Silverfrost
Feb 28, 2014 17:49:44 GMT -6
Post by Silverfrost on Feb 28, 2014 17:49:44 GMT -6
Name(s):SilverkitSilverpawSilverfrost
Sex: She-cat
Age: 36 moons
Clan: SkyClan
Rank: Warrior
Appearance:
This kitteh.
Silverfrost is a lanky cat, long-bodied and lean with muscles average for a cat hunting and struggling for survival. She is not as stocky as her brother nor as petite as her sister, but falls somewhere in the middle. Her hind legs are powerful, built for leaping and climbing, as so many other SkyClan cats’ are. Her face seems to have perfect proportions, with a finely structured appearance that almost looks like a locked away kittypet, untouched as of yet by the horrors of the outdoors; considering Silverfrost’s age, it must only be her particular skill in combat that has spared her pelt and face thus far, for she is as soft and pristine looking as a kit with all the maturity and wisdom rightfully deserved by a cat her age.
As sunlight dapples the forest floor, dark spots and thin stripes appear to have been dripped from the evening sky to splatter evenly along her back and sides. Her tail is ringed with dark stripes, increasing in thickness of color until her thin black tail tip. Her nose is a perfect triangle and is a sort of russet color, outlined along the outside by black. Her muzzle and underbelly are an unmarked white, or pale gray, so pale as not to make any difference. Just above her nose is a pale brown that fades into the silver of the rest of her face and body; on her ears, the inside of her legs, and on some of the areas just above her eyes are like this as well. And her eyes, her eyes, they are large and seem ever changing. One moment they may appear yellow, the next a rich green, and even sometimes when her eyes are hooded by heavy lids a blue-gray. Perhaps unlike some other cats, Silverfrost’s paw pads are black.
Along Silverfrost’s spine is a darker gray stripe, from which the other stripes and spots seem to originate. Around her neck, or perhaps simply where her neck meets her chest, is a pair of curled stripes that could almost look like a very thin torq, or collar. On the majority of her body, Silverfrost’s spots and stripes seem almost faded, and blend into her namesake silver fur, though along her legs they are distinguished, as well as at the base where her tail meets her main body, and the end of the tail itself.
Personality:
Silverfrost, unlike many unfortunate cats, has a personality. Her more positive qualities include kindness, confidence, and humor. On the other side, her sass can sometimes go over the edge, she has little to no ambition, and can succumb to fear just like any other cat. In addition, she is not unwilling to voice her opinion, though she tends to understand that discretion is the better part of valor.
Overall, Silverfrost is a mature cat. She does not give way to temper easily, though her patience can be tried just like any other cat’s. She is not a braggart, though she knows what she can do and does not disclaim herself; self-depricating humor is within her range, however. She has a quick mind, a quick tongue, and a quick strike; her prowess in battle comes mainly from her natural talent and ability, and the fact that she can think so swiftly on her paws. Her style of fighting is a faster one, and skilled; she prides herself on her dexterity and rapidity. Truly, when she is in battle, Silverfrost is like a truer, baser version of herself, clear-headed and concise without the savage brutality or blood crazed madness or inability to quit. She knows when she’s defeated and cuts her losses, knowing that she can always come back another time.
When interacting with other cats, Silverfrost is kind and a good listener. Although she can have quite a mouth on her – when she voices her opinion, she really voices her opinion – she also can be quiet, and she does not share information easily, whether her own or somebody else’s. In this vein, Silverfrost is quite reserved with personal information and tends not to get close to other cats. This sort of mysterious nature arose more after the loss of her sister, when she withdrew and understood that she could not rely fully on any other cat. Usually, if she finds that a topic of conversation is coming too close to something forbidden (so, just about anything for Silverfrost or regarding her, really), she will deflect with humor.
In many other aspects, she is average. Her loyalty goes so far, her courage can falter, her dedication is to life and Clan, in that order. She is not particularly spiritual; frankly, StarClan confuses her and she frequently finds herself doubting their existence, never mind their relevance. She is not always the first to take action, nor the first to pass judgment. She is keen and quick and reserved in personal information.
Silverfrost has been described as elegant, though this means very little to her. She has been called beautiful; this is less than nothing. What does that even mean? Her “mysteriousness” is what she thinks of as refusing to divulge personal information. Her maturity is simply how she grew, not to be impulsive or quick tempered or irresponsible. What Silverfrost is happens to be a paragon of sass and speed in just about everything she does.
