While smaller than an average tom of his age, Foxglove is well-built and athletic. He has the body of a fighter, lean and powerful. His fur is primarily white with ginger patches and bright green eyes. While he has several smaller scars scattered about and hidden under his fur, there is large scarring on the left side of his neck from a deep claw attack. 

He was born as Kurama. A different cat, it feels like at times. A beginning, a prologue to the life he leads now.

Foxglove wishes he didn’t remember.

But he does. Of course he does. He remembers the group he called family, his parents and their friends and kin. A traveling tribe, many generations old. He remembers the traditions he was taught as an impatient youngling, the words to use when speaking to their elders, the ways to treat prey, gestures of respect and affection to use within the family.

Foxglove did not appreciate it at the time. 

The tribe traveled, rotating territories throughout the year to take advantage of resources. A way to participate in the turning of the seasons, the elders would drone on. They moved to allow the prey and herbs to flourish again in their absence, to be able to take advantage of their bounty when they returned.

Foxglove remembers some of their camps. The mossy forest where he and his best friend Leon would wrestle, the lakeside field where his father taught him the art of fighting, the farm where his mother tried (unsuccessfully) to pique his interest in medicine.

It was rhythmic and predictable, mirroring the seasons that the elders followed. Until they began to return to lands that had been claimed. Groups of other loners and rogues, fur bristling as they defended territory that Foxglove's family had returned to for generations. Move along, they were told. There’s no place for you here.

Traditional camps were lost, the tribe having to seek out and adapt to new homes. Foxglove is still angered when he thinks back on it. Moving along at the whims of others, the elders not once trying to stand up for the good of their tribe.

They sought peace to the detriment of their tribe, sacrificing security to avoid conflict.


Kurama is a few moons shy of his first year of life when they settle in what had become their spring camp. The tribe had become tense with the constant changes, and the elders are strict with their rules. No cat in their first year is to explore beyond their camp alone. The shaggy-furred elder who announces the restriction gives an extra long look to Kurama, who frowns back at him.

There are not many younglings at that time. Restless Kurama and his friend Leon, and Kurama’s younger siblings, who only had faint memories of the time before the tribe’s hardships.

“We should be able to explore on our own!” Hushed words whispered to Leon that evening. Leon startles, staring back with his usual wide-eyed expression, whiskers twitching nervously.

He argues a bit, weakly. Leon has never been as bold as Kurama, relying on the other’s fierceness to keep up with their training. There had been rumors, when they were younger, that Leon would not be strong enough to be a hunter for the tribe, but Kurama was determined to experience the world with him.

There would be no restrictions when they were yearlings, but the frustrated grief of the adults was suffocating. Kurama couldn't wait that long.

Leon, despite his reservations, follows closely behind as Kurama leads the way out of camp. And for a while, the adventure is wonderful. A barn in the distance, and mountains even further beyond that, are an enticing backdrop.

Even Leon is relaxed by the freedom, the pair playing chase and practicing their hunting crouches on each other.

“What’cha doin’?”

The voice catches them off-guard, the pair spinning to meet the sneering faces of several rogues. Battle-scarred and wiry, examining Kurama and Leon for any threats. They aren't impressed.

Leon begins to back away, fumbling through attempts to keep the group at bay. The elders would have been proud of him, to see how he gave no thought to conflict and gave up any ground to ensure peace. He glances desperately at Kurama, begging without words for his friend to follow his lead.

Kurama is tired of bending to the wills of others. Anger, built up over moons, bursts forward, and he steps forward, teeth bared as he faces the leader of the group. Perhaps if he stood up to this group and was successful, his tribe could follow his lead. They wouldn't have to flee anymore. 

Insults and taunts are spat at the rogues, Kurama demanding for them to leave them be. 

The group does not respond to his snarls, the leader only coldly staring down at him. A final verbalized plea to leave from Leon breaks Kurama from his angry challenge, and he finally backs away, glaring at the rogues before bounding after Leon back towards camp.

He feels proud of himself, giddy with the bold action and lack of retaliation from the rogues.


His pride turns to ash as soon as the sun sets.

The rogues return, though not to exchange more insults and hisses. Perhaps they thought the rest of Kurama’s tribe was as brazen as he was and wanted to squash their competition. Or perhaps it is simply to prove a point, a harsh lesson to teach a head-strong young cat.

The attack comes without warning, the rogues using the light of the moon to ambush the tribe in their camp. They ignore pleas for peace from the elders, indiscriminate in their attacks towards young and old. The tribe begins to scatter, the unity that had kept them together vanishing in the face of tragedy.

