A lithe, gray tabby she-cat with faint markings and a warm, brown coloration on her stomach. 

-

Needlestorm, at birth, was a mottled mix of grays and brown that made it impossible to tell what she'd look like as she grew. By the time she was an apprentice, the grays and browns separated into a uniquely pattern coat, possibly attributed to her clanless father. The majority of her fur is gray, with faint tabby markings striping her back. Her stomach and chest, however, are brown, almost fawn-like in color, with a white patch of fur on her chin and muzzle. Like her brother, Needlestorm inherited her mother's pale green eyes. Her ears are tall and pointed, almost too large for her narrow face, giving her a youthful appearance she fears she'll never shake.

Though she moves slowly with languid grace, sometimes giving the appearance of stillness to those not paying attention, Needlestorm is a cat meant to be seen in motion. Aside from her unique coloration, she isn't much to look at, especially in RidgeClan. Her earthy colors blend in too well with the mountainous forest. But, when she moves, she captures a space. She moves like the breeze between trees, as if she was carved from nature's breath itself. Her voice is similarly commanding, though she is far less likely to use it like her brother does. 

My brother greets death like an old friend. He aches for it — not for his own death, mind you, but for the death of others. The death of empires. He was born to see things crumble, to watch the world fall around him, and rise up in the rubble that remains.

He craves death, but he does not learn from it.

That's my job.

-

Ripplefur was on the cusp of greatness when she grew heavy with kit, like so many cats before her. A litter of seven, all dead, save for the brilliant, golden body of my oldest brother. It's a horrible story, steeped in death. You would think, after something like that, Ripplefur would never seek motherhood again, but she does. She must be where my brother gets his craving from. That insatiable urge to watch things fall apart. It must be why I still love her, despite it all. She and him are too much alike for me to ever hate her.

Instead of my step-father, Ripplefur took a new mate. Some loner. I don't know his name. I don't know much about him at all, really, only that he left a blood curse on me and my brother, and that he made orphans of us by never coming after his children when Ripplefur took us away.

Orphans, because my step-father killed Ripplefur the moment he had the chance.

Her eyes were so light when she died. Light and lush and green, much like mine. Much like my brother's. Never mind that they were full of hatred for the kits she thought got her killed — that was misplaced. She had to be have been an idiot, at least at the time of her death, to blame her kits when it was her mate standing over her corpse. 

I don't think Firetongue has ever forgotten that look.

Maybe I haven't, either.

-

A clan's nursery is designed to protect it's fragile young. To harbor them in the warm, safe confines of a tucked away den, something meant to mimic a womb long after a kit forgets what it means to be inside their mother. The problem with a nursery, however, is there's nothing to protect the kits from what's inside.

My nursery-mates were cruel and unkind, and their parents even worse, after my mother died. They came up with all sorts of names for my siblings and me; half-breeds, outsiders, kittypets. That last one was ridiculous. I never knew, and never intend to know, my biological father, but I know the wilds run through his veins the same as any other clan cat.

The exception to the ceaseless bullying was Stagkit. To this day, I fail to understand him, or his motives, or whatever it was that drove a happy kit like himself to make friends with the least liked kits in the whole clan. Idiocy, maybe. Stagkit was Firekit's friend first, then Waspkit. I'm not sure we were ever friends, back then. Sometimes I wonder if we are now, or if he's just my brother's friend. I don't care either way. He's just a distraction.

The other exception was Lionpaw, who became a warrior sometime while I still slept in the nursery. At first I thought it might be nice to have an older brother, especially one who liked me. But any kindness he showed me at first was tainted by the shadow of his father, my step-father, hovering over his shoulder. I hated him, if only because Russetfoot did not.

It was a childish instinct, I know. But I was nothing but a child.

-

Somehow, Russetfoot bent Wolfstar and Spiderstorm's necks until they agreed to let Lionflight mentor Wasp-paw. At the time, despite struggling with how I felt about my half-brother, I was jealous that I was left out of the family. Firepaw was mentored by a warrior named Rookjaw, at least, which soothed the blow to my ego. My mentor was a quiet she-cat called Lakestripe, who walked around with stars in her eyes. It didn't take me long to realize the tranquility Lakestripe exuded was something I craved. She was just so different from my family full of anger and violence. I loved my siblings, but StarClan, by the end of my first moon training, I wanted to be just like her.

Blessedly, Lakestripe seemed to realized how much I needed her without me having to say anything. It would be unfair of me to say she was like a mother to me, when she was so much more. She was a mother. A mentor. A balm. A guide. She spoke of StarClan with a tender fervor, so unlike the few pious words I remember coming from Ripplefur's mouth. I watched her speak, watched her gentle, sage green eyes, and wondered, just for a moment, if Russetfoot had been mistaken. If I was Lakestripe's daughter, after all.

