Recap: Cariad is awkwardly inducted into the Clan, tries and fails to get laid, everyone is confused.


Heard you say, "Not today."

Tore the curtains down, windows open now, make a sound

Heard your voice, "There's no choice."

Tore the curtains down, windows open now, make a noise

-Twenty One Pilots, Not Today


When he wakes up, he almost wants to smile. He doesn't, of course, because he didn't earn his name with copious amounts of grinning and open displays of emotion. Instead he rises and stretches, albeit looking a little less stern than usual. No one seems to notice as he strolls from the den into the blooming sunshine; already it is warm- oppressively so- but it hardly matters, barely bothers him. It is inconsequential.

"Morning," he says, pausing by Meadowmist. The white she-cat has still not relinquished her role as interim deputy. Morningstar herself has failed to make an announcement about Iceface and the position he left conspicuously vacant. As such, he's made an effort to remain on good terms with the queen; her temper is, infamously, only rivalled by Morningstar's. He's not entirely sure his subtle tactics are working but lukewarm apathy, at best, is still better than outright hatred. The white warrior merely grunts in acknowledgement, mouth full of shrew. To him, this is a tentative success, and he moves on. He's not quite sure how best to occupy his morning; eat, hunt, spar?

In the end, he plucks a squirrel off the prey pile. He must remain sharp, for he is nothing without his wits.

Dimly, he watches the mundane ongoings of camp. It's an image he's seen a thousand times, complacent and lax in its normalcy. The newest warriors strut the perimeters, swelled with their over-developed sense of self-pride. He remembers his own days as a new warrior; it seems like it was the happiest he's ever been. For now. At this thought, the smile threatens to breach his lips. He does not allow it. His mask is the symbol of all he's built, all that festers and waits inside him. All his silence and sorrow. He'll not ruin it yet.

His interest perks as Voletooth walks out of the den. The outsider still looks nervous, as though he's still waiting for someone to snap and slit his throat over their morning meal. He's already been here for days, a week or two perhaps, yet he has not lost his look of abject apprehension. He's smarter than he seems, then. Sunfeather strolls out behind him, carefully watching her pair. He nearly sneers; here he is, a full-grown tom, being baby-sat. How horrifically humiliating. If Nettlecloud ever tried to coddle him like that...but she wouldn't. Perhaps that she-cat was once soft and malleable, sweet and meek, but he has stripped that from her. Hardened her. Made her into a rival when really she ought to have been his only ally. It does not matter. Where he's going, he will not need allies.

He finishes his squirrel slowly. Much to his chagrin, it's not even afternoon yet. As he picks the final pieces from the squirrel's pearlescent bones, Voletooth sits a cautious distance away from him. He's holding a sparrow, as though he's not quite sure whether it will jump up and bite him. He casts a long, sly look at the black tom. He seems ordinary enough, hardly out of place among the Clanners. He even bears some small resemblance to young dead Volepaw, in the structure of his face and even his eyes. It's almost uncanny, but he doesn't bother to ponder it. There are greater things occupying his thoughts.

One of his sons wanders by as he stands up, and they exchange a nod. His children hardly look anything like him, except little Mosspaw, but he's hardly worried. He can tell they're his by the way Nettlecloud disdains them. Sometimes, it nearly amuses him.

"Have you seen Emberpaw?" he casually asks. Is it so strange, that he should ask after his niece? Perhaps. He doesn't dwell on it, because in his grand scheme, it is not a problem. He has considered every issue, every angle. He is without flaw.

"Uh, yeah?" his son replies. It's Mallowpaw, the one he doesn't really listen to, because he seems to show the least promise of all of them. Burrpaw and Mosspaw can fight, and Fawnpaw has her own lethal sort of charm- she takes after her mother, clearly- but Mallowpaw is relentlessly average. "She was sparring by the river with Morningstar a few minutes ago." So he's not entirely useless, after all.

