Chapter three! Yay! Special thanks to Kelly, who kept me motivated through the final writing stages of this piece and suggested a name used for a character introduced in this chapter. ;D This is for you. Love ya!

Also, thanks/congrats to everyone who sent in riddle answers for last chapter's contest thingy. I'd mention names, only...I forgot them. Oops. :x If you never got feedback on your answers and would still like some, PM me about it and I'll get back to you.

Review responses:

[painted inkblot; "But if [Duskwing's] so crazy, how is she so able to seem normal?"] All will be explained, my friend. Eventually. ;D

[feathercloud13; "So I take it that Duskwing and Rushwhisker are in the same Clan? I think I kind of missed that part."] Yes, both of them are in RiverClan. :)

Lastly: I've received a few comments about Smokethorn "not having much of a face" in previous chapters, so I tried to give him more of a personality in this one. –crosses fingers- Here goes nothing!

[Things Not Seen]

.intruder.

Fear scent was thick in the air.

It clogged in Rushwhisker's nostrils and whispered into the corners of his brain, choking him and his thoughts alike. He couldn't breathe. For quite a while he could concentrate on nothing but clearing himself of the sickening emotion, which was probably why he nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized he was not alone.

Stifling his sudden yowl of surprise, he stared with wide eyes at the small figure. His fur bristled and his breath came in nervous gasps as he crouched, trembling. Almost absentmindedly, he wondered if he really was terrified or if the current atmosphere was merely influencing his senses. Then he decided that he really didn't care.

Rushwhisker was pretty certain it was a cat that stood before him, but then again it was hard to tell for sure; the thick grey mist that veiled the other creature obscured his view. Whatever it was, it certainly was a tiny thing; just the tips of a pair of ears peeked through the fog, and these only came halfway up Rushwhisker's forelegs.

"W-who are you?" Rushwhisker's voice and limbs shook in unison. "Answer me! Who's there?" . . . ere . . . ere . . . ere? His question's echo was the only response he received.

A breeze picked up, stirring the smoky screen aside; very slowly, the cat behind it was revealed. First their paws, which were minuscule and snowy white in hue, and after that their sleek, soot-coloured flank. Tendrils of mist wound around their legs, licking at the fur there like the river at its banks. Then this, too, was blown away by the sourceless wind, and at last the feline--for it was indeed a cat--was uncovered in its entirely.

Rushwhisker's gaze travelled swiftly over the dark grey silhouette. Its tail swished back and forth and its chin was held high, the very image of status and pride. Yet it was not the air of respect that caused Rushwhisker's mouth to fall open in a shriek, although no sound came out. And, though his instincts screamed at him to flee, he couldn't move; his paws were frozen to the ground.

The she-cat before him had no face.

o0O0o

He was breathing loud and hard when he came to. Panting, he scrambled into a sitting position and gazed around the den. Watery orange sunlight was leaking through the reeds, and most of the warriors were still dozing in their nests. Only dawn, Rushwhisker thought to himself. Well, at least he hadn't slept in again. Now, if only he could . . .

"Rushwhisker!"

Cloudstripe's white head emerged through the entrance, and Rushwhisker bent his head to lick a few scraps of moss from his chest before mewing, "Yes?"

"You're wanted for the dawn patrol. They're getting ready to leave now, so I'd hurry if I were you."

Muttering his acknowledgement, Rushwhisker heaved himself out of his bed and made to exit the den. As he passed Cloudstripe, fury burned in his veins as he saw the pity showing plainly in the senior warrior's eyes. Why couldn't they all just leave him alone already? "And I don't need your sympathy, so stop looking at me like that!" he spat over his shoulder, contempt icing his voice. Cloudstripe glanced away as Rushwhisker retreated, saying nothing.

Rushwhisker made a mental note to tell Icepaw that her father was just like the rest of them. They were all the same, honestly--flat, blank, and boring. They showed no real emotions, no nothing; the only thing they were good at doing was making total fools of themselves. He actually laughed aloud to himself as the thought struck him that perhaps StarClan had swiped all the other cats of personality and thrown the extra emotion's weight onto him. Haha. Well, all that proved was that StarClan was just as fox-dunged as his Clanmates. No surprise there.