In her own way, Silverfrost can also be very mischievous. It probably comes from her quick wit and sense of humor, but she has always been one to enjoy a sly laugh, though not a malicious one. She had always felt that her sister was the nicest of the bunch, and since Marblepaw’s death – it is easier to think “death” than just looming disappearance, a failure to find her, a failure to continue searching – Silverfrost has found cruel jokes to hold no humor for her. Pranks that exceed mere youthful playfulness nearly offend her. She won’t necessarily stick her neck out for just anyone, but she will sometimes wiggle her way in as an additional defense. If she is personally attacked or challenged, however, while she is attempting this protection, she usually tends to back down: she chooses her battles, and when it does not personally involve her, sometimes the best thing to do is not get involved. Does it shame her that she is this way? Yes, sometimes. Often. Does she do anything to change it? Usually not. In many ways, Silverfrost is quite like anyone else.
History:
Some could say that Silverfrost was born into scandal, but it has affected her so little that she would beg to differ. Sparrowwing, her mother, was one of two pregnant queens in the nursery. She had already had two litters with a different tom before becoming mates with Springleaf. Now, what could be so scandalous about this? It happened all the time, and besides, Sparrowwing’s mate had died. Well, there was some issue with it because it broke the warrior code. Springleaf, it turned out, was the medicine cat. Naturally, he was asked to step down, but he needed to stay as a healer for a while because there was nobody else in the Clan with the proper training. Thus, Silverkit was born with her brother, Bengalkit, and her sister, Marblekit, on a glorious newleaf day, all the greenery and color blooming in the territory, all the prey in abundance.
The scandal was less as the Clan grew enthusiastic about the kits, both before and after their birth; Springleaf remained respected, and Sparrowwing was complimented at every turn for such a beautiful litter. Each was eager, each was energetic, each was crawling and exploring. Nothing seemed able to stop these kits from their adventures. Silverkit was the middle kit, in personality, it seemed: she was not as intrepid and leader-like as her brother, but also not as sweet or soft or thoughtful as her sister. In many ways, Silverkit, even in name, was just another kit.
Silverkit was overjoyed when she was raised to the position of apprentice with her littermates. Marblepaw joined their father in the medicine cat den, however, leaving Silverpaw and Bengalpaw together in their warrior training. While Bengalpaw got the level-headed and steady Rowantail, Silverpaw’s mentor was a loud, large, audacious senior warrior, a pale ginger she-cat named Cliffwhisker. Cliffwhisker and Silverpaw hit it off immediately, and Cliffwhisker rather took Silverpaw under as more than just an apprentice, but also a protégé, nearly a kind of daughter. Cliffwhisker did have her own kits, but they were all older than Silverpaw, and as it so happened, Silverpaw seemed to share her mentor’s wicked sense of humor.
The next day, Cliffwhisker and Rowantail took their apprentices out on a tour of the territory. It was mostly uneventful, except for the event itself, which was rather profound: rogues, a band of rogues, and with a kit no less. Bengalpaw immediately was aggressive, but Silverpaw just watched and waited, for she spotted the kit almost immediately. Silverpaw’s brother’s mentor accepted the rogues’ pleas and took the kit, who was adopted by Silverpaw’s mother and named Cloverkit. He was a nice little kit, but Silverpaw had no special affinity for the young and so did not spend too much time with him, not nearly as much as her mother or brother did.
In her training, Silverpaw discovered that she was an exceptional fighter; Cliffwhisker caught on this immediately and focused on battle skills, transferring those to hunting and stalking instead of the other way around, as often is done. Life was good, it was plain, it was routine. Silverpaw would get up early to go on patrol with Cliffwhisker, or do some other training matter, bring home fresh-kill, share tongues with her siblings, care for the elders and perform other chores, sleep, repeat. She and her siblings were extraordinarily close, and she loved them dearly; there was no way she could imagine her life without either one of them. Well, this was about to change.
Silverpaw and her siblings were about twelve moons old, ready to receive their warrior names – or, in Marblepaw’s name, her full medicine cat name – and ready to move up in Clan life. It didn’t seem like a big deal at first, just some drizzling, then some heavier rain – plopping heavy drops, then sharp sky-flung ones, and then the stream starting swelling and oozing onto the land, and then there was a torrent, and that was it. SkyClan cats were good at jumping, that was how they were able to live on the cliffs, so it was easy to get away. The water level was threatening the nursery, however, so all of the adults went to evacute. Silverpaw also tried to help, but Cliffwhisker sent her back: it was too dangerous, and she was too close to receiving her warrior name. They had it covered. As Silverpaw was turning to return to her ledge, however, she noticed it too slowly: Marblepaw was standing, maybe about to jump, or something, and suddenly the river seemed to leap up almost like a snake and snatched her paw into its gulping, foaming, spitting maw, and that was it. She was under; Silverpaw might have seen her head bob up a couple of times, but when she tried to leap in, somebody grabbed her scruff and held her back. Silverpaw does not know who that was, to this day, but she knows that she owes her life to this cat.