"Thanks," he says tonelessly, and moves on. He must hurry to reach the river- whilst evading the leader- and doesn't spare the time for farewells. Mallowpaw will just have to repress the rejection suffer the psychological trauma later. He spots Thornstreak on the edge of the clearing, staring after him, but he ignores him. They haven't really spoken since she died; not since Thornstreak returned to camp with an inexplicably empty expression and a delicate dusting of blood on his pelt. That was how he knew, but he hadn't expected it, hadn't calculated that her ice would melt and that she, dangerously, would thaw.

He pushes all thought of his tragic sister from his mind; he can hear the river now, although sounds of mock-fighting are unmistakably absent. To avoid Morningstar he's taken the alternative route, and it has coated his pelt with burrs and leaves. He emerges by the river and stares at it for a moment. How he would love to use it as a weapon, as she does. Perhaps he will one day soon, but for now it's her own beast, and he does not dare disturb it.

Emberpaw is difficult to spot; she merges seamlessly with the shadows on the riverbank and she stares across the water. Morningstar is already gone, thank StarClan. He makes his way over, caution edging his steps- he's never really spoken to Emberpaw, although his pair had become her primary caretaker. In his eyes, they're not exactly family, and between them lies a distance born of estrangement. There's no need to call her name; she looks up s he approaches, eyes narrowed.

"Peppermask," she says warily. Her green eyes hint she knows more about him than she was ever supposed to, but is hardly surprising, considering her quiet watchfulness and extended absences. He can only guess at how she spends her days. In response, he dips his head, the only greeting he will afford her. They are kin in the very loosest definition

There are no pleasantries, no mild smalltalk. "The northern pond before sunset. Morningstar should be there, or else she'll regret it." The words are pleasant as they leave his mouth. Emberpaw looks suspicious, but he doesn't have time to soothe her. She doesn't matter, after all (not that she knows it). "Morningstar, alone," he adds, as an afterthought. He doesn't need collateral damage.

Emberpaw opens her mouth, looking as though she's about to rejection his proposal. Peppermask turns from her swiftly; he did not come here to earn himself a no, to receive a rejection when there is room for none. He stalks away from his niece, his smile small and vindictive. This is all he will allow himself. Everything is settling into place so nicely. Perhaps she calls after him, or makes a small noise of dissent; he tunes her out, turning into the forest with a sigh. She will not come easily, but he innately knows she'll do as he says. Her curiosity will not let her rest, although it might lead her to disobey his final command.

Wandering through the forest, he finds his pair's faint scent trail. It mingles with those of the other senior warriors- Tornear, Tallstorm, Coldbone. He hasn't been told their whereabouts, though they've been gone for several days. Peppermask suspects they've ventured out of the territory to capture unsuspecting rogues and loners, steering clear of the smouldering cesspit that is the city. It's too volatile now for a proper raid, although their need for victims is only escalating. His own children are nearly warriors, but there can be no ceremony without spilled blood.

Peppermask follows the trail, idly. Instead of the river, it hugs the gorge, going in the opposite direction of the city and whatever awaits within. Most warriors never have reason to travel so far south, but the times are changing. Peppermask is very familiar with the concept, embraces it, even, but this is a change that strikes wary apprehension into his belly. The balance has grown corrupt, unstable. He himself is evidence of this, but the decay is ever-growing. The blight is bigger than he is.

He twitches as something stirs in the undergrowth, ears pricked and eyes wide- but it is only a mouse, and he relaxes. He catches it without hesitation, snapping down on its neck with grim satisfaction. It's scrawnier than usual, but it makes sense; greenleaf is beginning to wane, and something colder and darker is rising to take its place. Perhaps it will even snow- they received none last year, and Peppermask had been highly disappointed. He would like to see the river frozen over, jagged with ice, black and sleek and conquered by the cold.

Without thinking, he deviates from the path made by Nettlecloud. The trail here is far from well-worn, but it is one that he remembers nonetheless. The other path to the northern pond is trodden and smooth, but this is the shorter version, riddled with brambles and thorns though it is. He doubts Morningstar even knows it exists. It is an enjoyable feeling, to know something the almighty leader does not. It almosts tastes like victory.