A pawful of cats had assembled in the clearing. Owlfeather was there, her mottled tabby coat shining in the early sun, as was her ginger apprentice, Bouncepaw, who was too busy living up to her name to look like she was taking anything seriously. Owlfeather nodded hello to Rushwhisker as he approached, but he ignored her and turned away.

After a few heartbeats, he sat down and wrapped his tail around his paws. A cool breeze ruffled his fur, and he hunched his shoulders, trying to stay warm. Behind him, Owlfeather spoke up, "It's quite chilly, isn't it? Just another sign that leaf-fall is almost here, I guess."

Rushwhisker twitched his tail in agreement. "Yeah, no kidding," he meowed, trying to keep his tone civil. "Stupid weather, eh? Stupid seasons, too. Stupid everything!" It wasn't like he was expecting an answer, but he noticed that Owlfeather didn't say anything else. Rushwhisker closed his eyes.

Pawsteps brushed the sand behind him. "I've just been speaking with Cinderstar. Is everyone here? Good! Let's head out, then."

Rushwhisker's heart sank upon recognizing the voice. Why? he felt like yowling, despite knowing it wouldn't be any use. He reopened his eyes just as Smokethorn entered his line of vision, although his father didn't even glance his way. With a jerk of his tail, the senior warrior signalled that the three cats were to follow him. Rushwhisker's paws carried him reluctantly through the camp entrance and into the forest.

Smokethorn fell automatically into the lead, while Rushwhisker could hear Owlfeather murmuring quietly to her apprentice as they raced a few fox-lengths behind. He hesitated, unsure of whether he should fall back with the others or simply run where he was. Shooting a glare at his only living kin, he felt a strong pang of anger for the discomfort he knew his father meant to cause him.

Then, however, his thoughts took an unexpected turn.

They were heading parallel to the river, looking like their trail was going to take them down its banks before doubling back to give the ThunderClan border the all-clear. After a moment's hesitation, Rushwhisker sped his pace until he was bounding alongside Smokethorn. He swallowed; it felt like there was a lump in his throat. He would just try; that was all he had to do, right? Even though his resolve to keep his temper in check seemed more than a little unsure, at least trying was better than nothing . . . right?

Smokethorn's big grey head turned as his son pulled up beside him, malignance clear in his eyes, and Rushwhisker immediately cursed himself for even thinking he could do this. Then Icepaw's words rang clear as a bell in his mind, though it was already bubbling with the danger of his fury: Smokethorn can only hurt you like that if you allow him to! All you have to do is stand up for yourself. He set his jaw and struggled to delay the tickly burning sensation in his toes. Just try.

"What in the name of holy fox-dung do you want?" Smokethorn snapped. The thin hold Rushwhisker was managing to keep over the monster wavered but did not break. Pleased with himself, he responded calmly, a touch of a taunting tone just under--but not totally concealed in--his voice.

"You mean I can't just come up and say 'hi' to my old dad anymore?" He feigned a wounded expression, but it came out more like a grimace; he doubted he'd ever referred to his father as 'dad' in his entire life. Like before, it was as if something was stuck in his throat, blocking his airway.

Instant suspicion flared in Smokethorn's expression, and, honestly, Rushwhisker couldn't blame him. A dozen different emotions flickered across Smokethorn's face before he realized how much he was showing and wiped it clean, settling on coolly superior acknowledgement. His father, Rushwhisker figured, was going to find out what was wanted of him before showing any kindness in return.

The older tom sniffed. "Oh, just checking. Finally letting go of that attitude of yours, then? Just a friendly conversation . . . you sure that's all you want?"

Hurt spread across his son's face once more, genuine this time; it twisted in his belly. Shame burned his face under his ashy fur, and he felt almost . . . sick that his "attitude," as his father called it, caused his Clanmates to think of him so. He had always brushed off their irritating sympathy—and, hey, it wasn't as if he was regretting that now; he would do it again in a heartbeat—but . . . did they really regard him with such frightened antagonism?

