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Post by Grey on Oct 7, 2012 23:54:03 GMT -6
Another section. It took me a long time to decide the beginning quote.
CHAPTER TWO.
Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an everlasting stream.
- Amos 5:24.
A dog yelped in the distance.
A shadow moved along the fence-line, low to the ground and hesitant, pausing below the glinting wires to gaze across the paddocks to either side. They were empty and still; the sheep that often lived in them were gone, moved on to other fields. It was too dark for bunyips.
With a hiss of dry grass, two other shapes broke free of their cover, sprinting over the open ground to crouch beside a woodpile. A third came speeding after them. On top of the timber, another cat was standing, watching, its ears swiveling. Tails flicked.
And yet more shadows came – quick steps, a pause as wind moved leaves and then, explosive motion to a safe spot, silence. The dog in the distance continued to bark.
The paddocks sloped uphill gently beyond the muddy dam and the grass grew thinner here, shorter and coarser between little cat toes. Clumps of dead and dying gorse, like fountains, were dotted along the slope, with thistles and the acrid-smelling fireweed growing around them. The scent of the road was stronger there too, catching at the back of every cats' mouth and leaving its pungent, unpleasant taste of their tongues.
The road itself was a fairly quiet one. The daylight traffic was infrequent and often slow because of the bridge, and at night it was usually deserted except for the occasional blaring truck on a long-distance haul. The army vehicles that rumbled and belched smog, splashed with green and brown, rarely left the barracks' grounds; the tall fences kept them in.
The cats assembled by the knotted bushes of brambles that grew thickly along the roadside, staring across the black expanse. One cat touched it with a paw, sniffing and curling its lip; another cat, summoning its courage and possessed by a wild panic, bounded to the other side, bristling all over and looking to the others to follow it. They did so, one by one or in small groups, kicking up their back feet in frightened triumph as they sprinted or slinking, low and unsure, along. On the other side, they collected themselves and moved off again, now with definite purpose. Glancing at the endless sky of stars, they prowled along the flat land, gaining speed as they traveled towards the clusters of scrub. The smells of various foreign cats mingled with the overpowering smell of oily leaves, wretchedly unfamiliar. It fueled their anger and hatred.
They were out for blood.
Cats have no sense of justice, not as we do. Their system is inherently retributive in style, and might does in fact equal right in their eyes. It is a rare thing for a cat to have a strict moral code in any way, and a rarer thing still for a cat to have any notion of true equality. More often than not, what is and what happens is what must happen – they share a Discordian belief in the divine right to do anything at any time (and this includes, but is not limited to, peeing on others' belongings and scratching good pieces of furniture). The feline concept of justice* is a complicated one.
(There is no term for justice in their language. The closest that exists is 'prahffawn pitka', and the rough translation for this is “righteous vengeance”).
The cat nearest the thicker patches of gum trees and thorn-bushes froze, arching its spine, stiff-legged and alert. It growled a long, deep note of dissatisfaction – a warning. The scents of strangers was stronger than before, oppressive and rank with aggression; the strangers themselves shifted in-between the whispering vegetation, ready.
More growls began to build like the droning of thousands of bees, now and then a whining cry interlaced in the otherwise homogenous sound of angry cats. No one moved. They stood like bodies in rigor mortis; stringent and slightly twisted, their heads turned to the side or shoulders not quite square, spines bent with pending energy.
One cat sprang from beneath a thorn-bush, flinging into the side of another – both cats snapped into the air like elastic bands, making noises like firecrackers – and they landed a few lengths apart. Chaos broke free. Some cats, spooked by the sudden movement, bounded some steps away before turning back again, fear instantly changed to adrenaline; a couple of others leaped from their hiding places in the scrub, yowling and more like possums than cats with their enormous, bristled tails and ungodly shrieks.
Despite the show of claws and fur and the ear-splitting cacophony that followed, a battle is a somewhat awkward affair for cats – especially large groups of cats. Even with their fury so heightened, most are unwilling to make the first move. They will stand and glare, growling thunderously, flexing their claws and twitching their tails, and will continue to do this until someone either gives up, or someone – or usually, both at the same time – can no longer cope with the sheer overwhelming strain of delayed violence, and they throw themselves together in a rapid, ripping thrashing of limps. Glowering fiercely at one another, the cats began to taunt. Almost muzzle to muzzle, they snarled and growled, ears flattened to their heads and teeth bared.
A tortoiseshell queen faced a brown tabby tom, her paw half-raised and poised to swipe. Their tails thumped the soft ground.
“Her death is your fault – admit it, you filthy weak-hearted failure, or admit your mob is out of your control! I don't care which – either is still right. You mob are foolish to follow you; you will lead them to despair and may you live to see it!”
The tom spat at her. “Your grief is not my mob's concern,” he snarled. “Shred and be gone when you're chased out, you who feast on roadkill and rats! Your battler wasn't even on our land and stinks of us only because she was trespassing here first. She deserved her death – but it was not by my doing. Even if one of my mob got her, I say good riddance and so much the worse for you, markanh.”
The tortoiseshell dreamer sprang at the tom, enraged and screaming wordlessly, twisting mid-air and raking her claws at him. The two writhed together, viciously kicking and lashing their tails as fights erupted around them, equally as intense. They split apart, upon their paws in a second, panting heavily and staring once more and then another collision of battle-tense bodies, scrabbling for footholds and clawfuls of fur. Ears tore, old wounds reopened, spots of blood scattered over the dusty leaf litter.