He reaches the wide clearing with the mouse dangling limply from his jaws. He's not hungry- the squirrel was a more than sufficient meal- but he may yet need a snack. The pond is dappled with cold looming shadows, black and bottomless in the forest gloom. The mud and mire have eaten away at the roots of the old trees around it, leaving them blackened and exposed. They're sturdy enough, and would make a good den for a desperate individual. Peppermask maintains his silence, stepping softly over leaves and twigs until he reaches a large oak on the edge of the clearing. It is an ancient thing, but even its great age has not saved it from the slow spread of the quagmire. Its roots sprawl across the ground like twisted, fetid entrails, sinuous and serpentine. Peppermask tests his weight on the slick wood; it holds him, without a sound. This is it, the part he hates- he cannot stand tree-climbing, because the idea of falling is always such a heavy weight in his mind. Steeling himself, he unsheathes his claws and leaps at the trunk, finding purchase in the rugged surface of the bark. Gulping, he claws his way up, hardly daring to breath. The mouse he clenches in his jaws only serves to remind him of his own mortality. Peppermask finally makes it to a thick, low-lying branch- still, it's the highest he will tolerate.

He flops down with a sigh, releasing the mouse to sit beside his paws. From here, it's hard to judge the position of the sun, but it must be getting close to nightfall. He has an hour, he supposes, before Morningstar shows up for their designated meeting. His gaze falls on the mouse, which now looks rather mangled and disfigured. It's not exactly appetising, which suits the tabby tom just fine. Later, he thinks, he will eat like a king.

Darkness begins to slink through the forest; his first warning. He sits up straight; through the canopy, he can catch a glimpse of distant red and gold on the horizon. The colours, he muses, a perfect pair. He looks to the mouse again and, with his claws, slowly tears its head from its body. The smell of blood is immediately apparent. It coats his claws, leaks from the small body, crawls across the branch at a tedious pace. It falls to the ground, achingly slow, and Peppermask thinks his can almost hear the droplets thud against the leaf litter. He has timed it to perfection.

The sound of Morningstar's imminent arrival is heralded by her heavy footfalls. She strides into the clearing, looking resounding regal, even with that hint of curiosity in her dark eyes. She glances around, trying to place him among the shadows, but fails to spot him. Look up, he thinks, smirking, knowing she will not. Her confidence has become her single, glaring flaw. Morningstar's mouth opens, as though she is about to call for him, but she is interrupted by an ill-tempered roar, low rumbling groan the issues from the very ground. Peppermask's smirk widens, and in that instant, a broad black-and-white head emerges from between the roots. The leader does not see it until its whole body emerges, leanly muscled and bristling with rage. The object of myth and legend, the victim of many a hero.

Morningstar sees the badger and does not flinch. Her eyes narrow, and in them he thinks he sees a challenge, a threat. The badger charges at her with a bellow; she smoothly sidesteps, golden fur glinting in the poor light. As the beast surges past she leaps upon its back, reaching around to slit its fat throat. The badger sprawls on the ground, sliding to a bloody halt, and Morningstar steps elegantly its shoulders. Her movements are calm, serene, as though she has not just slayed a monster, but now there is something darker on her face, a twisted mess of rage and wrath.

He has failed. He planned every minute detail, but forgot to consider the possibility of Morningstar being simply better than the legendary foe, stronger, faster, deadlier than he ever could have foresaw. In his plan, this is where she lies gasping on the ground, the badger's fangs buried in her throat. She will twitch, curse his name with her last breath, and leave a power vacuum only he can fill.

Morningstar's mouth opens, and she howls, a sound of pure vehemence. None of her own have ever tried to kill her before, to assassinate her like some common brawler. Like that, his ambition crumples, lost amongst the rage of her scream, scattered to the winds like bitter ashes. He carefully omitted failure from his grand plan, but it happened anyway.

"You should have made me deputy," he hisses, spitting at her face. Her head whips around, the horrendous noise dying away, but he is already moving, already gone. Peppermask runs, and falls, and runs.


DID ANYONE SEE MY FORESHADOWING

'not today' haha i am too good :')

rip badger