It was a nonsensical thought, but it soothed me anyway.

Though Lakestripe was exactly who I needed at that age, she still struggled to help me excel. It wasn't her fault. My attention was torn in more directions than a young cat's should be. I was balancing her lessons, both ones meant to train me as a warrior and as a follower of StarClan, but I was also balancing my family. It was hard, managing Firepaw's temper, his insatiable wit, his need for control and destruction, while also tending to Wasp-paw's fragile spirit. I loved them both fiercely, but dammit, if they didn't annoy me sometimes.

Stagpaw annoyed me, too. It felt different from when we were kits. If ever there was a time we were friends, really friends, and not just connected by my brother, it was in those early moons of apprenticehood. He was good to me.

And Firepaw was good to Flickerpaw, a younger apprentice that made my hackles raise. It wasn't her fault I reacted like that. At that age, everyone made my hackles raise, if they weren't one of my siblings or Lakestripe. Firepaw was good to her in a different way than Stagpaw was good to me. Stagpaw was a friend. Firepaw wanted Flickerpaw to be something more.

I should've stopped him, back then. I should've convinced him there was no room in our family for another cat. It would've saved them both the heartbreak in the end. Or maybe he wouldn't have listened — maybe he would've snapped at me for being heartless, inconsiderate of his feelings. Maybe, if Wasp-paw hadn't died, I would've done it.

-

The truth is that my sister didn't die, she was murdered, but I wasn't there to see it. For a few short days I truly believe she died. That an accidental tumble down a ridge took her away from me and my brothers. Firepaw was broiling with emotions. Stagpaw and Lionflight, too, seemed twisted on themselves, like their insides were too big for their bodies suddenly. Even Flickerpaw seemed changed. And for those first few days after Wasp-paw was brought back to camp, her body mangled and broken, I didn't understand why.

Finally, Firepaw told me the truth: that Russetfoot killed Wasp-paw. That he pushed her. I believed him, of course, and rage filled me until I was just as twisted as he was. Maybe even more. Maybe my rage toward him made me worse, made me sparking with anger and sorrow. Everyone in our circle knew Russetfoot was to blame. And I was the last to learn.

When did Flickerpaw come before me?

My skin crawled as I sat with them all, listening to Stagpaw and Firepaw brainstorm what to do next. How to handle Russetfoot. He's going to kill him, I thought, knowing Firepaw's claws were already soaked with our step-father's blood. But I could, too. I laughed at the thought. Firepaw's ears swiveled to me, but I dismissed him. Said something about laughing at a joke I remembered earlier.

I couldn't kill Russetfoot. Not like this.

"Train me harder," I told Lakestripe, and my poor, pacifist mentor only flattened her ears in response. She could not teach me the violence I wanted. Fighting was never her strong suit. So she introduced me to her mate, Emberfang, and between the two of them I learned to channel my sparking rage into something more productive. I sat with my brother and our friends when they made plans for Russetfoot's demise, but I only listened, rarely spoke. I had my own plans. I thought I was so lucky none of them knew.

-

Firepaw's plan was a good one. The two of us would patrol with Russetfoot, our friends and their mentors secretly not far behind, ready to catch Russetfoot in the act of violence that would surely occur. But what Firepaw didn't understand is how smart Russetfoot was. How clever. A cat like him would not risk killing two apprentices at once. Not when there was a chance one of them would escape and return to camp to report his crimes.

But my brother would never accept one of us acting as bait alone.

So I did it without telling him, or Stagpaw, or Flickerpaw, or Lionflight, or anyone. Russetfoot was amused when I asked to patrol with him that sunhigh. I wonder if he knew all along what our plans were. We were stupid, weren't we? A cluster of apprentices, thinking we could take on Russetfoot by ourselves. I was even stupider, to do it alone. But I knew my brother and our friends would not be far behind.

Russetfoot attacked first. Looking back on it, I can hardly remember the fight. I remember the sting of pain as he ripped open a wound on my shoulder. I remember the moment I got the upper-paw, and I remember the moment I realized I never had it to begin with. He was toying with me. Grinning. I just barely manage to keep up long enough to survive, but I never had a chance to do this alone.

My brother roared on the scene like a wildfire, his coat glistening in the hot sun, a testament to his name. The blood loss had gripped me at this point. I don't remember much else, other than the concerned faces of my friends as they follow behind Firepaw, and the hurt on Lionflight's face as he stares at his dead father.

I wondered, would he feel the same hurt if it was me lying there?

And then I passed out.