Cats launched into the air, sometimes still clinging together, and tumbled along the ground, twisting and coiling like dying snakes, stretching their hind legs to kick the other in the face when they were caught by the neck. Sandy soil sprayed about and the thorn covered stems of plants caught on pelts and tails like a second pair of claws to fight. Other cats flailed in seizures of manic movement, freeing themselves from the vice-like grip of jaws to bound blindly away to safety – often with their tormentor in pursuit.
A series of wails interrupted the battle. Another group of cats prowled into view, a dark ginger tom in the lead.
“Enough! You are trespassing!” he said as his mob moved between the others, striking at cats to stop the fights. “She's dead and dreaming! East-mob has spilled blood for their lost comrade and West-mob bares the scars to prove it – isn't this enough for everyone? Will you fight until someone else dies?”
The brown tom kicked the tortoiseshell a final time before wrenching himself away, shaking the sand from his shoulders. “We stand accused and were attacked. We will defend ourselves – what else would we do? I don't care for this. Prove we're guilty, and then sink in your claws. Why waste our time when North-mob probably tore the bitch's* throat out!”
(The word 'bitch' in feline does not really exist as we use it. Their version means 'female possum', and tends to imply a noisy and unhelpful cat. There is a male equivalent of much the same meaning).
Yowls, both in support and dissent, followed this, and the tortoiseshell she-cat snarled.
“And if we prove guilt – of anyone?”
The ginger-pelted dreamer stepped between the other two. “You couldn't,” he said, voice higher from his own worry. Cats had begun to eye each other warily again, and his own mob looked about to pounce as well. “A cat from any mob here is biased – no one can be trusted.”
“You are wrong,” said the she-cat. “South-mob will decide. The punishment for the death of our battler is as we see fit, do we agree? My mob and I will not strike another cat in meantime or afterward in revenge, we swear it.”
Muttering started at once.
The ginger tom nodded. “My mob agrees.”
Furious hissing erupted around him and he flinched slightly, ears flattening.
“My mob has already been wronged by you, but our generosity is great and our humour even greater. We will humour you. Prove us guilty – any one of us – and you can grieve in peace.”
Unlike the other dreamer's rebuke, his remaining mob nodded in approval as well.
“You will cooperate with the chosen cats of South-mob?” The tortoiseshell dreamer was gathering her cats, about to leave.
“All I say is this - may they be chosen well.”
END OF CHAPTER TWO.
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Post by Grey on Oct 13, 2012 7:15:14 GMT -6
CHAPTER THREE.
But are not the dreams of poets and the tales of travellers notoriously false?
– HP Lovecraft.
The sandy ground, golden-brown and red, was hot below his paws, shifting and alive. A pebble rolled, clattering down a slight slope and over the dusty earth. He watched it tumble towards him, slowing to stop just a tail length away next to a tall, still grasstree. It glinted in the harsh light. Somewhere nearby, he could smell smoke.
Stretching his neck, he leaned down to sniff the stone. It began to roll away again, stopping only two lengths away this time. He hadn't touched it. Harmless and unnerving, the pebble moved itself. The tom stood, paw pads searing painlessly against the ground. Such was the way with dreams.
He began to follow the stone as it rolled. It would slow and stop at times, waiting for him to get almost close to touch before it skittered away once more past swaying shrubs, which moved not only their leaves but their branches and trunks as well, bark creasing like a lizard's skin. Voices whispered, nearly indistinguishable from the sighs of leaves. At the edges of the tom's sight, billows of smoke curled, disappearing as soon as he turned his head to look at the dark clouds.
Despite the heat and the motionless air, he continued on without hesitating as the sunless sky radiated its unrelenting warmth on his dark ginger pelt. He was a dreamer*; it was his duty to be fearless, even though his spine prickled in terror of the unknown and his ear caught stray words telling of unimaginable horrors. His recent dreams had been unfriendly, fraught with his own nervousness.
(The dreamer is the leader of the mob. The word for a dreamer is Tzachta-ka, which has a curious double meaning. It can be interpreted as “the one who has vision”, as in ambition and goals; or it can be interpreted as “the one who has visions”, such as prophetic dreams. The literal translation is “sight-different-cat”, or in less jarring terms, “the cat who sees differently).
The pebble tumbled along faster now, skipping along like a frog over lily-pads. The cat following it had to run to keep up, landscape rushing by unnaturally swiftly, paws barely touching the ground – and then a quaking, nebulous fear seized him, his heart thundering as he sprinted away from an unseen and sinister force. It breathed behind his ears and only after he had fled as fast as he could, forgetting the pebble, did it leave him. He came to a halt by a grasstree, panting heavily.
Now alone, he began to relax, sitting down on the warm sandy earth. He dropped to the ground, rolling side to side, stretching out and enjoying the intense heat. He flicked an ear. He heard a clatter nearby and, worried that it was whatever nightmare had chased him before, he sat up.
The pebble tumbled towards him again. He glanced sharply at the plant beside him – it was tall with rough, dark-coloured bark and a fountain of thin, dry leaves at the top. The same grasstree as before. Such was the way with dreams.
Annoyed, he clawed at the grasstree, hoping to release some tension by raking some deep scratches into it but he was left distinctly unsatisfied instead. The dreaming place was a strange one and senses were untrustworthy.