He tried to shrug it off, telling himself that it was only his father, eternally blaming him for the death of his mother. It was easy to convince himself so; Rushwhisker had never received even an ounce of love from Smokethorn, the fox-hearted son-of-a-badger . . . . He drew in a slow breath before he spoke again.

"No, I just wanted to talk." There was a pause. "Actually, I was wondering if you could tell me a little bit about my mother."

Rushwhisker heard Smokethorn catch his breath, and he wondered if bringing up the subject was more than really stupid thing to do. He thought about all the ways his father would use it against him, would hate him for Berryfoot's death at newly elevated levels.

He watched Smokethorn's face carefully. A spasm of anger flashed across it, but after a moment, the expression cooled to one of . . . understanding? Rushwhisker wasn't certain. He was fairly positive that he'd never seen it in Smokethorn's face, though; that was sure. There was something almost unnerving about the way his features were set now, how the lines of his jaw seemed softer, how the low gleam in his eyes wasn't menacing. His pace fell to a walk, and Rushwhisker mirrored him, his pads pressing into the damp leaves.

"Your mother's name was Berryfoot," Smokethorn began slowly, and Rushwhisker was so shocked that he very nearly tripped over his own paws. Behind them, Owlfeather seemed to realize that the two males' conversation might take some time; very pointedly, the senior warrior beckoned to Bouncepaw, and she and her apprentice padded down the slope toward the river for a fishing lesson. Smokethorn sat down on the gravel and gestured for his son to sit as well.

"Berryfoot was one of the kindest, sweetest cats you could ever imagine, with fur black as midnight and . . . oh, she had the most beautiful eyes. Bright green, impossibly green, like . . . like leaf buds in newleaf." His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "Your mother was beautiful. I'm sorry she's dead."

There was a hesitation, during which Rushwhisker, fighting the monster even now at the description of his mother, contemplated touching Smokethorn with his tail. No, he thought at last, it's better not to risk it. Then his father continued.

"You had a sister in your litter, too; did you know that?" Rushwhisker nodded 'yes'; he had heard about how she had been stillborn, never to see the light of the world, never to feel the wind on her fur . . . . The older warrior went on, "Yes . . . she was born first, before you, but she was already dead. Berryfoot named the two of you in her dying breath, not even realizing that her daughter had died. Tricklekit . . . hmph. Would she have had her mother's green eyes, I wonder . . . ?" Now Smokethorn's tone was hard, and his head swivelled around so he could fix his only living kit with a fierce yellow glare. "Green eyes; ha! Well, I guess we'll never know what colour Tricklekit's would have been now, huh?"

Rushwhisker recoiled, trembling as he pressed himself into the ground. But his father was not done yet. "And after all this, what's happened? I get loaded with you." Fuming. Burning. Glaring. There was a shaky pause, and then, bleakly: "I wish they had lived instead of you."

Dead silence seemed to ripple through the forest.

Rushwhisker was abruptly hurt beyond description, but of course the anger reached him first. Of course it did. In half a heartbeat he was on his paws, his own amber eyes--a pair that matched Smokethorn's exactly--smouldering with rage. It whipped outwards from his body in all directions, and it was as if the air around him was suddenly hotter than the sun. Smokethorn sat calmly, his tail around his paws, just listening to the words. To the screaming.

When Rushwhisker had finished, Smokethorn simply shook his head. "My, my," he murmured, all the sickening contempt back in his meow now, "I see that you still have a long way to go with that temper of yours." He turned away from his son, going to fetch back Owlfeather and Bouncepaw.

With his father's back still facing him, Rushwhisker snapped, "Does your face hurt?"

It was just too easy to imagine Smokethorn's eyes narrowing in the brief moment before he shot back, "No; why should it?"

"Because it's killing me!" Rushwhisker cried gleefully. He had already disappeared when Smokethorn whipped around again, hissing.