Kurama is frozen to the spot, horrified, until a harsh shove from Farosh knocks him into a bush. His leg twists under him, but he doesn't dare to move to relieve the painful pressure. He can only watch as his tribe disappears, either slain or fleeing from sight.

The attack begins to subside, the crazed adrenaline of the rogues calming. Farosh bounds away, grabbing the scruff of a younger cat that hunched near a fallen tribemate before fleeing.

Is that his mother he had leapt over? His mother’s body?

Kurama feels sick at the realization. 


He remains in the bush for a day before dragging himself forth, ignoring the scrapes from the branches as they drag across his face and shoulders. His front leg hurts, a bad sprain, but the pain doesn't register as he stares at the desecrated camp before him.

Kurama’s mother’s is indeed among the fallen. And there, by the treeline, he recognizes Leon’s dark fur. Several other bodies are scattered throughout the camp, and while it seems as though most of the tribe has managed to escape, the grief and guilt he feels at seeing his beloved friend and his mother’s bodies is unbearable.

Numbly, he buries them, his sprained leg protesting as he digs through the earth. The pain is nothing compared to what Naydra and Leon had experienced. He deserves the strain on his muscles, the torn pawpads and broken claws from the act. It is the least that he deserves.

As he works, his grief begins to temper back into familiar anger. Was it his tribe’s destiny to suffer at the paws of other groups, those who were willing to claim territory and resources? So long they had been dancing around others, and Kurama tried once to defend his family’s right to stay, and destruction had followed.

Perhaps it wasn’t his fault, but the fault of others. A fault of those who refused to live like his family, who had shared the bounty of their territory.

His guilt doesn't lessen, but identifying an enemy soothes his rage.



There is no sign of the rogues in the surrounding area.

Kurama knew there was no chance to exact vengeance on them all, but even taking one life might have relieved his guilt before going to the heavens. He couldn't even be granted that.

Alone and directionless, he begins to walk. The barn and mountains that he and Leon had admired just a few days before are his compass, and he begins to make his way towards them. His pace is aggravatingly slow, his paws and leg restricting his movement.

Attempts at hunting are futile and by the time he reaches the barn, he is weak from hunger and pain.

He is too tired to marvel at the kindness of the barn cats as they usher him inside to eat and rest.


Food, shelter, and medicine come freely from the barn cats. They cautiously ask about his origins and journey, but he sharply dismisses their prying. The support isn’t pulled, and he feels a twinge of regret at shunning companionship from them, but the attack on his family is too recent to allow him to enjoy the comforts given to him.

Had these cats chased others from the barn before, to claim it as their own? Surely their kindness has an end. His tribe had tried to live in peace but had failed. There was no way the barn cats were successful where his family was not.

As soon as Kurama’s strength is back, he prepares to leave. A persistent barn cat shares parting words with him, warning him of Clans of cats who occupy the valley. “They mark their borders. You’d be wise to avoid them.”

Kurama can only sneer. More organized cats abusing their power, hoarding land and resources. The valley is poisoned with a plethora of such cats, it seems.


He disregards the advice and passes over PrairieClan’s border. He meets no resistance, even when spotted by a cat or two. He is followed several times, ensuring he isn't lingering. What would happen if he did? Would they kill him? He is almost tempted to find out.

That would not redeem himself, though. He would still not be able to face Leon, not after causing his death.

He would have to bring justice to truly earn his place with his lost ones.

The river is low, making it easy to cross to the island he had spotted. There is a new scent here, different from what Kurama had come to associate with the prairie cats, but the water makes it difficult to place.

It doesn't matter, he supposes. He just plans to fish and then move on.

He had managed to swipe several minnows from the shallows before he hears movement behind him.

“Wh-...what are you doing here?” comes the alarmed voice of one of the two cats that now faced him.

“Fishing.” he replies simply, motioning to his meager catch.

The cats (Clan cats, he realizes as he takes in their arrogance) stare at him, the first bursting into a tirade about how this was RidgeClan territory and he was stealing their prey.

Stealing?

“Do the fish know they belong to your RidgeClan?” he snaps in return, fur bristling, “Do they make sure not to go too far down the river to stay within your borders? What a stupid idea.”

The warriors do not like that. Kurama is glad.

The following brawl is cathartic. He pretends they are the rogues that attacked his family, raking his claws down one of their backs before the other swipes at and catches his neck in a nasty swipe that knocks Kurama to his back. A momentary struggle, the warrior above him seeming to consider shoving his head in the river before Kurama is able to kick him off.