Someone purred loudly and he swung around. He didn't recognise the source and as he sniffed the air, he couldn't catch their scent either. However, there was definitely a scent becoming more and more noticeable with every heartbeat. The smell of a body left in the sun was evident now. Death has a distinctive, lip-curling smell, but death warmed up is even worse.
“Who's there?” he asked, scuffing his paws in the dust.
“You can't have forgotten me.”
The voice sounded as though it was inside his own head as much as it was outside and he glanced around to see where it was coming from. There was a large rock in the distance and there was another cat crouching on it, its face and ears pointed directly at him. The pelt was white and though it was hard to make out anything else, he chuffed in delight and bounded over to his old friend.
As he came close, he drew back in horror. The cat smelled rank, like carrion. His eyes were missing – and brutally so. The sockets were messy and all down the white-furred cheeks, streaks of congealed blood and filmy gore had dried. Crows, no doubt, were the perpetrators.
“You couldn't keep your eyes?” he said as his friend stared blankly at him. “But... I thought you were already dead, weren't you? They didn't... pull them out while you were still going, did they?”
The mutilated cat sat up rigidly, lifting a paw to wash his face. He moved with a slightly mechanical manner, turning his head, joints clicking, as though unfamiliar with his own body.
“I don't have eyes?” he replied. “Never mind that. I don't need them. It's as much your fault anyway – this is your dream. I'm just visiting. C'mon, Redsight, you should know that.”
Redsight stared at his old friend, barely hearing what he said. As he moved, the extent on his injuries became clear and a rush of repulsion, grief and rage hit Redsight like a tin-beetle. The other tom's side was split and gaping; his spine was twisted and his hip jutted from where it didn't belong; coils of greasy insides pooled around his hind paws, flecked with dust and grit, and from the looks of it, teeming with hundreds of black ants. As he spoke, a few maggots fell from his mouth onto the stone. It was hardly any wonder he didn't come to greet Redsight personally.
“I'll give you this,” said his dream-bound friend, “you've got a good imagination.”
“Not really.” The ruined cat looked exactly as he had when the patrol had found him, lying on the side of the road. Redsight could still remember touching the body's shoulder, soft white fur under his cracked paw pads. It had been warm and loose-muscled. The blood was still fresh. “How did this happen, Corellanose? Of all cats, it had to be you – you who saw everything. Did it sneak up you, you bastard*? How could you be so bloody stupid?” His face contorted to a snarl of despair and anger. “I just don't understand!”
“These things happen to battlers more cleverer than me,” said Corellanose with a purr.
(This is likely because Redsight called him a 'bastard'. Cats don't actually have a term for a bastard, as cats don't have a term for wedlock either. They do have a word which is similar in meaning, which translates roughly to “wrong father”).
Redsight spat at his brother's attempt at humour. “You were the best ranger that North-mob's had for a long time! You were supposed to be the dreamer, Corellanose. You, not me. I got it by luck and pity whereas you earned it. Everyone respected you... and no one respects me. They all know I'm just a replacement for you.”
“You are the dreamer now. That's all that matters. What is is what must be, you know. They will respect you in time.”
Redsight sat down, gazing at his paws. “That's easy enough to say, but everything I do is causing resentment. I please someone and everyone else bites my tail for it. I'm not meant for this.” He sighed. “I wish I'd been sent dreaming instead of you.”
“So that I could die of dirty old skin-warts in another few seasons? Call yourself my friend, for shame.”
“You're a pain.”
The white cat purred. “I know. Do what you think is right and the others can dream to me about it if they're not happy. You tell them that.”
Redsight flicked his tail in amusement. “I'll tell Swanclaw?”
“Especially Swanclaw. What a molly, though.”
“You're mad,” he said. “I think she liked you too. A little. When she wasn't chasing you up a red gum. Or cuffing you about. Or telling me how much she didn't like you.”
“She's passionate. I admire that. She'll make a great ranger, if she doesn't let her grudges get away on her. You know why she doesn't like me?” said Corellanose. His paw was stained with discoloured fluids and his face was more of a mess than before.
“Because you're insufferable and always need to be right?”
“That, and the fact that I made her look bad as a nipper once – back when we were young. She was so embarrassed, and I was being a pest because I hadn't realised how impressive she was, even then. I thought she was just a pushy try-hard. Not one of my finer seasons, that one. I've tried to apologise to her since but... yeah. She's having none of it. Could you tell her?”
“What?”
“I'm sorry,” said Corellanose. “She might listen to you.”
“She'd be the only -”
A yowl disrupted the heady, overheated air. Corellanose flicked an ear and turned his head.
“They're calling,” he said. “Redsight, don't forget. I almost did – I need to tell you. The boundaries. This way out. Wake up and – and – and watch the skies, the constellations are closer, clear? Do you want to sleep the day away? The midday sun can eliminate the dark of night. It can happen either way. Night dreams of day, and light dreams of darkness, if you won't do it yourself – we want to make sure we preserve the memory forever but Redsight, there are no boundaries in dreams. This is a place where life and all its joys are revered. Dreams belong to the dream world. You're the one I've been waiting for! Go forward, Redsight, don't -”
“Redsight!”
He lurched awake, panting. A black molly was glowering down at him, her green eye looking disapproving. The other one was cloudy and off-centre.
“I thought you said you want to patrol the West-mob border before dusk?” she said flatly. “I could get someone else to do it, but since you made a fuss about it yesterday...”