He bounded through the trees, mixed hatred and amusement frothing within him. After he was well away from where he knew the others would still be standing, dumbfounded, he slowed his pace and veered deeper into the brush. He was still laughing, but the sound was twisted in a brutal sense of the word. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Repeating the word in his head, he continued to pad along, his pelt swathed in the cool shade the trees cast over the ground. Without really realizing it, he shook his head back and forth, slowly, painstakingly, as hurt like deadly claws scraped through him. Questions, too--they battered at his head like unsheathed blows. Would he and his father share actual bonds of friendship, if Berryfoot had lived? Would his mother have been proud of him, as a queen should be proud of her kit? What colour would Tricklekit's eyes have been? Green, like her mother's? Or amber like Smokethorn's?

Now they would never know.

Rushwhisker wanted to growl, chastise himself for caring. Why should he care, anyway? He should live in the moment, not in the past or the future or what might have been if things weren't so incredibly screwed up. He tried to concentrate on the scents in the forest, overwhelming all together but easy enough to categorize if you what you were doing. Herbs--juniper, watermint, marigold. Prey--a squirrel frolicking in the surrounding trees, a mouse in its burrow somewhere nearby. And there was something else . . .

Rushwhisker froze in place, his nose up and his mouth open, sniffing excessively. It couldn't be . . .

But it was, and he knew it. He could smell it: the scent, not a day stale, of a cat--a cat that was certainly not of his Clan. Yet who could it be? Who would dare to wander so far from the territory markers? Then again, he wasn't even sure that it was a Clan cat at all.

He had to find out; it was his duty to his RiverClan. He bent and put his nose close to the ground, picking up and memorizing the trespasser's scent. His paws moved underneath him as he followed the trail, tracing it through the undergrowth until he came to the base of a large silver maple. He raised his head to look at it, but there wasn't much to see; the dense leaves blocked out the branches--and anything that might be hiding in them.

He would have to climb the tree, then. Well, he thought grimly, so be it.

Any of the anger he had previously felt that day was gone now; his mind was focused solely on the task at hand. Which, he admitted to himself, was still rather on the unknown side, but . . . he figured the plan of action would become apparent to him once he discovered more.

Halfway up the tree, Rushwhisker stopped. The intruder's scent had changed from lingering to faint to . . . nonexistent. There was nothing; though Rushwhisker inhaled deeply, the trail had disappeared completely. His whiskers twitched. What would he do now?

After some deliberation, he decided to climb a bit higher, just to see if the scent picked up again. His tail waving to assist his balance, he jumped again, his front paws stretching for the branch above him.

When he landed, the trespasser's scent, fresh and immediate, hit him in the face like an early leafbare blizzard.

Pivoting on the branch, he bunched his muscles and launched himself in the opposite direction. His flying leap brought him crashing through the leaves, and his pelt snagged on the sharp thorns, tearing his fur in the process--

Rushwhisker burst from the cover of the undergrowth and skidded to a halt in front of the others. "Smokethorn!" he bawled, panting, "there's a rogue back there!" He jerked his tail toward the trees. "I caught its scent; stale at first, then overlaid with a fresher trail . . . very fresh. I climbed a maple, and it hit me full on: definitely not of our Clan. Smokethorn, there's a trespasser right here, right now!"

There was a stunned silence for several heartbeats, during which everyone stood frozen; whether their mouths were open from shock or the act of scenting--or both--Rushwhisker wasn't sure.

Then Smokethorn sprang into action. "We have to move, now!" he hissed, ears already swivelling and alert. "We should split up and surround them; there are four of us, so that should be enough. If they're alone, they won't be stupid enough to put up a fight. Rushwhisker, circle up around towards Fourtrees and then start closing in. Owlfeather, take your apprentice down the river and back again. I'll cut them off here."

Bouncepaw's amber eyes were large as she piped up, "But what if they try to escape?"

"They sure as stars won't get through with it. We'll catch them." Smokethorn's voice was taut.

"And if it turns out that they are from enemy Clans?"

Owlfeather hissed at her apprentice at the same moment Smokethorn yowled, "There's no time for mouse-brained questions, Bouncepaw! We have to move! Now!"