One of the two stomps his paw over the fish, claiming them as his own. Kurama is angry, almost blind with rage, but the blood wetting his shoulder from his neck is concerning.

“Don’t make us kill you over some minnows, loner.” The first Clan cat says. Kurama almost wants to make him do it, just to prove how ridiculous their laws are.

Hissing, he retreats instead, stumbling in his anger and pain. These Clans, holding themselves as noble and honorable groups, are no different from the rogues that tormented his family.

Why should they be successful while those born beyond their borders have to fight to survive? The prairie cats hadn’t attacked him, but he could sense the tension as he passed through their borders, as though he could single-handedly desecrate their land.

He hates them, he decides. The valley would be better off without such power-hungry groups.


“Looks like you got yourself into a bit of trouble, huh?”

His eyes slowly open from the tree hollow that he had made his nest, peering up at the speaker. His eyes meet golden, illuminated by the sun, and he feels momentarily blinded.

As his eyes focus (sluggishly, he notes, the blood on his neck itching where it was starting to dry), he is met with the smiling face of a large golden tom. They stare at each other, the stranger making no move to rush or prompt Kurama until the smaller tom finally croaks out a confused “What?”

“Your neck. You look like you could use some assistance, little fox.” He makes no move to bridge the distance between them, but Kurama now notices the medicine at the other’s paws. Herbs and cobwebs, with medicinal properties that he can’t remember.

He also takes notice of the Clan scent coming from the sunlight cat, and he bristles.

“I don’t need help from the likes of you.” Despite how tired he feels, his words don’t lack venom. Was this a trick? A Clan’s sense of cruel humor, to fight off a loner and then send medical aid to soothe their conscience?

Kurama wants no part of it, but the stranger isn’t discouraged. If anything, his smile widens.

“Oh, more bite than a fox! More like foxglove, huh?” He winks, as though sharing a joke between them. Kurama stares back, unamused and unsure how to navigate this strange encounter. He is reminded of the kindness of the barn cats, and even further back, the generosity of his tribe, and the thought makes him uncomfortable.

He opens his mouth to argue when the stranger interrupts, a more serious tone entering his voice. A doctor scolding a patient. “Listen, you need some help. I’ve got the herbs you need and the knowledge to use them. You’ll die out here without treatment.”

“Better than being indebted to a Clan cat.”

That makes the stranger pause, his smile lessening. “That’s what you’re worried about, huh? Well then you’ve got nothin’ to worry about. I’m on my own out here, same as you.”

Kurama’s head has dropped to his paws, frowning angrily at the herbs at the other’s feet. He has many more questions, but the bitter tone is enough to convince him that the other holds no current allegiance to a Clan. He doesn’t fight as the other finally closes the distance.


Lionwing, the golden tom introduces himself as.

He doesn’t delve into the details of his situation as he replaces poultices and cobwebs over the next few days. Kurama can't complain, as he continues to guard his own stories. Even a casual inquiry to his name is met with a steely glare. 

Lionwing is a chatty cat, happily filling the silence with facts about the herbs he is using and tidbits of knowledge of the surrounding area. Without a name to call Kurama, he takes to calling him Foxglove.

“I’ve always been interested in herbs. All the ways they can be used to help others, y’know? Now foxglove isn’t an herb. Poisonous, actually.”

Ah. Fitting, Kurama thinks. He certainly hadn't brought anything good to his family. 

Lionwing glances up from his work, rolling his eyes before going back to sorting the collection of plants he had gathered at the makeshift den. “I see that angsty look on your face. I don’t think poisons are all bad. We avoid them, sure, but I think there’s a lot of potential there that we are missing. Ways to help others if we can learn to work with the bad parts. Interesting stuff, right?”

“Indeed.” Foxglove softly agrees.


Like a thorn in his side, Lionwing hangs around even after Foxglove’s neck has healed.

“It’s no trouble!” he assures, as though Foxglove had expressed concerns for Lionwing’s own comfort. “I’d feel guilty if I found you dead after picking another dumb fight somewhere.”

Lionwing doesn’t prove to be a terrible companion. In addition to his knowledge in herbs and native flora, he is an excellent hunter, ensuring the pair go to sleep with full bellies most nights. He continues to stay chatty and upbeat, providing something to focus on through the mostly directionless days.

Their tentative alliance transforms to friendship within the moon. Fondness follows soon after.