“No, no, it's fine,” said Redsight, scrambling to his feet. It was absolutely stifling. The afternoon sun was scorching – unusual for the season of the wattles. “Thank you. I was just... dreaming.”
“A dreamer who dreams,” said Swanclaw. “Who'd have thought? I'd rather a dreamer that didn't oversleep and led the patrol he said he would without needing his ranger to play den-mother and remind him. I'd also like a dreamer who didn't melt his insides by sleeping in the direct sun during the hottest part of the day. I'd like a lot of things.”
“How about a bite on the ear?” said Redsight, stretching his legs and spine.
“I'd like to see you try.” The black cat leaped down off the rock and prowled away, calling to another cat. Redsight watched her go and decided to tell her Corellanose's message later, perhaps when she was in a better mood. She was a night-cat by nature and was about as much fun as a licking a nettle during the daylight hours. The ginger-pelted dreamer dragged his claws down a nearby grasstree, relishing in the tear of bark, and then followed after Swanclaw, trotting quickly. He didn't want to keep them waiting any longer.
The patrol of three – Redsight, leading a grey tom and his apprentice – wandered first to the old trough, where water pooled after rain and drank before beginning their round of the territory. They inspected and marked the husk of the tin-beetle and sniffed along the edges of the tar-snake for fresh scents of other mobs. There was, as always, the smell of East-mob – they lived on the other side of the tar-snake and the wind often brought the barn-straw and cat smell with it. Along the actual border between North-mob and West-mob, nothing moved. The marks were vivid against the trees and it seemed no cat had trespassed - from West-mob, at least. Further along, the grey tom paused.
“I smell East-mob,” he said with a growl. “Something's strange.”
They padded onwards. There was something on the ground up ahead. Something fairly large and still.
“She's dead,” breathed the nipper, kneading her paws. “Where's she from?”
“Stay here,” said Redsight. He approached the body, snuffling. She smelled of East-mob and he recognised her as Galahfang, one of their more vocal battlers. Her fur was pale grey and ginger-fawn, except for her throat. There it was stained with dark red. “Can you smell that, Smoketail?”
The grey tom nodded. “West-mob. Someone's gone and killed her.”
“Frogpath, go back to the mob and tell them what's happened. Tell everyone to stay there until I get back. Smoketail, I need you to run to East-mob. Can you do that?”
“I can. What do I tell them?” He sounded bemused.
“Tell them that she's dead and I'm guarding the body until they send witnesses. Hurry up, it's already turned stiff. Make sure you escort them back.”
Both the apprentice and the battler raced away, leaving Redsight alone with the dead for the second time that day. He glanced at Galahfang. Her jaws were open, snarling, and her paws were at angles as though she'd been fighting when she fell. Between her claws were tufts of black fur. She'd been pretty – in a way. Like all battlers, she was scarred, but her pelt was strange enough to be somewhat exotic.
“What happened to you?” said Redsight, feeling a sense of deja vu. He'd heard from other cats that Galahfang was well named – she was talkative and, so he was told, a bit nosier than some would have liked, but a hardy cat nonetheless. She was silent now.
Redsight sat and waited an equally silent vigil beside her, watching the sky. It was nice in the shade of the tea-trees, though the scent gave him headaches after a while. He shook his head as though to clear it away and something caught his eye. Both Smoketail and Frogpath had stood well away from the body, and he could easily see his own paw-prints leading to his current position. And yet, there were three sets of step-marks, not two. He was almost certain of it. The space around the body itself was rutted from whatever fight had taken place but at the edges, from between the tea-trees, he could almost make out three sizes. Two similar, one different. He squinted at it, unwilling to move. If he disturbed the site, East-mob would shriek something fierce. Smoketail returned some time later with two strangers from across the tar-snake. They were solemn and careful, stepping only in Redsight's paw-prints as they investigated the body. Satisfied, they asked that no one disturb the body until it was gone, and Redsight agreed at once. As a general rule, cats are highly superstitious; he didn't mind avoiding that area for a while and he doubted his battlers would have much misgiving about his choice. The East-mob cats were escorted back to their territory, and Smoketail and Redsight returned to their camp, tails low.
There were many questions and already rumours had begun to spread. Redsight's headache hadn't left him yet.
“You know what they'll do, don't you?” said Swanclaw as the sun began to sink. She crunched a lizard.
“They'll fight about it,” he answered listlessly. He didn't feel like eating. Everything smelled like decay. “You don't think they'll let the dead rest?”
“Would you?” said Swanclaw. “What if South-mob had got Corellanose, instead of that stinking tin-beetle?” She had a point. By venting their feelings, cats could very quickly forget or forgive them and often move on without grieving for too long or holding much of a grudge. It's when they can't vent, usually because they're no one to blame, that problems begin. Dissatisfied and repressed cats become unruly; they take risks and grow aggressive, starting trouble over insignificant things. Sorrow turns sour inside them.
It's a fear that any dreamer or leader contends with. Like most creatures, cats hate helplessness; a badly-handled death can lead to many more, often from sheer unbridled frustration. This is the basis of karukanhthar, the mysterious death. Without a body, a death is hardly a death and it frightens them. Without an explanation, there is no one to blame.
“You're right,” admitted Redsight. “He says sorry, by the way.”
“Hmm?” Swanclaw continued to crunch her lizard.