Life changed after Marblepaw was gone. Silverpaw felt as if her brother weren’t trying to honor Marblepaw’s memory, he was just hiding in himself, wandering around alone. Silverpaw’s formerly bright eyes lost some of that enthusiastic sheen; some said that she became mysterious, but she just felt closed off. It felt as if a part of her was missing, a vital part, one that was so necessary that Silverpaw was not even sure that this was life anymore. Her work ethic dropped essentially to zero, and she had no motivation for anything. She ate less and little, and even the chipper Cliffwhisker could do nothing to cheer her.
Due to Silverpaw’s reaction to grief, she did not receive her warrior name when her brother did. Instead, she gained hers a moon later almost due to necessity and because she passed her test with flying colors. There was no passion, however, or drive; many of her actions were empty and merely mechanical. Thus, she was named Silverfrost, for her beauty and her refusal to let anyone in. “Silverwall” seemed not quite to fit the she-cat, and so Silverfrost it was. Her vigil was a reminder of the vigil she held for Marblepaw, though then she was in a wailing madness of sorrow and here she just… was.
After receiving her warrior name, however, Silverfrost found herself with toms approaching her for seemingly no reason. Of course, she always had been cordial with them – they were Clanmates, after all – but even daylight warriors who never spoke to her much, or their friends, or their brothers. At first, she was quite astonished by this and wondered why everyone always was offering her things. It was off-putting and rather uncomfortable. It wasn’t until Cliffwhisker, her closest friend besides Bengalstorm, laughingly pointed it out and explained it that Silverfrost understood. It gave her a power of sorts, one that she knew she could abuse if she wanted to. The surprising thing was, though, she didn’t want to; it just didn’t matter to her. From all the stories, she thought it might, but, nope, it didn’t. It was just a fact of life, and she figured it would go away some day. It must. Unfortunately, it just got worse over time, as maturity enhanced what was already innate.
Silverfrost did manage to make some friends, actual friends, while she watched Bengalstorm with Timbertail; Silverfrost herself was never exactly close to Timbertail, though of course she knew of her and maybe had exchanged words about the weather once. Her brother had his own life, though, and Silverfrost needed her own. She needed to do as he did and begin to move on from her sister’s death, to cease her mourning and enter a new day. So she tried, she did try, and it was even starting to work.
Out on a hunting patrol, and by herself, Silverfrost encountered a group of rogues, or perhaps loners. It seemed like a family, or at least they had a family-like relationship, such as SkyClan did. They were new to her, however; she did not recognize any of them, and she never learned any of their names, or at least, she did not think that she truly did. She did not wish to confront them on her own, but they discovered her and spoke to her instead. They were having their own troubles, and while they threatened her, she could sense the desperation hovering beneath the stacks of false courage and confidence, so she did not report them: she assumed they would leave. In an unfortunate turn of events, this turned out not to be true, for only days later did Rowantail, Bengalstorm’s mentor, go forth on a patrol and returned critically wounded by these cats. Silverfrost receded even more into herself when she realized that she might, might, just might have been able to prevent this, if only she had told Rollingstar, or someone else, or, or, or…
Soon after this event, Silverfrost witnessed a couple of cats being cruel to Clovercloud, the poor young tom. After all, he was supposedly “one of them” wasn’t he? With a protective rage boiling beneath her fur, Silverfrost approached them with one lash of the tail. Purring, first she verbally slammed them down, and then snarled visciously, standing between the two older warriors and her adopted brother. They walked away, both shocked, for Silverfrost did not often interact voluntarily with other cats let alone lash out like that, and did not bother Clovercloud again, at least not that she knew of. Since that moment, Silverfrost and her younger brother grew much closer, closer than they ever had before, even though they spent a brief time together in the apprentices’ den. She saw that Clovercloud also was growing close to her – their – brother, and that pleased her. In a way, the sweet, insecure tom was unconsciously attempting to fill the void left by Marblepaw’s supposed death (yeah, Silverfrost took it pretty badly, internally, to say the least).