That was invitation enough for Rushwhisker; he didn't look back as he turned and streaked into the trees. The forest was a green blur around him as he raced through it, his heart pounding.

Thoughts--mainly questions, really--thundered through his head, blocking out all else. Who was the intruder, and what did they want? What business did they have on his territory? Was RiverClan in danger?

The queries were so overwhelming that there was no space in his head to think of much more; that probably explained why he almost ran headlong into another cat before realizing that his paws were carrying him towards his Clan's camp.

"Mr-row!" the other cat yelped in surprise, skidding to avoid Rushwhisker's startled grey form. The she-cat turned, and he saw that it was Duskwing, her green eyes wide. "Rushwhisker?! What in StarClan's name are you doing--"

"Come quickly, there isn't much time!" he hissed at the tabby warrior. Though there was no mistaking the bewilderment in her gaze, she obliged, following him as he tore off once more into the woods.

Rushwhisker mewed out a hurried explanation as they ran, and before long the confusion in Duskwing's expression morphed to determination. When he had briefed her of the rough story, he cut the flow of words and concentrated on the rhythmic beat of their paws churning over the leaves. Heavy doses of chagrin and anxiety hung over them like a storm cloud, ready to pour at any moment. Rushwhisker worried that they would be too late, that they wouldn't manage to meet up with their Clanmates before a fight broke out. Would Owlfeather, Bouncepaw and his father be able to hold off the rogue on their own?

He tried to push the disturbing thoughts away, telling himself he was just being paranoid.

Ah, paranoia. He laughed to himself as he ran.

By the time Rushwhisker and Duskwing reached them, the others had already reunited and were crowded at the base of a huge tree not far from the maple Rushwhisker had climbed. As the two young warriors came to a halt, Smokethorn meowed, directing his words into the green of the leaves, "Come down now, rogue, and nobody needs to be hurt."

Rushwhisker strained to see through the thick foliage; he thought he caught a glimpse of copper fur before the colour flashed out of sight. Then a female's high voice spoke in a rasp that seemed greatly in need of honey.

"Ha! As if. Leave me alone, you mangy furball."

The fur along Rushwhisker's spine was abruptly on end. How dare a rogue, the lowest of the low, speak to his father like that! Couldn't the idiotic creature feel the dignity radiating off the warriors assembled below, the respect required when addressing them? His claws tore into the grass as the madness in him broke through.

"Rogue!" he yowled, furious, "you have some nerve! If I were you, I would get my furry butt down here before--"

He stumbled backwards as Owlfeather's heavy paw connected with the back of his skull; at the same time, Smokethorn stepped in front of his bristling figure and growled for his son to shut up. Rushwhisker's skin blazed with heat. Sweeping his tail into the air in an icy warning for silence, Smokethorn spoke to the rogue once more, coaxing her with questions.

In return, the voice came again, and the raging monster continued to burn on Rushwhisker's tongue while he listened, intent.

"Why should I answer your questions? Really, it's none of your business who I am. Or what I'm doing here."

"Unfortunately, rogue, it's precisely our business. What, do you expect us to let you walk away? Roam wherever you please?" Smokethorn's reply was grim, and Owlfeather's expression was much the same. "You are intruding our territory."

For a heartbeat there was an absence of sound. Then--

"My name is Magnolia. And I'm here because I feel like it."

Out of the corner of his eye, Rushwhisker saw Bouncepaw shift her weight nervously from one paw to the other; beside her, Duskwing had her head cocked slightly to one side, as if attempting to decode the rogue's curious response. Smokethorn and Owlfeather, the senior warriors, exchanged a glance.

"Magnolia," Owlfeather mewed, "this would be so much easier if you came down here so we could speak face to face."

Another pause. "How do I know I can trust you?"

"We are warriors of RiverClan, loyal to our leaders, to our Clans, to the Warrior Code. I swear to StarClan that you will not be harmed—as long as you cooperate."