-

I woke up in a crowd of my clanmates. In reality, I'd been awake for some time, checked over by the medicine cat and released with nothing but shallow wounds that insisted on bleeding more than they were worth. But it wasn't until we all stood before our clan, Firepaw on trial for murder, did I really wake up. My throat was thick with sleep and pain as I reiterated, for what felt like the hundredth time, that yes, Russetfoot tried to kill me. Alone. Just the two of us on patrol.

Firepaw did not speak so much as he preached. I always thought my brother's words were storytelling. He could convince anyone of anything, and I was never more in awe of his power than when he convinced Wolfstar. It wasn't a lie. None of it was a lie. But a normal apprentice didn't talk their way out of murder trial so easily, nor did he convince his leader to gift him and his friends a warrior name on the spot.

We hadn't even been assessed, yet.

"Needlestorm," Wolfstar said. "For your ferocity."

Wasp-paw should be here. I struggled to bask in the celebration, knowing that.

-

If there is one lesson from Lakestripe that will never leave me, it's that StarClan's messages are for the masses. A medicine cat, an oracle — these are cats who cultivate the knowledge to really understand the messages. They commune back, when most cats fail to grasp the language of the stars. But they are not the only ones StarClan will ever speak to.

Wolfstar, for instance, is someone StarClan speaks to.

At least — I believed that at the time. 

The tree fell shortly after we were granted our names. Immediately, Firetongue was obsessed with it. His voice was full of the same fervor as Wolfstar's, the same claims of RidgeClan superiority, of StarClan's blessings. I agreed with him. I thought of it like this: for moons, generations even, RidgeClan stewed in our belief that we were StarClan's chosen. And finally, StarClan granted us a leader and an opportunity to prove it. 

We flubbed that opportunity, but that was Wolfstar's fault. He asked for the wrong thing. I was never sure how I felt about our leader. Firetongue liked him, and I tended to like whatever Firetongue liked, but I was also hesitant about anyone outside of our small clique. Especially anyone who spoke as smoothly as my brother did. I saw the fury and violence hidden in Firetongue's pretty words. It was so easy to think of other cats as hiding the same thing.

When Wolfstar spoke of greatness, did he really mean bloodshed? I remember questioning it as a youth. I remember the sickening feeling in my stomach when my suspicions were right.

Firetongue told me, "Needle, our mother was primed to be oracle. The stars are in our blood!"

He forgot we're only half made up of stars.

-

I'd like to make it clear to you: I was not, and am not, uncomfortable with the idea that my clan was superior. Is superior. RidgeClan is the most deserving of its connection to StarClan. Why else would they bestow an oracle upon us? But the only thing I value more than StarClan is being right. And it was hard to believe this was right, when so many other cats insisted it was wrong.

Lakestripe, for starters. Despite all her piety she didn't want to attack MistClan. Didn't want to claim the Mooncave. Even her mate, the ambitious, aggressive Emberfang, didn't want to stir the clans in that way. Other cats I'd come to respect made it clear they were apprehensive. Not with Wolfstar's cause, but with the violence he so openly rallied for. War did not frighten me. I was ready to fight, as Firetongue demanded we all be. But I respected the cats who rejected violence. I still do.

I know now that violence — war — is not the way. I also know Wolfstar had to die before any of us would truly understand that. Back then, I wasn't looking for understanding. I was looking for power. I wanted to do right by my brother, by my dead sister. I wanted to make my dead mother proud, as if her approval from beyond the grave would improve things for me. I wanted to show Wolfstar he did not make a mistake in naming the cat too weak to kill her own step-father when he tried to kill her first. I wanted to do so many things.

I'm not sure I did any of them.

-

In the end, I fought. I stood proudly by Firetongue's side as we descended onto MistClan's camp. I tore through fur and skin and even bone, blood decorating my pelt with stripes, satisfaction that our victory was imminent carrying me from victim to victim. I caught sight of my brothers several times — they both stood tall and golden in the moonlight, covered in their own violence. It was as it should have been.

It was as it should have been.

It was as it should have been.

It was-

It wasn't right. We were losing. Even before PrairieClan thundered into MistClan's camp, we were losing.

-

The only victory was how many of my friends survived. My brothers. Stagleap. Flickerheart. But the victory was dulled by the dead we count after. Lakestripe, who fought only because Emberfang did, did not come home. My grief was immeasurable. Is immeasurable. Emberfang's grief was worse.