“Corellanose. He told me to tell you that he's sorry for whatever he did when you were training.” It was obvious that Swanclaw was not going to comment. “So, if a battle does happen tonight -”
“It will.”
“Tsika, you're just like him.”
“What?!”
Redsight flicked his tail. “Just let me finish. If a battle does happen tonight, what would you do?”
“What my dreamer said to,” said Swanclaw. Redsight growled under his breath. “What I would like to do, if a battle happened tonight, that's different. I'd like not to get involved, but the chances of that aren't good. I'd like to ignore the fight – unless they trespassed. The closest distance between East-mob and West-mob is on our territory, and West-mob are going to be ready at the edge of the scribbly gums. They have a tactical advantage there – East-mob can't see them, and the smell of the tea-trees is going to confuse them. They're not used to fighting with cover around.”
“And there's no way West-mob doesn't know about Galahfang,” Redsight agreed. The other scrub country mob were fastidious about their boundaries; they would have known since the morning, most likely. And they hadn't said a thing either, Redsight noted to himself.
“Right. Prepare everyone, then?” asked Swanclaw.
“Yes, better. Stars guide us safely home again,” he said. “And boundaries bend for none.”
END OF CHAPTER THREE.
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Cobalt
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Post by Cobalt on Oct 13, 2012 16:19:06 GMT -6
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Post by Grey on Oct 13, 2012 19:05:12 GMT -6
Cobalt, that is legitimately the coolest thing. I am so impressed and thrilled, you have no idea. What makes it even better - they look like cats, and no anime fringes. Mind you, if someone went to the trouble of making an animation for a story I wrote, I wouldn't care if all the cats were purple (maybe I would care a little bit, ehehehehe).
I am totally skipping about this; giddy delight is all the way up to eleven.
Do you mind if I show a friend of mine?
Oh yes, also, I love the movement of Brownwhisker's tail at the end. That is such a nice touch. I am going to tell all my friends about this, ehehehehe.
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gp
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Post by gp on Oct 14, 2012 7:12:34 GMT -6
I thoroughly enjoyed this first chapter, if I could draw cats I would do fanart too. But.. the only fanart I have that is warriors related in't really up to scratch, the one I did you haha. Anyways, its "pretty deece," to use some Australian slang. >;}
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Post by Grey on Nov 12, 2012 5:31:20 GMT -6
Hopefully I haven't missed anything much with my editing, but of course, if I have, please let me know. Critiques are always welcome. Cheers.
CHAPTER FOUR.
All shall be done, but it may be harder than you think.
- C.S Lewis.
In the early hours before dawn when the air was at its coolest and most South-mob cats were out hunting among the rushes, a patrol came across a group of East-mob battlers sitting at the border. Despite the fact they smelled of fresh blood, the group swore they came in peace with a favour to ask – no, to plead – of the mob and, though bemused and curious, the patrol led them the long way back to camp.
Stormstripe, the grey tabby ranger, quickly explained the oddity to the East-mob dreamer when she returned with a duckling dangling from her jaws. The mob members who were awake in the camp at the time – a dark mother and her litter, the medicine cat and his apprentice, Mulgapelt, Brownwhisker, another battler and the ranger himself – watched Lightsight with interest. The East-mob messengers waited in silence for her reply.
“So. This is a predicament,” she said after a time. “As much as I would like to assist your mob, I do not have enough battlers to send one off gallivanting across both countries. Two, actually, I'd need to send.” She nodded. “Yes, two for scrub-country explorations especially.”
Some moons ago, the South-mob and the West-mob had come to blows over stolen prey, and it was only recently that hostilities had begun to ebb. It was no secret that Lightsight harboured no love for West-mob's dreamer, nor did she trust him as she trusted East-mob's dreamer, even though both of them had blood-curdling stories told and retold about their exploits, enough to make a weak kit squeal.
“It would only be a day or two,” protested one of the visitors, seemingly a little panicked.
“I wasn't finished,” said Lightsight coldly. The cat fell silent again. “What you ask is a lot,” she added to the pair of messengers, who were huddled together and looking abashed. “Particularly as you ask for someone who can find these answers you need, without being able to find them yourselves.” Her tone verged on scornful. “I expect that East-mob would be duly grateful?”
“Duly and truly,” said the other visitor with a sharp nod. “As promised.”
“Hmmm.”
Flamepath wiggled along the ground in an awkward hunting crouch to sneak up to where Brownwhisker was sitting. She had spent most of the night out hunting and had been planning on taking a well-deserved sleep until the East-mob cats invaded the quiet.
“What do you think will happen?” whispered Flamepath, trying to be inconspicuous. It wasn't particularly effective, though – she was never any good at hunting, since her pelt was so bright and her paws were so clumsy.
“No idea,” admitted Brownwhisker. “If West-mob's that angry right now, I wouldn't want to send anyone anywhere – you know what they're like.”
“Not that bad,” said Flamepath, slightly indignant. The two mollies gazed at each other unflinchingly. They both ruffled their coats and took to washing their faces to break the tension. “Anyway, wouldn't know who to send, would you?”
“Someone clever,” said Brownwhisker. “Someone who thinks things, you know?”
The ginger cat purred, twitching her tail. “Thinks things? As compared to what – someone who thinks so-”
“I don't know what the word's for it is,” snapped Brownwhisker, keeping her voice to a low hiss. Lightsight looked about to speak.