Bouncepaw let out a shriek of fear as a lithe orange shape hurtled down from the tree they were standing around. She wasn't the only one surprised; Duskwing and Owlfeather scrambled backward, and Smokethorn let out startled yowl. Rushwhisker flattened his ears, waiting for the sickening crunch of bone and pain.

It never came.

With surprising agility, the rogue landed neatly on all fours with her tail sticking out. Rushwhisker examined her closely. Her bright fur was sleek and well-groomed, her eyes a pale yellow. She must have seen Rushwhisker's appraising gaze, for she straightened up and looked right at him, eyes narrowed. He turned away from her, shoulders stiff.

Smokethorn cleared his throat. "Thank you, er, Magnolia," he mewed. It's nice of you to . . . join us." He blinked, and she nodded curtly.

"Of course," she snapped. "Now, what is it that we're negotiating?"

The senior warrior seemed taken aback by her response. His nostrils flared. "You are intruding on RiverClan's territory. I'm going to have to ask you to leave immediately, or else, I assure you, we will have you removed by force."

"You promised that you wouldn't hurt me."

"Only if you cooperated," reminded Owlfeather.

Nobody said anything for a long moment. The air was tense, crackly, the way Rushwhisker felt right before he lost his temper. The way he felt now.

"What if I don't feel like leaving?" the rogue meowed at last. "I still don't understand why I have to. I'm only passing through." Rushwhisker thought he heard a note of challenge in her tone.

Smokethorn took a step forward, baring his teeth. "This is our territory, rogue. It's our duty to defend it. You're lucky you were caught in that tree and not down here; you would have been torn to shreds!" He spat the word. "Now get out!"

Magnolia didn't answer right away. Instead, she looked suddenly around to fix her golden eyes on Rushwhisker. "This is your son, isn't he?"

Unsure of what the rogue meant to do, Smokethorn nodded once after a slight hesitation. "Yes."

"I thought so. He is very much like you."

It took Rushwhisker a second to comprehend her words.

When he did, the hatred engulfed him.

"No, Rushwhisker!" snarled Smokethorn, but it was too late. Rushwhisker sprang at the intruder and knocked her to the ground, ripping into her fur from every angle he could. How dare she compare him to his father! How dare she! He didn't think, no, he couldn't think, consumed by the assailing rage as he was. The sharp scent of blood pierced his nose, but all he could think of was the anger, the fury, the--

One moment he was on top of Magnolia, and the next Owlfeather's teeth were in his scruff, Duskwing beside her, the two of them yanking him away from the rogue. Another growl blew out of him as they flung him down, and though his limbs lashed above him, they made contact with nothing. Somebody planted their weight on his belly, pinning him. He didn't look up to see who it was. He just concentrated on breathing properly. His flailing limbs slowed, and after a while, he stopped resisting.

From somewhere far away, he heard Owlfeather's meow: "Bouncepaw, go back to camp. Tell Cinderstar where we are and ask her to send help; we've caught a trespasser on our territory, but she's injured. Hurry!" Rushwhisker snorted. Yes, send the apprentice away; they wouldn't want such young, innocent cats to be around an influence like him, would they?

He struggled to raise his head; the movement hurt more than he thought it should. Gazing around, he took in the scene: Duskwing was holding him down, her face expressionless; meanwhile, Owlfeather and his father were crouched over Magnolia's still form, talking in low tones and glancing back at him every now and then. Reality came back to him slowly, saturating him one piece at a time, like rain. He felt cold. What had he done?

After what seemed like an eternity, Smokethorn left Owlfeather with the rogue and padded over to him. "You can let me up now," he muttered to Duskwing, but she didn't move. Stupid female.

Smokethorn came to stand over his son, his face upside-down in Rushwhisker's vision. "Well, Rushwhisker, you've mauled the rogue into unconsciousness. Congratulations. We're taking her back to camp--and you're coming with us. I believe you've got some explaining to do."

o0O0o

Back in the safety of his den, Rushwhisker dreamed again that night.