Wolfstar did not come home. Or — he did, but he never woke up. It was better that way. My paws, still soaked in blood, would itch to finish the job some MistClan warrior started if Wolfstar managed to survive. How dare he? How dare he ask for the tree to fall, for StarClan to let him prove himself in such a miserable way? My stomach was twisted and sick that I did not speak up sooner, did not voice my concerns with the methods behind his ambitions. I was not the only one who felt that way. Maybe it was only regret born by hindsight, but suddenly, everyone in RidgeClan had something critical to say about Wolfstar's plans. Even Firetongue, who spoke so highly of our leader and his war only days before.

The hypocrisy was sickening.

-

RidgeClan changed overnight. Spiderstorm steps down as deputy. Mushroomstar rises into Wolfstar's place, and Toadfeather joins him at his side. Rainstorm, too damn young, becomes the medicine cat instead of Bearclaw, who died in the fighting. The oracle is dismissed.

It's a different clan. One I hardly recognized.

I kept my head down, but even the earth had changed.

-

I'd like to ask you how you define a year. Not how to. How you. The passing of the seasons does not interest me; there is no stopping their steady cycle. But what makes a year, to you?

To me, a year must contain growth. We have so few of them in our lives. It would be a waste not to grow.

But in the year that followed Wolfstar's death, I did not grow. I tended to my clan. I hunted. I patrolled. I cared for kits. I nurtured elders. I was dutiful. I prayed, every night, every sunrise, every sunhigh, every dusk. The earth became my altar to the skies, and soon I began to wonder what the Mooncave was even for. StarClan was everywhere, if you were willing to listen.

In the year that followed Wolfstar's death, I learned all this. But I still did not grow.

I waited.

-

I am my mother's daughter. It's a mantra I began to find comfort in, sometime after the bloody snows melted away. The comfort in it didn't come from my mother. It came from the future she should've had — her deserved place as oracle. It's one of the few things that makes sense, in the moons after Wolfstar's death. That my mother should've been oracle, but wasn't. And that maybe, if she had, RidgeClan wouldn't have ended up in this mess.

I am my mother's daughter. Her blood runs through my veins. It's not the only blood, but if StarClan chose her once, then StarClan can choose me, too. I will be the successor they did not expect. I will restore the clan to our former gory. I will return the oracle to its rightful place in RidgeClan's leadership. Mushroomstar was a coward for getting rid of it, anyway. It was Wolfstar that drove the clan to war. Not the oracle.

I am my mother's daughter. But I am not her only child. I see despair in everything Lionflight does. He's ruined by the death of his father, the loss of his leader, the crumpling of the clan. I see the drive for revenge in Firetongue. He, too, wants RidgeClan restored to glory. Except, like Wolfstar, he doesn't care who gets in the way. It's the real reason Flickerheart left, I think. She couldn't see her mate walk the same path.

I am my mother's daughter. Her sons are bogged down by their earthly connections. By love. Lust. Revenge. Grief. I love my brothers, but I must be better than them. Neither of them can restore our mother's destiny.

I am my mother's daughter. But I will not make her mistakes.

-

It's new-leaf, now.

It's time to bloom.

Pre-Plotting: Needlestorm is Firetongue's sister, from I Bleed Applause. Her beliefs line up with a quiet Mars, though she shares Saturn's values in restoring faith in StarClan.

Family: Though Needlestorm has fierce love for her brother, Firetongue, and a strong connection with her half-brother, Lionflight, she puts little stock in the concept of family. To her, family is a mixed bag. Yes, it's given her loving brothers. But it also gave her a spiteful mother, an absent father, and a murderous step-father. It gave her too many legacies to carry, some she wanted, some she did not. Family has been a burden more than a blessing, and she doubts anything will change that.

Friends: Most of Needlestorm's friendships are quiet ones. The bulk of her friends are cats she has very casual connections with. She likes them. She likes the communal aspect of their lives as clan cats, and how it ties them all together. She does not want for fierce friendship, though, seeing it as a potential distraction. The except to this is Stagleap. Though sometimes she thinks they're only friends through Firetongue, other times she is possessed by her deep, platonic affection for him, and is grateful for his continued presence in her life. 

Romance: When Lakestripe was still alive, Needlestorm had a positive view of romance, thinking her mentor's relationship with her mate was something to be admired. Since Lakestripe's death, Emberfang has been distracted with grief. Firetongue is distracted with Flickerheart. Russetfoot distracted Ripplefur. Romance is a distraction. She does not want it.

Rivals: Similar to romance, Needlstorm perceives any serious rivalry as a distraction from what matters. She holds some dislike for cats — she is sour on anyone who abandoned RidgeClan, including the Kingdom traitors. She dislikes any cat who is vocal about supporting Wolfstar, even long after his death. She feels annoyance to many cats who get in her way. But she rarely holds rivalries, with the exception of her old friend Flickerheart, if only because she broke Firetongue's heart.