Built as delicately as a dove, Valerianpaw is a svelte beauty, evenly proportioned and average in height. Her features are graceful, gentle around their edges, and pleasant to the eye, while her dilute calico coat is short and soft to the touch. Great care goes into maintaining the breaks of white, soft creams, and blues, and many would be hard-pressed to find her ever with a single hair out of place. She walks with a slight sway to each step and speaks in a soft trill.

Prologue.

Hailing from old roots, Valerianpaw's mother and father were cats of renown. Born weavers, defenders, and menders of nests and camp barriers, it was her family—or so it is said—that was the first to devise traps from plant weavings and that their ancestors wove the first thorns to keep enemies at bay. So, it was only natural for old customs to be maintained.

Quailstep and Ivyflower both hail from long lines of weavers. With their first litter being a raving success, bearing their golden daughter, Daisyfoot, they were anxious to bear more fruit that might succeed them. And so they tried their efforts at another brood. Only sometime later, when all hope for more kits was lost, Ivyflower was with child again, and this time she birthed more than a single daughter, but a daughter and sons. Three in total, healthy, squalling things, and all destined for futures as weavers.

All destined to live unknowingly in the shadow of the sister that had come before them.

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Early Kithood.

How familiar did such words become. Always sat before her weavings, mending nests, parading sticks and thorn twine through clearings. Busy work, all meant to prepare her for her future, mending and tending and picking up after the mess of her peers. An honor, or so her parents would assure her. She saw only the hard labor of fools too weak to fight for themselves.

It didn't help that she had no natural talents for the craft. Or that her sister always seemed to outshine her.

"It's really not so difficult, darling. Why, your sister—"

"When your sister was your age—"

"You'll have to ask your sister—"

Never a day went by in which she was not reminded of her. The golden daughter. The standard by which they were all held. Her brother's never minded. Valerianpaw could do nothing but mind for them. It was no life she desired. She did not wish to tend old walls and mend the broken bits of others' nests. She saw the sleek she-cats bearing prey into the camp; she saw the way the others congratulated them. She saw how the fruits of their labor earned the affection and approval of their peers in a way no tidy knot or pretty stone ever could. She watched the endeavors of her more 'primitive' clanmates, and her heart yearned not for the idle work that her parents set her to but that which involved pouncing and fighting and, gods forbid, getting absolutely filthy while doing it.


"I'll never be like you. Can't you tell mum that? Maybe then she'll finally leave me alone." Always would she ask such things of her sister when ever she came around. Begging and pleading for something that could not be provided.

"You know it's not that simple. They already have your future all planned out for you. You should be happy. Not everyone has that."

"But I don't want to weave. It's so boring. I don't know how you stand it."

Daisyfoot could only smile at that. She had a penchant for doing things such as that: smiling when there was no reason to. As though she found humor in the most minor of things. Some found it endearing. Valerianpaw thought it a sign of slow wits. Maybe that's why she's the favorite. She does whatever you tell her to. "Because… I'm good at it. Because mum and da would really like for me to be good at it. Isn't that enough?"

"Not really. I want to do something because I like to do it, not because someone tells me to."

"Then you and I are more different than you think." Daisyfoot had not said much after that; Valerianpaw thought it, once again, a testament to her simple mind.


"If you refuse to do your weaving, you can entertain yourself elsewhere. But don't expect your brothers to bring you anymore feather down or for any of us to tend your nests when it's worn itself out!"

Those had been the last words she heard about weaving. And it had been as if a weight were lifted from her heart. Finally, she had thought then, no more weaving! She never thought what that might mean for her or how important it was to them. She never thought it meant less tender words and praise or that the mice and little tidbits she brought to her kin would be looked over like ordinary pebbles.

It was as though she were forgotten, though she was always invited to attend family meals and engage in family talks. But when matters always returned to the toiling she had no heart for, she felt herself isolated and lonely. Suddenly, her family did not supply her with the attention she had grown so entitled to.

And so she found it elsewhere.

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Late Kithood; Early Apprenticeship.
It was not difficult to find friends. When she did not have to weave all day, there were many other things to do. Trinkets to polish, feathers to preen, and friends to romp and play with while her brothers bent their backs over their chores. She learned to be charming where she could not be useful, and when Hailstar's litter were old enough to toddle and romp beyond themselves, she first called upon them.

She found fast friends among the two sons, Cloudkit and Swankit, and at last found minds that thought and aspired as hers did. Rather than weavings and fortifications, they spoke of hunts and battles and lofty futures. Plans for leadership and acclaim spoke to the dormant ambitions within her. And company that might bring her one step closer with their connections.

In a few moons time, she gained leverage into a world she had felt otherwise barred from. A gateway into a life that didn't involve the dull toil of her families profession.


When her sixth moon approached, she wasn't entrusted to an esteemed weaver like her brothers, but Creeklily—a cat not only suspected of murder but the sudden and spontaneous vanishing of Irisfrost's litter.

"Her?"

"Don't look so disappointed; you'll give yourself wrinkles."

"But I thought you had connections. Why her?"

"Weaver connections. Our influence ends beyond the barrier."

Pointed words. Valerianpaw had no rebuttal for them. And so, when her Clan's eyes turned toward her, she rose with all the dignity she could muster. She strode up to the warrior standing before, craned onto the tips of her paws, and brushed her nose with Creeklily's. That had been the end of it.

Her fate was sealed as soon as the first cries had been lifted.

Pre-Plotting: Valerianpaw is an adopt and member of Swanpaw and Cloudpaw's friend group, otherwise known as the sweetheart. Her views on the Clan align most strongly with the leaves; she believes that Clan is far too entrenched in the past and dusty, old customs, and believes herself to be one of many trendsetters for the Clan's future. Whether or not that's true is up to interpretation. 

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