has made it to the edge of the city, and sees only roads and distance, stretched out in front of him like a riddle. The forest, Tethys always said in her stories. The bloody old forest. Yeah, well, there's a whole lot of forests in this world, Tethys. He has no one to turn to, no one to follow, and most importantly, no one to complain to. As a persistent pessimist, this bothers him greatly.

Stoically, the white tom pushes forwards. Surely, with all their great prestige, PureClan has accumulated a large territory. Stumbling across should be easy, a literal walk in the park. He aims his paws at the dark green blur in the distance. In the corner of his eye, he sees a river, a flat ribbon of silver and gold in the sunlight. That seems about right. Even PureClan needs water to survive.

Walking quickly becomes a monotonous task. The scenery around him persists in remaining the same shade of green, and the sounds are all the same. Even his own breath in his ears is tedium. This is not the city, where every second presents something new, where every moment succeeds its predecessor with something new. But he does not want to stop. He is not exactly sure what he hopes to find, or even accomplish, by completing this small odyssey. At the very least, he wants to see if the stories are true. Maybe he could even ascend to their ranks; Skah is a wild, wild one, and thinks this Clan might just be the place for him.

The monotony is broken when Skah spots six figures streaking across the grasslands. He halts uncertainly. He hasn't used his claws for a while. The closer they get, the more apparent the blood on their pelts become. They are led by a black she-cat, and blood is splashed all up her front, drying in sticky dark clumps on her chest. There's a wide scratch on her nose, and it looks recent. The group slow as they approach him, and he unsheathes his claws, the old wariness of his street days a familiar feeling in his chest.

"Where are you going, stranger?" the black she-cat says. They stop a few feet away from him, ragged and weary. Only one of their number remains straight and upright; he is a pale grey tom, and his frown does not lift, not even in greeting.

"It has nothing to do with you," Skah responds coolly. It's the truth, at least.

"Well, we don't advise you head in that particular direction, friend," the she-cat says. This seems to be some kind of confirmation that he is at least going the right way; who else but a PureClan patrol could beat up a bunch of city cats, and send them running for their lives?

"I know where I'm going." He is not her friend. Therefore, he's not going to talk to her as though she is deserving of any kind of pleasantries.

"Unless you're suicidal, I suggest you follow us home. You look a little lost."

Skah snorts at this. She's right. But he will not follow them anywhere, because his curiosity has peaked and he wants more than anything to see the monsters of legend, in the flesh.

The black she-cat presses on. "My name is Kenna. I work for Miss. You might have heard of her. You're welcome to join us, if you'd like."

He has, indeed, heard of Miss. He has no intention of joining her ridiculous cult, or fighting for so-called freedom. Skah has always fought for his own interests, and will not use his claws to serve others. He's heard independence is a good trait to have. "Thanks, lady, but no thanks," he says. "I have my own agenda to follow."

Kenna just narrows her golden eyes at him. Skah doesn't appreciate her scrutiny. "Our offer remains. Come and find us if you don't feel like dying any time soon."

"So cynical," he mutters, as he moves away. Kenna remains still for a moment, but he doesn't linger around to watch her watch him. She can't convince him to join their fallible ranks. At least he knows he's going in the right direction. He keeps walking, as the forest of the horizon looms ever closer. The river glides silver beside him, inlaid earthbound compass. When he lies down to sleep that night, white fur pressed into river mud, he dreams of an inelegant place. It is a forest of horrors, stalked by cats as red as the dawn. He feels at home among these tyrannical trees and the beasts that creep between their roots. This is far better than the bleak grey city, than the scrawny ants and their hopeless plots. Such a dynasty cannot be overthrown, not by desperation and will alone.

Skah wakes up in a good mood.

He keeps walking. He's not certain how long it will take to reach their territory, but he hopes he's not far away. He begins to worry he's bypassed it completely. It's not as though they mark their borders with skulls and bones (or so he assumes, because they seem to be above such barbaric practices). Little does he know, PureClan does not bother to mark their borders at all. All the better, to entrap helpless wandering fools such as Skah.

Although he was once used to catching his own food, his skills have grown rusty. He scares away three birds before he manages to trap a thrush against a tree. It is a messy kill, but Skah can't bring himself to care. At least he has something to eat. Thrush is far fancier than his previous diet of rat and kibble. Now he has blood on his chest and mud on his back, but his hunger is sated, and PureClan must be close. His strange fascination with them does not make sense even to Skah, but he doesn't question it. He was getting tired of that house, anyway.

His first glimpse thrills him, for a moment. Sheltered behind a mask of river reeds, he spots movement on the opposite bank. It's a small black she-cat, staring into the water, green eyes unfocused, white paws bright and clean. Her scent drifts across the water; she smells of ferns and old blood. This must be it, he decides. He has found one of them, and wonders if he should introduce himself, or kill her. What a test that would be, of his strength and skill. This dainty thing is not Skylla. She will have fierce training, and probably, an unreserved hatred.