“No, I don't have any cat's to spare,” she said abruptly, definitely. “As I said, as much as I'd like to, I just c-”
“Please, Lightsight.” It was Mulgapelt. He had been talking to Quailheart, the medicine cat, when the two messengers were brought into the camp-site, and had apparently listened intently to the whole exchange. “I don't mean to undermine you, but... I would like to offer myself, to go and witness. I am of no real use here, after all,” he said. “I can't hunt or fight well – but I have eyes and ears, and between them I'm still all right, so what I can't do for South-mob in person, perhaps... I could do by helping an ally?”
He kneaded his paws on the soft earth in nervousness. Both Flamepath and Brownwhisker stared at him in wonderment. The East-mob representatives looked at each other in alarm.
“Lightsight had spoken, I'm sure she -”
The white-pelted dreamer drew herself up to her impressive height, fluffing out her chest and glowering down at the cat who had, yet again, spoken out of turn.
“It seems I had forgotten about Mulgapelt,” she said loudly, drowning the cat out. “I must be getting a little older than I thought. Yes, Mulgapelt will be South-mob's witness – unless you have any objections?” Her voice was worryingly soft now, as though she dared them to try. Neither did. “Perfect.”
She glanced around the camp. “We will need someone to accompany him.”
Brownwhisker stood up, almost involuntarily. “I can go, Lightsight. It'll be a day, maybe, and then I'll be back with him. You won't know we were gone.”
“Perfect, perfect,” said the white cat, looking not quite as pleased as she sounded. “That's sorted then. You can tell the cats of East-mob that their allies from across the billabong are looking out for them. Off you go.” She prowled towards the messengers, who swiftly stood and began padding away from her. “We'll send them off as soon as -” she glanced at Quailheart “- right now, in fact.”
“East-mob thanks you,” said the less-talkative cat stiffly.
“You bet it does,” said Lightsight, with a lash of her tail. The two cats bounded away, and she looked to Stormstripe. “Follow them. Mark the border.” He sped away as well.
Then she snarled and turned on Mulgapelt.
“How dare you speak,” she spat. “Do you not understand -”
“Apparently not.”
There was a ringing quiet. Mulgapelt was standing, staring steadily into his dreamer's eyes, tail held low but ears forward, unafraid. He spoke in a way unrelenting and unapologetic. It was the same strange frenzy that took him on the bridge.
“An East-mob cat's dead – someone we all knew – and what's more, a West-mob cat's done it. We're no friends of West-mob but you realise what'll happen, don't you? If it remains unknown, East-mob will go blood-hungry on West-mob for a season and a day, and it won't ever end. Not until the one who killed Galahfang is known. They'll tear each other apart, and it sounds like North-mob's in on it too. How long before we are? Not long. Not long at all. Do you want a dozen deaths because of one – one not even from our mob? I'm no good here and everyone knows it! Let me go and at least try. Black fur between her claws – it won't take a day to work out who did it, will it? And then West-mob'll hate us, but that's nothing new – you can't catch two fevers. East-mob'll be grateful to you, and we won't end up fighting. We have nothing to lose, Lightsight. Nothing!”
She was sitting back down, regal and composed again. Every few moments, her tail tip moved lazily. “And you are not afraid to go there? West-mob could kill you for inferring.”
“We have nothing to lose,” said Mulgapelt again, quieter now, looking down at his front paws. “I would be dying for my mob.”
She gave a heavy, rumbling purr. “Very well, then. But if you ever speak out against me again, I will tear both your ears to shreds. Do you understand me now?”
“Yes, Lightsight. Thank you.”
Brownwhisker let out the breath she had been holding and sat down with a thump. Beside her, Flamepath purred.
“What a cat!” said the ginger molly approvingly. “Imagine standing up to Lightsight like that. What a good tom.”
“You stop that,” said Brownwhisker, torn between joking and stern, before she scrambled over to meet with Mulgapelt. “We can go whenever you want us too.” She no longer felt tired; only anxious and excited.
“Now would be best,” said the dreamer. “I don't want this to take a heartbeat longer than it has to. Do what you have to, and come straight back. Go see the body first, then to West-mob.”
“Mind the tar-snake,” said Flamepath from across the clearing. “Crows'll have your eyes, otherwise. Good luck!”
“She's so gross,” muttered Brownwhisker. “C'mon, let's go already.” She bounded away in the direction of the road, with Mulgapelt lolloping along behind her.
Lightsight watched them go, shaking her fur. Quailheart walked over to sit beside her, giving her shoulder a quick lick.
“Tzachta-ka, my old friend, are you all right?” he asked.
“Young cats were never that rude when we were their age,” she replied with a sigh.
“We were those young cats,” said Quailheart with a purr. “I bet our dreamer back then would have said something quite different. This is for the best.”
“I know.” She looked up at the sky. It was still an hour or so before the first light of day would start seeping colour into it once more. “I do. At first, I didn't think he'd do it, you know.”
The clearing was empty again. The mother molly had taken her kittens away, and the battler had gone off. Only Flamepath remained, crouching hidden in the karutsi-ka's den, listening.
“Too afraid, is what I thought,” she added. “Too sick. Too much responsibility. I was wrong. I'm glad I was wrong.”
“You were clever, Lightsight,” said Quailheart. “I wondered what you were at for a while there.” He purred. “You are a good dreamer. Your stories should last a long time, I think – she who changes the winds of choices.”
“Thank you, but this is only beginning. I am worried, Quailheart.”