He was in a forest, but he had no idea where; he didn't recognize any familiar sights or scents. Was that the trickle of water in the distance? Cocking an ear, he listened, but he couldn't quite tell. A warm breeze blew into his face, carrying with it mingling aromas of honey and rain.

The dream shifted, and all of a sudden Rushwhisker was standing in the middle of the RiverClan camp. It was nighttime—the whole landscape was swathed in a purple blanket, and pale moonlight filtered through the clouds above—but something was . . . off, somehow. Though he thought for a few moments, Rushwhisker couldn't put his paw on it. Time seemed to stand still as he pondered, not even knowing what he was looking for, totally unsure of what it was he yearned to discover. On either side of the island camp, the invisible river sloshed on, dark and mysterious.

A sound from behind broke his concentration, and he let out a little yelp of surprise as he spun around.

How many times now had he dreamed of the faceless cat? He knew he wouldn't be able to count even if he tried. He longed to uncover the stranger's identity, to understand why they controlled his dreams so; such constant recurrences must mean something, no? . . . No?

Yet there was the cat once again, standing somewhat inconspicuously beside a clump of reeds near the warriors' den, facing away from Rushwhisker. Their grey tail swished through the air, stirring dust particles around stubby hind legs and diminutive white paws. As always, Rushwhisker was struck by how absolutely tiny this creature was, how dainty and fragile their body seemed to be. He felt sheer power run through his veins, the pressure building, slowly but surely; he had no doubt in his mind that he could snap the little cat's spine with one easy blow of his paw.

He shook his head quickly, back and forth, aghast at his own thoughts. What was he even thinking? That was the problem with dreams. They were strange enough with merely their fuzzy characters and mindless settings intact, but on top of that they caused endless inner ramblings and disturbing queries. As if to prove this point, Rushwhisker found that he couldn't put his paw on what he had been previously been thinking about, nor what had led up to the thoughts that currently swarmed in his head. So confusing . . .

And then, snapping out of it, he remembered to tiny grey stranger.

He forced himself into alert mode, though he didn't really think it was all that necessary. Some part of his brain had already informed him that this was just another one of those repetitive dreams; sooner or later, thick grey mist would cloud over (and then fade from) the small cat before him, the cat that continued to stand perfectly still save for the ceaseless flicking of their tail. In just a few heartbeats, the little feline would rotate around and expose their . . . nothing. For they wouldn't have a face to show—just a flat, blank visage of rippling charcoal fur.

Rushwhisker knew that this was going to happen, but he braced himself nonetheless.

But this time was different.

Shockingly--incredibly—this time was different.

One heartbeat, there was silence, still and serene; the next, a whirlwind of leaves exploded into the air and the grey cat was racing away, out of camp, out of sight.

"Hey!" Rushwhisker yowled, startled. "Hey, wait up! Come back here!" But he got no response, and before he fully realized what he was doing he was running after the stranger, the exhilaration of pursuit adding wings to his paws.

He caught up to them near Fourtrees. The stranger stopped suddenly, and, hot on their paws, Rushwhisker had to skid across the dried pine leaves to stop himself from barrelling into them. "What are you doing?" he panted, feeling drained from his race through the forest. There was a moment's pause, and then: "Who are you?"

The air stood still, like the world was holding its breath; everything was quiet. The only movement was the twinkling of the stars.

And then the tiny stranger turned around, and Rushwhisker gasped at the sight--the revelation.

A nose, pink and petite. Whiskers, long and gossamer, twitching with something like amusement. Eyes, deep emerald jewels set into a smoky grey face, gleaming with beauty and wonder and light.

But most importantly: a mouth. A feature filled with absolute guile. Curved into a grin at first, and then bowing open to expose a fleshy rose gum line.

The dead kitten spoke, and Rushwhisker's ears were filled with the high-pitched ring of a fallen star.

"Don't you know, Rushwhisker? You must have heard of me--I'm sure of it.

"I'm your sister.

"I'm Tricklekit."

As for that bothersome purple prose, I'm working at cutting it down--for my lover Julie-wa especially. :D Any better?

Review!

--Moosie C8K

Friday, July 31, 2009