As time passes, he learns more of Lionwing’s past. Born to RidgeClan, he trained as a warrior. The main providers of the Clan, learning skills in fighting and hunting to ensure the safety of the group. But that wasn’t what Lionwing had wanted.

His interest was in medicine, in healing and helping others. The Clan wasn’t set up in a way to support such interests, though. There was already a healer and their apprentice, and so despite Lionwing’s talents and passion, he was ignored.

“Is that why you left?” Foxglove asks softly one night.

Lionwing frowns, mulling the question over. “Not entirely.” he finally responds, “Partly, yes. I wanted to do more. Help others. It was frowned upon for me to delve too deep into medicine in the Clan. Stepping on the medicine cat’s toes and all that.”

Foxglove is angry for Lionwing, angry at a system that failed him, another fault of the Clans of the valley. While Lionwing has been a welcome distraction to his own hate, it is validating to hear another reason as to why the Clans were corrupt.

Lionwing continues, explaining a religious movement in the Clan that was growing dangerous. There was talk of war in the future, superiority over the other Clans and becoming a dominating force.

“It's against everything I want to do. So I left. I want to help others, not dominate them.”

“You helped me.”

Lionwing smiles, the tension on his face relaxing. “Yeah, I did. Best thing I’ve done in a while.”


Foxglove returns the favor sometime later. Careful, hesitant sentences, clumsily navigating the history of his tribe. Lionwing listens patiently, chiming in now and then to compare their tribe traditions to the Clan.

He doesn’t interrupt as Foxglove stumbles through the details of the attack and his role in it.

The silence afterwards is heavy, Foxglove feeling alight with old grief and anger.

“It wasn’t your fault, you know. You were young. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.”

His words do little to chip away at moons of guilt. Lionwing doesn’t push it, though, doesn’t insist on Foxglove to forgive himself there at the moment. He sits with him, sharing his sadness as best as he can.

In the moments that follow, Foxglove softly murmurs his given name to Lionwing. The golden tom’s pleased purrs lull them both to sleep.


They help others when they can. Lionwing is eager to use his knowledge, and whenever they find a cat in need, he is the first to approach and offer assistance. Foxglove becomes something of an assistant, restraining cats when wounds are being treated or passing certain herbs and tools when needed.

It’s simple, but Lionwing finds joy in it. A direction that he can take his life without the support of a Clan. Foxglove wonders if he can find joy in it too.

But many afflictions are Clan-caused, either directly or indirectly. An infected wound from a swipe across a haunch, an ill cat unable to find help on the border, a cat unable to find prey outside the borders who needs guidance to the barn.

Lionwing seems unaffected, taking such injuries as a part of life, but Foxglove sees the issue as clear as day. He starts debates, and while Lionwing is quick to admit the faults of Clan structure, he is unwilling to agree that the Clans as a whole are a problem.

“The Clans aren’t your enemy, Foxglove.” he insists, “They provide support and safety for the members.”

“But they antagonize and harass those that aren’t as lucky to be born within them. They should want to share their privilege, not hoard it.” Foxglove challenges back.

“But the cats within didn’t choose to be born there either. Why should they receive your wrath?”

They are often unable to reach agreement and arguments are frequent when the topic comes up.


They hear about RidgeClan’s holy war from a passing loner.

Details are scarce, Lionwing unable to obtain any information about the outcome of the battle or the fallen. He is worried, Foxglove can tell, and he does his best to support him.

He is careful not to bring up the Clans, especially in the face of an event that only further solidifies his views. Clans that were supposed to be safe, and yet they couldn’t even coexist with each other.

Foxglove holds his tongue, though, and reluctantly follows Lionwing as they venture onto PrairieClan territory to try and get updates on the situation.


Lionwing’s visits to PrairieClan continue, keeping up on the news from the life he left behind. He’s careful not to speak to Foxglove about what he learns, knowing his companion’s feelings towards the Clans. Foxglove hears bits and pieces, though…a leader dead, a Clan unstable, tension among the three despite the ending of the conflict.

He grows less and less pleased with Lionwing’s visits to the Clan, but doesn’t stop him. It’s important to the other, and while some of the visits are concerningly long, Foxglove makes no comment on how he thinks they should move on. How spending the day without Lionwing isn’t the same as when they are together.

Maybe he should have said something, he thinks later. Perhaps it could have prevented what came next.


“PrairieClan has invited me to join them.”

Foxglove freezes over the rabbit they were sharing, eyes wide. Had he heard wrong? Taking in Lionwing’s nervous expression, he knows he hadn't.