“Why?”
“If black fur was found between Galahfang's claws and the culprit is from West-mob... why hasn't the killer been found yet? How many black cats could there be?”
“Oh.” Quailheart widened his eyes. “Yes, I see. So you're thinking -”
“Yes.” She nodded solemnly.
The tabby tom settled himself down into a crouch, tilting his ears back and wrapping his tail around his body. Lightsight licked the top of his head.
“How unlucky,” he said.
~
Brownwhisker and Mulgapelt came to stop at the road, a little out of breath from climbing the embankment. Mulgapelt slumped to the ground, panting, and Brownwhisker huddled in beside him, as comfortable as she could be on the jutting gravel.
“We'll wait a while,” she said. “What were you thinking, though? Talking back to Lightsight – I thought she really was going to have your ears, you know what she's like about manners.”
Although their mission to the scrub country was of utmost importance, Mulgapelt and Brownwhisker were still cats, and no cats like to be rushed anywhere. They are arbitrary creatures at heart – even in a clowder – and prone to distraction.
“I don't know,” said Mulgapelt with a slight wheeze. “I just – came over all funny. Don't know – how to explain it. I couldn't just do nothing.”
“All right, all right, no need to bite me about it. I was just asking,” said Brownwhisker. Her ears twitched as a breeze rustled the gum leaves either side of the road. A wattle flower floated by. She gave a yawn, sitting up with a stretch.
A line of light appeared at the horizon, in the distant direction of East-mob. Soon dawn would spill over the paddocks and fields, the shambling cloud-like shapes of sheep, the old buildings.
“Thanks for coming with me,” said Mulgapelt at last, as he too sat up to watch the new light.
“Friends don't let friends go into scrub country alone,” said Brownwhisker with a small shrug of her shoulders. “And speaking of which, we better get going if we want to get there before midday. We'll have to catch a North-mob patrol – they should have a dawn one come about soon, right?”
The two cats walked along the billabong side of the road for a while, sniffing here and there at the tar or flicking their paws when a small stone got caught between their toes. Ragged plants grew in clusters on the edges of the gravel, looking worse for wear and smelling faintly of stale gasoline. Sometimes bodies would turn up along the roadside too – rodents, lizards or snakes, a rabbit or a small possum, wallabies, and once even a fox. Sometimes cats too.
Mulgapelt and Brownwhisker crossed with caution. They wandered a short way into North-mob territory, crouching down together and taking turns to bristle and look about when a new sound or smell reached them. It wasn't long before the dawn patrol found them, and after a little obligatory snarling, they came to a casual accord. A grey tabby tom offered to walk them to the body and back to the border again, since he had been one of the ones to discover it. “I don't think you'll get anything from it,” warned the tom as he walked ahead of them. “Just so you know. When I got here, the place reeked of West-mob and East-mob. Scents are all probably blown about by now. It's been a few days since it happened. You won't find anything that our dreamer didn't.”
Brownwhisker and Mulgapelt exchanged glances.
“What'd he find, then?” asked Brownwhisker, turned her head to the side.
“Pawprints, he said,” replied Smoketail. “And of course, the black fur that's been keeping everyone talking. I don't know what the fuss is about – I can't help but think that a trespassing cat deserves what it gets for sticking its nose where it doesn't belong, if you see what I mean. Still, 'snot for me to be deciding those things.” He came to a stop. “Here we go.” He sat down and scratched his ear with a hind paw. “Poke around as much as you like – Redsight said you were welcome to. Anything to help,” he added.
The body was soft and limp, and the air around it was beginning to change to the unmistakable odour of decomposition. East-mob and West-mob scents clung to her fur but it was impossible to distinguish individual cats, especially with the dizzying smell of tea-tree so nearby. Any pawprints that had been left were gone now.
“Done?” asked Smoketail, somewhat wearily. The sun was low in the sky by the time Mulgapelt and Brownwhisker returned to him. They nodded. “I'll take you to the West-mob border now – it's not far from here.”
He left them when the clusters of trees began to thicken further, and Mulgapelt and Brownwhisker went on, stepping lightly over the dry leaf-litter, high-strung and alert. The ground was striped with shadows and morning light, moving and swaying in the breeze. Everything rustled and whispered of danger. Thorny stems tugged at their fur.
“Do you think we should just, uh, wait somewhere?” asked Brownwhisker in a hoarse whisper. “Like before?”
“Maybe. I -”
He broke off as a crunching, snapping sound started close by; leaves shifted and kicked up into the air; twigs and branches shuddered.
“What -”
Frozen in fear, the two cats stared, half-shied away from the noise. A long snout appeared from behind a fallen trunk of a tree that was half-eaten by termites.
“Oh, it's just an echidna,” said Mulgapelt, evidently relieved. The squat, spiny creature trundled a bit more into view, dragging its impressive claws down the rotten wood with a splintering sound. It paid no attention to the cats, wholly absorbed in its own foraging. “The hot weather must have woken it up early?”
“I don't care, I'm just glad it's an echidna. Could be much worse,” said Brownwhisker.
“You've got that right,” said a deep voice from behind them. “It could be me.”
END OF CHAPTER FOUR.
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Rolo
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Post by Rolo on Nov 12, 2012 13:50:56 GMT -6
So, I've been reading Chapter 1. And, as per my own tradition with rating fanfics, I'm going to give you a proper breakdown of my thoughts on that one first, before continuing on to separate chapters.
