Post by traitorheart on Oct 1, 2006 13:48:31 GMT -5
“It can’t be that hard, Yewpaw,” said a grumpy she-cat. She was tortishell, and her belly was swollen with kits. “We’ve all done it before- except for you, of course!” she trilled a laugh.
The cat in question of the other simply glared, panting.
“Knock it off, Stiff-foot,” a small white she cat mewed, green eyes flashing at her elder. Beside the white she cat were three kits; two she-cats and a tom.
“Thank, you, Snowpaw,” Yewpaw mewed in a tired voice, placing her last kit next to her and fluffing out her ginger fur to protect her family from the cold.
“How many?” asked an appraising voice; a smoky grey she-cat peered at the litter with yellow eyes.
A mottled brown cat counted from her place in the corner. “Four. How many toms, dearie?”
Yewpaw checked. “Three.”
“Congratulations,” the den said in unison.
“Thank you.” Yewpaw mewed, her voice twinged with pride and embarrassment.
The reason a she-cat could have kits at apprentice age in this Clan was because of their system. In this Clan, kits were taken from their mother at three moons, and queens were not allowed to name their kits, or speak to them, even when their female offspring joined the den. In this Clan, all the dens were underground, all segregated into she-kits, tom kits, toms, and queens. In the center was the fresh-kill, and the mating grounds. Every moon or so, all queens who weren’t pregnant just went there until they went back with kits in their belly. Oftentimes a queen would be raising two litters at one time. The she-cats never got to go above ground, and were at the bottom of food priority. Toms, tom kits, she-kits, then queens. Toms lived as warriors- she-cats earned an apprentice name at their first pregnancy, and a warrior name when that litter was weaned. A burial system was in place, as well- toms got buried, she-cats got eaten. It was a sad way to live, and the queens hated it, but they couldn’t leave. Escape was impossible.
Most queens had their first litter around the age of seven moons.
“Food’s here,” the mottled she-cat mewed. Poppydust was so cheerful, everyone did their best to help her now, as she had trouble with her recent litter.
The deliverer of the kill today was a jet black tom, apprentice age with brown mottles. Poppydust and the others immeadiately recognized him from her first litter. They all shot glances toward his mother.
He had no idea who she was. As far as he was concerned, she was vermin.
Poppydust glanced at her sleeping litter and stood with difficulty, approaching the tom under his watchful yellow eyes, cold and curt; unlike his mother’s warm amber green.
Poppydust walked as far across the long, narrow den as she could, still tail lengths from her kit.
Snowpaw wanted to help… but this was Poppydust’s battle, not her own.
“Evening, love, would you mind bringing that inside? Only we’re all very tired and you look like you have energy to spare.” The she-cat’s eyes were pleading, and never moved from her son to the picked over rabbit carcass he was carrying.
The tom set down the rabbit and shook his head. He wondered why the she-cat was staring at him so hard. He dimly noted that her den was not lined with anything.
But the tom shook his head again, feeling a pang of pity.
Poppydust frowned. “What be your name, love?”
The tom began to shake his head again, but didn’t have the heart when he looked into the she-cat’s eyes.
“Mottledpaw.” he mewed. “And I can’t go into your den.”
“Ah,” Poppydust mewed back, nodding approvingly at his name. “But alas, love, I recently had a tough litter and can’t go any farther.”
Mottledpaw looked around before hesitantly padding in quickly to set the rabbit at Poppydust’s feet. He nodded, then left.
“Goodbye,” Poppydust whispered as Snowpaw divvied up the rabbit. “Love.”
---
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Poppydust,” Coalface, the smoky she-cat advised as the queens sat in a circle.
“Yes,” Stiff-foot agreed. “You didn’t raise him, remember?”
“Exactly.”
The cat in question of the other simply glared, panting.
“Knock it off, Stiff-foot,” a small white she cat mewed, green eyes flashing at her elder. Beside the white she cat were three kits; two she-cats and a tom.
“Thank, you, Snowpaw,” Yewpaw mewed in a tired voice, placing her last kit next to her and fluffing out her ginger fur to protect her family from the cold.
“How many?” asked an appraising voice; a smoky grey she-cat peered at the litter with yellow eyes.
A mottled brown cat counted from her place in the corner. “Four. How many toms, dearie?”
Yewpaw checked. “Three.”
“Congratulations,” the den said in unison.
“Thank you.” Yewpaw mewed, her voice twinged with pride and embarrassment.
The reason a she-cat could have kits at apprentice age in this Clan was because of their system. In this Clan, kits were taken from their mother at three moons, and queens were not allowed to name their kits, or speak to them, even when their female offspring joined the den. In this Clan, all the dens were underground, all segregated into she-kits, tom kits, toms, and queens. In the center was the fresh-kill, and the mating grounds. Every moon or so, all queens who weren’t pregnant just went there until they went back with kits in their belly. Oftentimes a queen would be raising two litters at one time. The she-cats never got to go above ground, and were at the bottom of food priority. Toms, tom kits, she-kits, then queens. Toms lived as warriors- she-cats earned an apprentice name at their first pregnancy, and a warrior name when that litter was weaned. A burial system was in place, as well- toms got buried, she-cats got eaten. It was a sad way to live, and the queens hated it, but they couldn’t leave. Escape was impossible.
Most queens had their first litter around the age of seven moons.
“Food’s here,” the mottled she-cat mewed. Poppydust was so cheerful, everyone did their best to help her now, as she had trouble with her recent litter.
The deliverer of the kill today was a jet black tom, apprentice age with brown mottles. Poppydust and the others immeadiately recognized him from her first litter. They all shot glances toward his mother.
He had no idea who she was. As far as he was concerned, she was vermin.
Poppydust glanced at her sleeping litter and stood with difficulty, approaching the tom under his watchful yellow eyes, cold and curt; unlike his mother’s warm amber green.
Poppydust walked as far across the long, narrow den as she could, still tail lengths from her kit.
Snowpaw wanted to help… but this was Poppydust’s battle, not her own.
“Evening, love, would you mind bringing that inside? Only we’re all very tired and you look like you have energy to spare.” The she-cat’s eyes were pleading, and never moved from her son to the picked over rabbit carcass he was carrying.
The tom set down the rabbit and shook his head. He wondered why the she-cat was staring at him so hard. He dimly noted that her den was not lined with anything.
But the tom shook his head again, feeling a pang of pity.
Poppydust frowned. “What be your name, love?”
The tom began to shake his head again, but didn’t have the heart when he looked into the she-cat’s eyes.
“Mottledpaw.” he mewed. “And I can’t go into your den.”
“Ah,” Poppydust mewed back, nodding approvingly at his name. “But alas, love, I recently had a tough litter and can’t go any farther.”
Mottledpaw looked around before hesitantly padding in quickly to set the rabbit at Poppydust’s feet. He nodded, then left.
“Goodbye,” Poppydust whispered as Snowpaw divvied up the rabbit. “Love.”
---
“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Poppydust,” Coalface, the smoky she-cat advised as the queens sat in a circle.
“Yes,” Stiff-foot agreed. “You didn’t raise him, remember?”
“Exactly.”