It was on one of these days that Silverfrost met him. She was out hunting with Clovercloud and Cliffwhisker, and she had gotten separated from them, having wandered off a little too close to the rats’ barn. A yowl rang out, and her ears perked, and in the distance, right near the door, she saw a couple of cats writhing and flailing. Unable to keep herself out of this, she bounded toward them and lended her assistance, using her talent for battle to aid them. The strangers obeyed her urging to flee, for she knew that there was never truly an end to them, even when generations ago, Firestar of ThunderClan aided SkyClan in fighting them. They got out, got away, and, breathing heavily, finally stopped to introduce themselves.
“Who are you?” Silverfrost inquired.
“Traveling cats,” replied the cat who appeared to be in charge, a handsome young tom. “And you?”
“Stationary cat,” she answered, imitating his tone perfectly.
He laughed and thanked her for saving them, then turned to go. Before he got far, however, he paused and turned around. “Call me Alastor.” The other cats with him seemed the faintest bit bewildered – Silverfrost noted their reaction even in its brevity – and so Silverfrost knew that it wasn’t his name.
“Then call me Ace,” she responded, once again mimicking him, this time more faintly.
“Whatever you say, Ace,” he called out to her, his whiskers twitching with amusement, as he bounded off with his fellow travelers.
Silverfrost returned to camp with her Clanmates, fresh-kill, and a new bubbly joy. When she returned, she was in for a bit of a surprise. She was not yet twenty moons old, and the leader summoned her to speak with him. Curious, but hopeful that perhaps she was going to be gaining an apprentice, she went, naïve and foolish. It was not a mentor he wanted to make of her. Horrified, for she grew up in memory almost entirely with him as the leader, she refused anything and everything he suggested, standing firm against all of his threats and attempts to manipulate her. She refused, and she walked straight out of that den before things escalated beyond fierce words. A few moons later, she watched as Rollingstar gave her brother an apprentice, a kit certainly too young to be moving from the nursery, and watched as his cruel eyes settled on Silverfrost. She could have been a mentor, if she had given in. It wasn’t enough to make her break, though, and she would not fold. She stared at him defiantly, and then affectionately congratulated her brother. He deserved to be a mentor; his personality was such that if he weren’t one, it would be a complete tragedy. In fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up leader one day. He certainly would be better than Rollingstar.
At twenty moons old, Silverfrost was once again hunting, this time alone. Rollingstar’s gaze was not something she wished to remain under for more time than necessary. Without realizing it, she passed by the barn again, and caught sight of something. She tried to stalk up on it, but was pounced on from behind. Immediately, however, the weight was lifted, and she whirled around to lash out, but the tom was just out of reach. He was mrrrrrowing with laughter, and his eyes were bright. And kind. Silverfrost did not sheathe her claws, but nor did she lash as she was intending to. “Alastor,” she meowed, distinctly remembering the name he gave her.
“Ace,” he replied, this time mimicking her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m a traveling cat, remember? I travel. The better question is, I think—”
“I’m stationary, this is where you met me last time, it makes perfect sense.”
Once again, Alastor laughed, but he shook his head. “No, no. I was going to ask why we hadn’t seen each other since then.”
“You’re a traveling cat,” Silverfrost replied cheekily. Alastor joined his voice in with hers to say, “Traveling cats travel.” His laughter was infectious, and her whiskers twitched with amusement.
“Alright, I won’t ask any silly questions anymore,” he told her. “Will—?”
“I’ll do the same.”
They even finished each other’s sentences.
“Ace” and “Alastor” became the closest of friends from that point on. She was never certain where he actually resided, but they met fairly frequently, just talking, laughing, hunting, just being friends and relaxing. She could tell him anything, she found, though she did not actually tell him much – just the feeling that she could was enough. He was the same way, it appeared to her: he told her things that were personal, but not overly specific. Neither knew the other’s true name, nor family situation, nor detailed past, nor home, but they knew the truth of the who, and that was what counted. Ace was witty and graceful and a good fighter and kind and confidant, and Alastor was dedicated and passionate and witty and kind and confidant. They had the same sense of humor, they respected each other above and beyond, they forged a bond worthy of story.
While friendship in the fields and forests were blooming joyously beyond belief, matters in the camp and gorge were far on the other end of the spectrum.