I'm enjoying it a lot so far. You've got a very unique style and the setting really flavours the piece. The characters are also far more insightful than any of the Erin's characters, and you touch upon issues rarely even talked about in the book. In the Warriors series, every cat seems to accept their role and work like an ant with little thought for their existence and what it all means, whereas here you immediately have someone questioning their life and future. It's rather refreshing.
The slang is a nice addition, and it certainly does add to the story. At points, however, it did make the piece a little bit less accessible to the reader, especially if they don't know what a billabong and bunyip dam is. It's usually possible to get a vague idea about it from the surrounding description, but if you're intending for this to be for a similar audience to the original books (which I don't think you are), you would have to work on defining the terms within the text somehow.
Which brings me onto my next point. As pointed out before, your asides do detract attention from the story, and I'd like to say that I think that need not be the case. In fact, I'm going to question your decision to have asides /at all/. The first chapter, which may be an isolated case but I don't know, sounds very much to me like an omniscient perspective, where insights into several different characters are given and an almost 'narrator' like voice tells us about the cat society and cat behaviour. If you look at the paragraph where you explain about Mulgapelt's typical like of all mysterious things, like all cats, you'll see a place where you effectively integrate information like that you've put aside in the first sidenote into the actual text. The second one could also do so, with some tweaking, or you could just leave it up for the audience to decipher. I really like the voice you have. The fact that it takes a more objective look at the cats behaviour, from the perspective of an onlooker or human, it means you get some interesting information that never played a part in Warriors. You build a new world, rather than adapting our own one to fit cat characters.
In general, the prose is very well written. You spin a nice phrase, and you know how not to show too much and when to tell. The paragraph about how Mulgapelt walks was brilliant and I almost clapped with glee. However, at some points I feel your sentences are too complex, with too many clauses, meaning I had to detangle the meaning by rereading it a few times. This could most definitely do with some more work. I will come back later and pick out all the phrases that confused me and needed simplifying later on. Additionally, you did at points give some information that felt superfluous:
'It was beginning to get dark. A small flock of crested pigeons flew overhead, looking for a place to roost for the evening, and the sound of their whirring wings was pleasant to hear. In another season’s time, it would be the season of the cicadas and the whole world would reverberate with their shrill cries until the next change of season and the world would be left eerily quiet again. Brownwhisker twitched the tip of her tail over the edge of the bridge and her friend, Mulgapelt, sat up, finally looking away from his own reflection to look at the sky and watch the pigeons settle into a rustling gum tree.'
"In another season’s time, it would be the season of the cicadas and the whole world would reverberate with their shrill cries until the next change of season and the world would be left eerily quiet again." This sentence in particular stood out to me, as it wasn't a bit of description but speculative description. It's a beautiful sentence, but it would be far better later on. Since it was set in the middle of dialogue, it didn't feel right, and it was a little harder to keep the line of thought, discussion wise, in mind. In addition, you spend a little too long describing the pigeons, in my opinion. You could quite easily cut out from 'A small flock...' to '... eerily quiet again' and modify the last two sentences slightly and get a similar effect. Perhaps not what you'd prefer, but I thought it was worth mentioning anyway.
Anddd... I will come back and say more, I promise. I'm not done. I way more left to say. You want concrit? I could give it until the cows come home. But there's a party downstairs, and yeah. I'll modify this later.
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Cobalt
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Post by Cobalt on Nov 28, 2012 21:49:13 GMT -6
“Mulgapelt! Listen to me! I care! I am going to remember you so hard my grandkits’ kits are going to dream of you, whether they like it or not, all right?" I doodled this quickly and I think it belongs here. Please excuse the random lines that are attempting to be a background. I don't think I achieved the effect I was going for at all but oh well, I'll do something better when I have more time.
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Post by Lady Ten on Dec 25, 2012 16:21:10 GMT -6
I'm attaching my comments as a separate document so that anyone reading the story on this thread won't have to scroll through it all (it would make a long post, but there's only so much because there's a lot of material to look at). Most of it's regarding grammar and stylistic stuff. I'm just working off what's posted here, so if anything's already been changed (or if it's some Australian thing I don't know about) feel free to disregard it. Or if you consider my suggestions and decide you like the original sentence better, or whatever. Point is I didn't find many of what you'd call objective mistakes. It's pretty good so far, and I'm liking the imagery. Attachments:
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Post by Grey on Dec 26, 2012 0:17:12 GMT -6
Thank you very much, Ten, it'll be useful. Although I do have to comment on one thing, because I found it hilarious.
Ten, it's irony. In-character irony. Just so you know.
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Post by Grey on Jan 31, 2013 6:28:12 GMT -6
Just an update. I have been working on this - it's definitely not abandoned - but I have been pretty busy lately and haven't had too much chance to recently. That said, I hope to post another chapter within the week, and as always, I highly appreciate any kind of commentary that any of you can offer.
Even if it's something small, such as a spelling error, or a suggestion for characterisation, or even a question you'd like answered or something you'd like to see in this fanfiction. It all helps.
Thank you again to everyone who has read over it and helped me out so far, you are all great.
(Also, as a final note, I was considering writing up something on this little language I've put together for this fanfiction - and potentially for others that may be written in the future. Would that interest anyone?)
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Post by cloudbat on Jan 31, 2013 8:36:12 GMT -6
I'd love to see something on the language. I need to reread this.
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