But she stands up and walks away. He finds he's disappointed; he has had the barest sighting of a living fable. He sets up camp, makes a nest of ferns and feathers. It's in his best interests to scope out the situation, to see just what kind of cats belong to this PureClan. Skah's not stupid, and their ruthlessness is infamous. Hiding seems like his best option, until he knows how to approach them. So he hides.


A golden queen comes often to the river. She seems regal, haughty, and she caresses the water with her claws. Skah decides not to mess with her. Sometimes the black she-cat he saw earlier accompanies her, as some sort of servant or assistant. They spar on the banks, a rough melee, and the victor is always the golden one. She is not gracious about it.

Skah keeps his white fur hidden behind a layer of mud. He takes no risks.

Others come to the river; a tom bearing bodies; a calico who has enough dirt on his pelt to rival Skah; a tabby with a scarred throat and heavy eyes. Skah hides from them all. They rarely smile, and only the golden queen laughs, when she has just knocked the black cat to the ground and stands with claws on her slender throat. They train here every day, and just the thought of it is enough to make his heart race.

There is one day where, defeated and weary, he thinks the black she-cat spots him. Her green eyes narrow at him across the river, and he freezes. She turns away and flicks the dust from her ear. He thinks he has escaped- just what he has avoided, he doesn't know. It just seems like a good thing to him. That night all he sees are her eyes, the sudden realization that dawned in them, her narrow glare.

He wakes up on his back, and this time claws are being held to his own throat. It quivers as he swallows. Of course, it's the small black Clanner. He has not escaped her attention after all. He couldn't have known, that she watched and listened for a living. That he spied upon a spy.

"Morning," he says, eyes wide. Tactful, Skah, really tactful.

"Why are you watching me?" she asks. She's clearly not here for a chat, and she's not about to let him up either.

"Watching? I don't, uh, I-" She applies pressure with her claws, and he feels them pierce his skin.

"You've been watching me. I should know. Has someone sent you? Do you work for Morningstar, or for Iceface? I've narrowed it down, you see."

"No one sent me. I've just, umm, been watching, for, uh, myself." He doesn't stutter. He is suave with his words. Not today, apparently. She gives him a disgusted look. "I'm serious
!" he yelps. "I heard stories about PureClan, and I- ow- came to see if they were- ow- true."

"You must be insane," she says, and she lets him up. "Tell me your name."

"It's Skah," he tells her, giving in to her demand. Just because she no longer has him pinned down does not mean she can't kill him. He still expects she will.

"Well, Skah, I'm in the market for a set of eyes. As it happens, this is an illegal market, but whatever. I should be killing you by now, but if you help me, you can live a little longer."

"I don't help anyone," Skah growls, forgetting himself for a moment, slipping back into the skin of his arrogance. She takes a step back, but her eyes remain clear and hard.

"You will help me, or you'll die." He wonders if he heard something in her voice, a small amount of fear. He decides he couldn't have. PureClan is not afraid. He has already seen the dozen moves she knows that that will disembowel him.

"What do you want from me?" he asks. He feels like he's giving up far too easily, but what can he say? He values his life.

"I already told you," she says impatiently. "Be my eyes, Skah. I can't watch both sides of the river at once. You see another cat here, you tell me. Anything happens here, you tell me. And I'll let you live. That's more generosity than any other warrior will give you."

"Is that it?" he asks dubiously. Is she not going to flay the skin off his paw, just to make her point?

The black cat looks uncertain for a moment. "Yes," she replies, decisively. "Don't get yourself killed." She turns to the river, and steps into it unflinching.

"How will I tell you anything? What's your name?" Her terms are clear, her conditions a little less so.

She turns around frowing. "I'll come and find you," she says at last, but this makes nothing at all any clearer. "And you can call me Sable." With that, she slips into the steady current of the river. It takes less than a minute for her to reach the other side. When she climbs out on the opposite bank, she mouths something at him, some words that he barely catches: don't forget.

He doesn't forget, even when she doesn't come back. He doesn't see her for days, and although he cautiously prowls the river side, watching for anything at all, there is nothing to be seen. It is a tedium, for a while, until the pair of them arrive, reeking of bravado and the city. She will learn of this soon enough.


a semi-pointless filler chapter. wow. this seemed more exciting in my head but it's setting stuff up

at least ember's getting a little bit BA now right. heads up the black cat IS ember and not actually sable she just wanted a neat codename

thanks for the 100 reviews guys you know how to make a girl happy

next chapter should be more exciting? who knows, not me, love this winging it stuff