Rollingstar intensified his courtship, eating almost every meal he could with Silverfrost, glaring at all non-Bengalstorm cats who so much as looked at her, rarely allowing her on any patrols anywhere near the rats’ barn. He flattered her, he threatened her, he did whatever he thought it would take, and it was becoming more and more public. Silverfrost was silent at first, simply terrified that anything she might say could backfire, but after a point, she snapped and went the other way, unleashing the full ferocity of her impudence and barbed tongue. (This point, by the way, was a conversation with Alastor in which he urged her to stand up for herself and send the degenerate older tom running through the hills.) Unfortunately, it did not have the desired effect; it seemed that Rollingstar yearned for what he could not have. One day, she told him that he would never have her, he was a fool for trying, and he needed to stop embarrassing himself and all past leaders in front of the Clan with his wasted, vain efforts to gain her partnership as a parent. To this, he replied that she would regret all the times she refused him. After that, though, he didn’t seem to bother her that much, and that was quite pleasant, and she told Alastor all about it, while he divulged information on his own life and asked for advice from her as well. Their friendship was equal in all ways, truly.
It wasn’t until a couple of moons later that Silverfrost understood Rollingstar’s words. She was in camp, grooming herself, when there was a loud clamor. Naturally, she investigated, along with the rest of the Clan, to find Flowerleg, the mentor of Eaglepaw, a young apprentice, terribly, mortally wounded. Springleaf and Hawkwing, his apprentice, tried to save her, but failed. Thus, Eaglepaw was without a mentor. Rollingstar called the Clan together to give Eaglepaw a new mentor, insisting that with the rats invading the territory, there was no time to mourn. With silvery eyes boring into Silverfrost, he declared that Bengalstorm would be Eaglepaw’s mentor. Silverfrost was so proud of her brother, and glad for him, but he still had an apprentice of his own – and she was close to becoming a warrior, so their training would be skewed, and Bengalstorm would have to work twice as hard, triply as hard if he were going to be going on patrol. Why would Rollingstar do this? When he climbed down from the Skyrock, as Silverfrost was making her way over to her brother to offer her earnest congratulations, Rollingstar hissed in her ear, “If he dies, it’ll be on you. You know how to save him.” She stopped short for the briefest moment, and then went forward to nuzzle her beloved brother. He would be alright. She knew he would. He must be. He would not be so tired, and it was only for a moon.
The moon passed, and Bengalstorm was indeed safe. It was a moon of restless nights and constant patrolling for Silverfrost, and Alastor knew something was wrong. She just could not understand Rollingstar’s actions: he was a cat of tradition, a cat of honor, or so he claimed. How could he be so horrid? Alastor comforted her with words and grooming, reminding her that sometimes forces push cats to act unlike their usual selves. “Or perhaps push them to act exactly as who they are rather than who they pretend to be,” she sorrowfully replied. But Adderpaw was Adderstep and Bengalstorm was safe, he was safe. And only soon after, it was Alastor’s turn to be dreadfully unhappy and perturbed. He, himself, was having troubles with his own family and home, and he confided in Silverfrost, who comforted him much as he did her.
The rats did not leave. Prey became more difficult to come by, cats were dying from disease and wounds, and there seemed no place that was safe. For his safety, Silverfrost encouraged Alastor either to leave or join SkyClan; he said he would do neither. Sometimes, he was too proud and mouse-brained. Of course, he had his reasons, and he explained that he could not go back but his loyalty still was to them and so he could not abandon them truthfully so easily, and Silverfrost understood: she felt the same way. But still, the rats were a danger. Everyone was in danger, it seemed. And when it came that nineteen of SkyClan’s finest warriors were slaughtered in a single battle, Silverfrost finally conceded that it was time to leave. One of those nineteen was Cliffwhisker.
When they announced that they died, all but Oakridge, Silverfrost could not believe it. The sound of rushing water filled her ears, the pathetic cries of agonized cats facing their deaths. She could see mouths moving but heard nothing, merely the pounding in her head, the blood and rushing water. Cliffwhisker was dead. Gone. The she-cat’s humor, her warmth, her confidence, her skill, everything about her, everything, that one scar that nobody understood, the way she bellowed her guffawing laughter, the way she always blinked twice before pouncing, everything about her, her acceptance of all and her blunt disdain for all foolishness, except for her own antics. Silverfrost lost more than a former mentor and role model that day, she lost so much more. Cliffwhisker was the only one who knew of Alastor, for she guessed it herself and approached Silverfrost about it. And now she was gone. Just like that, just, just gone. But Bengalstorm was deputy, and Silverfrost was proud beyond belief. Indeed, she was truly beyond belief; everything hit her, numb, shocked by everything that was happening. It was too much.