Seizing the silence, Lionwing continues, hurrying through his explanation. An invitation from PrairieClan’s herbalist to work with them to further his education in healing. To have a chance at showing a Clan the importance of all its members having healing knowledge, to fix what he saw wrong with the structure of his home.

What? Isn’t what they were doing enough? To help those less fortunate outside the Clans…why couldn’t that be more important? Foxglove’s thoughts feel sluggish as his stomach drops with every word.

Lionwing doesn’t voice another reason, but Foxglove knows he also misses the connections within the Clans. Foxglove isn’t enough for him…Lionwing thrives off of social bonds, and the life of a loner doesn’t suit him.

The sting of betrayal and anger isn’t lessening, Lionwing knows it. His voice takes on a desperate, hopeful tone. “And I thought, you could come with me-....We could have a life there-”

Foxglove jerks as though struck, knocked from his shocked silence by the suggestion. “How dare you.”

“Kurama, please-”

“Don’t call me that!” he snaps, claws tearing at the ground.

Kurama would have considered it, before the tragedy that befell his tribe. For the adventure, to train as a warrior to defend his weaker Clanmates. For the opportunity to protect his family.

For the chance to not give up this life with Lionwing, to continue loving him for the rest of his moons.

But Foxglove knows better.

He doesn’t remember his next words. Sharp and cruel, fueled by anger and grief and intended to hurt. Despite not remembering what he said, he regrets the words, the heartbreak on Lionwing’s face a horrible memory.

Foxglove turns and flees the scene before Lionwing can argue back and speak any sense. He doesn’t turn back to see if Lionwing pursues or waits for him. Perhaps Lionwing was relieved, and turned to his new life as a Clan cat without watching Foxglove leave. It would be easiest that way.


The harsh separation should have made the following days easier, but Foxglove feels lost.

Anger, betrayal, grief. Emotions that had followed him for much of his life have become a dominating force again. Lionwing had managed to soothe the worst of it, giving Foxglove something to focus on and keep him from lingering on overwhelming feelings.

Without Lionwing's gentle love, though, Foxglove feels himself able to fully focus on the issue that he has seen for moons.

The Clans.

A blight to the valley, the enemy of loners as well as each other. He has always known things would be better without such groups, and perhaps it was time to finally confront the issue. Without Lionwing to pull him back, he slips to embrace this mission with ease.

It's easy to convince himself that, without the Clans setting an example of violent and power-hungry organization, his family may not have been attacked by the rogues. He can't see the difference anymore between the groups. 


He visits the barn first, seeking out his fellow loners to support his mission. Tales of the holy war have reached the ear to all in the valley, with refugees speaking of the horror and bloodshed that they left behind. This fuels his mission, and it isn’t long before he has cats who agree and are ready to fight back.

The barn does not allow him to stay. They fear retaliation from the Clans and they do not see that the fear is why the Clans are an issue.

It’s no matter. The abandoned cabin on the outskirts of PrairieClan’s territory makes a suitable camp. Within the Clan borders, the sudden presence of an organized Clanless group prevents immediate retaliation from PrairieClan, and the success brings confidence to his fellows.

More cats join him, some faces he has never seen before, while he recognizes some that he and Lionwing assisted. The reasons vary, but motivation is the same…the Clans had brought too much destruction to themselves and the cats around them and it was time for them to fall. 

The Clans solve their issues with violence, and he has no issues stooping to their level. Justice would be brought to those that had been wronged by such organized groups. 

Lionwing called him Foxglove, after all. He would be a poison to the Clans and bring true peace to the valley.

Pre-Plotting: Foxglove leads an anti-Clan movement that is currently based in the cabin upon PrairieClan's territory. He aligns closest with Justice in the Clanless adoptables. 

Family: Foxglove believes his family to all be dead. While he never found the bodies of his siblings or father, he assumes they watch him from the afterlife. 
 
Friends: Other cats are kept at a careful distance, but Foxglove considers the majority of his followers to be companions. He views Aster to be his closest confidant, but even she does not get to cross the distance he has created with others. 

Romance: Foxglove still cares deeply for his former love, Lionflower. He remains heartbroken and betrayed by Lionflower's decision to return to the Clans, but ultimately has focused his attentions on pursuing his own goals. He has no plans to ever consider taking another mate. 

Rivals: His unhidden hatred towards the Clans makes any Clan cat an enemy. He especially despises the RidgeClan cat who he fought with on the border as well as the rogues who attacked his tribe. Foxglove carries more hate than love these days. 

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