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WEATHER
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Leaf-Fall
Year 00 — Fall Moon This season is the wettest time of the year, with the most rain falling. The moisture is bringing out all sorts of moss and fungus. Fog is often dense in areas. The leaves are magnificent colours of auburns and golds. The salmon are running upstream now, and are plentiful. Temperatures vary, but it tends to get no warmer than 51°F/11°C and can get as low as 23°F/-5°C.
description: Urchin of Redspire visits Shrike of Sealroar for advice after she is named Heir of the Sovereign. setting: leaf-fall, year 0, midday; cloudy skies auto skip: 120 hours / 5 days content warnings: n/a event: n/a posting order: Cleric Shrike of Sealroar: beowulf Heir Urchin of Redspire: nifty
Shrike of Sealroar detested foggy days more than he detested most things. Rainy days were up there, too. The haze over his eyes worsened when the clouds rolled in and the sun was blotted out of the sky, making the dark and light smears of his clanmates turn indistinguishable. Unfortunately, today was such a day; it was hard enough for the tom to smell his way around the dozens of herbs laid and hung to dry, but a dark sky only slowed him more.
Shrike padded back and forth in front of the shelves searching with his nose where he hung his tansy to dry. Beneath the shelf, the rest of his herbs, like leafy greens collected into bundles and bark stripped into thin pieces, distracted his senses.
He trotted to his drink (a bowl of cold water steeped with a small amount of chamomile and thyme), lapped it, and took a deep breath to let the thyme hit his nerves and soothe them. Just as he was about to return to his search, his ears caught the tap of a cat's nails hitting the stone at the entryway.
It only took him a moment to recognize the weight of the sound and the scent that was brought with it. To greet the Heir properly, Shrike stepped around the flipped table and nodded with a cat-smile. "Heir Urchin! I was wondering when I'd get to speak to you again. Come in."
Once he greeted her, he navigated back to his shelves, paws finding the chamomile and thyme with the expertise of habit. He pulled another previously-filled water bowl from storage and began grinding the dried herbs beneath a stone. "I'm making you a drink, and you have no choice but to drink it. Cleric's orders. Leaf-fall is upon us and chamomile can only be enjoyed for so long." As he collected the herbs into the water, he turned his ears back to Urchin, asking, "What brings you to the apothecary?"
Urchin spent the last several days and nights convincing herself she had it all under control. After all, she spent her squireship preparing for her new role. She knew it like the back of her paw. She kept herself upright and shoulders squared whenever the Court was watching. She understood what she was doing. Her bloodline, in all of its regal purity, made it so.
So why did her stomach do flips? Why did her mind feel clouded? It came in bouts, and it left her unsteady… and worried. What did it mean? Wasn’t she supposed to proceed with setbacks or concerns? What was going on?
Her thoughts churned in her mind whenever she had a quiet moment to herself. She sought those moments, desperately wanting to piece together whatever conflicted inside of her. Currently, she paced the halls of the castle, nodding idly to those she passed. Her pawsteps barely echoed against the stone, cold against her paw pads. She wandered without direction, and a jolt brought her back to the present as the strong, pungent scent of herbs filled her nose. She blinked rapidly as she took in the sight of the castle’s apothecary.
The room was dim, but light from window openings filtered onto the stores of drying herbs. Among it all was Cleric Shrike, a fixture of the apothecary as much as the herbs. Her mouth parted, but before she could say anything, Cleric Shrike’s milky gaze bore eerily into hers.
Heir Urchin slowly padded through the hallway’s threshold and entered the apothecary at Shrike’s beckoning. She watched as he rummaged through his stores and pulled out herbs to infuse into water. The sound of grinding rocks filled her ears, then his voice as he addressed her lightheartedly. She huffed in amusement, briefly distracted by her tangled thoughts, but his following question brought them back.
Why was she there? Urchin grasped for a reason, but couldn’t find any tangible one–her worries were like vines, wrapped up so tightly she didn’t know how to process them or where to even begin. “I think I needed to hear you scraping those rocks together,” she said mirthfully. “My stomach can’t settle, so I need to intimidate it with the threat of your herbs.” No kit or squire wanted to visit the apothecary unnecessarily. Plants were no one’s favorite. Except maybe Shrike’s? Urchin didn’t dare ask.
Shrike hummed a laugh at Urchin's answer. She spoke with the same gumption he saw in Kestrel, a graceful presence that made itself known. He knew that was why she was here in the first place: her mother. There were big pawprints to fill when they were left behind by a sovereign like Kestrel, after all.
He pushed the bowl of water towards a place where sunlight cut through the clouds and dappled against the stone floor. Sitting, he gestured to it for Urchin to take a drink. He could see the creams and grays of her coat in this light through the haze. She was still a bit smaller than her mother, he noted in an impromptu milestone-check, but it wasn't the time for his mind to wander towards needless comparisons. Her mind must be doing that plenty, he thought.
He tucked his paws beneath the curl of his plumed tail. "My herbs won't hurt you any more than your stressors will as long as you approach the both of them wisely," he began. The humor hadn't left his voice; he often used this tone when he was speaking with troubled cats to lighten the mood. "I, like every cat in the Court, am proud of you. But shouldering the burden of the clan is quite the task. I'd even say it's nearly as stressful as being a cleric." His expression softened. "Speak to me. Find a few words in the brambles. What in the prospect of heirship is turning your stomach?"
Shrike’s presence was every bit welcoming, and Urchin did begin to feel relaxed despite herself. The Cleric nudged a bowl of water towards her, and she watched as the rays of sunlight hit it just perfectly. She leaned forward to sniff it, then lapped up several mouthfuls. The herb-tinged water sat on her tongue, and Urchin didn’t find it unpleasant, surprisingly.
His silvery tail draped over his paws, and Urchin took that to mean he was settling in. His stare felt knowing, somehow, and she wondered if he actually knew why she was there. Part of her wondered herself.
Cleric Shrike’s wisdom reached her ears, and she took a long moment to think about it. Heir Urchin stared at the cobbled stone beneath her paws. What was there to speak to him about? Her stomach and shoulders felt heavy—but deep down, she knew what he was referring to.
Her responsibility.
Besides her mother, there was no one else in her situation. And her future carried immense weight. And while she trained for it, expected it, it was now her reality.
“It’s… a lot.” Not an eloquent answer, but it framed her mind all the same. “I thought I was ready, but I realize now it’s a lot… I hope I’m ready.” Her paws kneaded on the ground, distinctly uncomfortable with her words that hung in the air. It didn’t feel right to admit, but Urchin couldn’t help herself. Something about Shrike made the words come out.