The next morning at dawn, she slipped out of the camp and went to where she usually met Alastor, an abandoned fox den hidden in the woods. There were some other cats there, waiting outside, staring at her with varying expressions. Silverfrost was quite flabbergasted and completely overwhelmed, and when Alastor emerged from the den, charismatic and charming and wonderful as he always was, she rushed to him and buried her face in his fur. “Let’s run away,” she whispered frantically in his ear. “Just us, just the two of us.”
“What? Ace, what is it?”
“Let’s just, let’s just, just, just go,” she murmured. Alastor stepped away for a moment and touched her nose with his, his eyes shining with an unreadable emotion.
“Ace,” he replied softly. “It’s okay. These cats here, though, I need to talk to them for a moment. Just a moment. Can you wait for me for a moment?”
“I can wait for you forever,” she answered, no doubt in her heart. It took her saying it to realize how true it was. Her heart was set. She and her friend needed to get away.
Alastor returned from the den very quickly, and the other cats bounded away in different directions in groups of varying sizes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, all concern and worry.
“We need to leave,” Silverfrost insisted again.
“I… I don’t know if I can,” he admitted at length. He had the dignity and the decency to maintain eye contact.
“You can think about it, if you want,” she replied gently, shifting completely. There was something with him; she could not make this entirely about herself, not when he was struggling, too.
“My family,” he meowed simply, finally dropping his gaze.
Silverfrost stepped forward and touched her muzzle to his. “I understand.”
She remained for a while longer and then left, when it seemed he longed for solitude.
A few days after this event, Silverfrost was slightly calmer, a bit more in control of her emotions, certainly no longer practically hiding from the Clan anymore, and Alastor came to her. His eyes were bright, brighter than usual, and he radiated excitement.
“Let’s go,” he began, without even a greeting.
“Where would we go?” she asked.
“Anywhere. It doesn’t matter, not so long as we’re together. Let’s just get away from it all, let’s go.”
“Alastor, I…”
“What is it, Ace? Is something wrong?”
Silverfrost hesitated. In the few days, she had seen the effect on her Clan, she had seen her brother step up to the challenge, and she heard that he was planning to try to convince Rollingstar to leave the territory. How could she leave him in the lurch? He’d already lost one sibling.
“My brother, my… family. They need me. I can’t leave, not yet,” Silverfrost replied at length, drained of all joy as she watched the light in his eyes dim just as she was sure it did in hers.
“I understand,” he answered after a time of silence. “It was foolish of me to ask. I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
Alastor explained that there was trouble at home and he felt he was getting overwhelmed, and he could not think of a better life than one without worries with her; they both agreed, however, that they could not abandon their responsibilities and live a life without worry. It was antithetical to both of their existences. They agreed to continue seeing each other, to meet soon, but that was the last time Silverfrost saw him. It wasn’t until he was gone that she realized how she had truly felt about him; Cliffwhisker had teased her about it, but Silverfrost never understood. She loved him. She loved him, she loved him, and now he was gone.
Now, though, Silverfrost focused completely on her Clan and what it needed. She became more involved, more vocal, more supportive; she returned to her brother’s side and acted as his shadow in the Clan as much as she could. She gained the attention of some toms now that she was less completely closed off, now that she was actually present, but she did not care for them. They weren’t “Alastor” whatever his name truly was, wherever his home was.
It was her own home about which she was becoming worried: there was so little prey, and so many rats, and Rollingstar was being frustratingly stubborn and refusing to leave. The worst part was, SkyClan had not even been there for forever – it was only founded there those many generations ago under Leafstar. That could hardly be seen as forever, even if it were before Silverfrost’s grandparents’ time. They needed to leave. Perhaps the Clans could help? Perhaps they could join the four Clans as their ancestors had so long ago? Silverfrost went to Rollingstar to suggest this to him, and this time, he refused her. Silverfrost did not have to worry about her failure to convince her leader, who finally seemed to care about morality both within and without, because her brother soon stepped forward and displaced Rollingstar as leader. Rollingstar became Rollingstone, and Silverfrost could conjure up no better punishment in her mind.
And so it was that SkyClan left the gorge and began its exodus, its mass emigration, its journey to better lands. Most of SkyClan’s finest warriors were dead, and more still would undoubtably die, but Silverfrost was determined not to be one of them. Her brother needed her, her Clan needed her, and though she had lost much, she knew that she had more still to lose, and she would not. Silverfrost would not lose.
Characters: Graypaw, Lilystep, Lionstar, Silverfrost