Walnutnose is a striking cat, as the rufousing of his ticked tabby pelt gives the majority of his pelt a gently, pretty gradience of warm brown that contrasts sharply with few black stripes that dot his forehead and spine. It stands even more starkly against the high amount of white on his pelt and, though few would know it, the two warring colorations stand for both his parents. He tends to watch the world with a blander expression, never letting his emotions get the best of him and instead preferring to watch (and deal in the more straightforward aspects of life).

While not the runt of their litter, Walnutnose did not do much more growing after reaching 10 moons old, which leaves him on the smaller side of most his clanmates. His eyes are still a tad to large for his face and their muzzle is small and delicate, the combination of which makes their ears look a tad big for their head. Otherwise, physically, there is not much to make Walnutnose stand out. His manner of speaking however... Well, there it's easy to tell that the warrior was raised far, far away from the clans: his words round oddly, some of his vowels hit the ears differently, and he has a distinct habit of dropping letters at the end of the many words. Time has polished some of these speech patterns, but still some remain.

It's the 25th day of Spring, the sun is at its pinnacle, and your sister has sent you sprawling as she and your brother wrestle.

She messes up up your counting, so you start again.

1-2, 3, 4.

"What are you doing now, Noyer?" Mother's shadow swallows up your own and gives a bit of relief from the sun overhead. You don't look up to greet her, too busy recounting.

"One is missing." It's a nagging thought, nipping and batting at your mind relentlessly.

You can hear the frown in her voice, the barely stifled sigh: "Your littermate died, little walnut, we already--"

"Not the white one," they didn't count, being dead and all; "They were colored like you and had no white fur." Unlike most of your siblings.

She's quiet. There's five of you, counting Mother and yourself, and there should be six.

"It was before you gave us names." Or, at least, spoke them aloud. But if she did remember, she does not answer the unspoken prompting (she never does).

As she does not speak, you wonder if this is one of those times you unsettle her; one of those times your recall things you really shouldn't. You remember a lot of things your littermates don't: voices and sounds that came around only, exactly twice and never again; the only pure white pelt that eventually stopped moving; the darkest of your lot, who vanished one day. You remember how Mother never gave you names until there were only four of you left, how she never really called you anything beforehand, and you remember - vaguely - the glimpse of pure white cat standing with Mother; they watched you all play. And when that cat left, one of your littermates was gone.

nd it all bothers you, somedays, being able to remember; sometimes because no one else seems to recall in exacting detail like you, and other times because you recollect things you don't really care about, only because you were present when events happened.

At times, too, you think your memories bother Mother just as much.

Finally, after many heartbeats - 450 beats, because you counted - she licks the top of your head and moves on to stop your sister and brother from hurting each other as they get too physical.

---

Your littermates likely did not understand the extent of your... oddness, until you all were much older.

"I hate birds," Ignace's tail lashes, spitting out feathers - a consequence of aggressively stuffing his face; "they have like a bazillion feathers! It's so stupid."

You frown at your tempermental brother from across the tail-length separating you, confused. Manon rolls her eyes and grumbles about him being stupid under her breathe. Mother, the mediator of the two, is missing, so you cut in as they glower at each other.

"Robins only have about 2,900 feathers." Corbeau, as Ignace cuts his gaze around to you, quickly drags a couple of feathers to themselves, "It only takes me 1050 heartbeats to clean one, if I'm not trying to preserve quality for Corbeau's nest."

"Yeah," Manon sniffs, which does not help the situation at all, "besides Mom told you before not to be a pig."

"Nuh uh!"

"Uh huh!"

Corbeau discards the feathers with broken quills, stuffing the intact ones into the side of their little nest. You count a preference for orange and speckles feathers, with your sibling picking those over plain brown feathers 3/4s of the time. They smile softly at you when they catch you staring, and then pointedly glance at your brother and sister.

Oh, right.

"Two moons ago," The two's bickering slows, but you choose to stare at your paws and wiggle your toes as you count back and back and back; flipping through the files of your memories: "Mother took a small yellow lark from Ignace; she said 'larks, all birds, must be plucked first - if you eat the feathers, mon feu, the broken quills can scratch up your mouth and cut up your throat when you swallow'. She made Ignace repeat that back to her twice, then ate it herself. Ignace got a vole instead, which he said was 'the plumpest, bestest prey in the world'."

There's dead silence in the den in the wake of your recollection; after about 160 heartbeats, you find it a touch discomfiting.

"It was a muggy day - the 16th day of the month - and overcast so I couldn't tell where the sun was; Manon was complaining about having a long pelt." You glance up, hoping that  tacking on that bit will help them remember. You're met with blank, incredulous stares, even from Corbeau.

"You're a weirdo." Manon finally breaks the silence, narrowing her eyes like she doesn't actually believe you.

"But! In a good way," Corbeau quickly adds on - but, even as Ignace slowly nods in agreement, you heart shrivels up in your chest, sinking low into your gut to hide from this newfound scrutiny. Now Mother isn't the only one bothered by you...

---

“There was a white cat that day, when my littermate vanished. The two of you were speaking while Manson played with him.” Another season, another angle of approach to the ever present question at the back of your mind.

Mother pauses in her grooming. The midday sun, crisp but far from warm this winter, plays across her pelt, highlighting the rippling brown; you wonder if your missing sibling would have similar, faint pseudo-stripes, especially since he looked so much like her all those moons ago. She stares out across the tiny clearing, towards the den, and you consider that she might not answer you… again.

But, after a mere 16 count of your pulse, she tucks her paws under her chest and turns to give you a thorough once over. Perhaps she was just making sure your siblings weren’t around? She always seems to most adamantly avoid this subject when anyone else is about.

“It was for the best,” the words seem to… hurt her, you think, though you’ve never been good at reading others. “He wouldn’t have let us alone otherwise. Neither him nor the rest of those fools.”

“And he was… is?” You want her to say it, though you have your suspicions: after all, that stranger had been pure white coat, not unlike the little bundle of fur that never lived past its first moon.

“Your father: Calypso.” The disdain that drips from the words leads you to press on, past this subject, before she shuts it all down.

“So he took the one that looked like you… back to a group?” Your head cocks one way, then the other: “Who are they?”

“Foolhardy cats that let themselves be led astray from our shadows.” Despite speaking of this… Calypso with such derision, she has a sort of pitying affection for the rest of this group. A familiarity too, with these “shadows” that made you wander…

“Shadows?” You prompt doggedly. You’ve since learned that being direct is best with your mother.

Reaching out a paw, she coaxes you into laying down with her. There’s a bit of resignation to the way she gets comfortable and you are beyond excited to have finally made headway; the answers, the knowledge you’ve been craving is within reach and so you lean in eagerly.

She gives you a slight smile: “I will tell you, ma lumière, but you must understand: I left them all behind for a reason. Your father… he is a liar and manipulator. You are safer far from him. All of you are…”

You will decide that for yourself, when she has finished — but you don’t openly admit to this. That might discourage her… No, for now, you will listen and commit this story to memory… and heart (somewhat).

---

You didn’t expect Corbeau to come with you - to want to, even.

Yes, when you made the announcement, you knew Mother would say goodbye but would be silent in watching you go; she loved you enough to let you go free but, surely, she hoped you would return. You knew Manon would act jealous and not come to see you off – it hurt her, that you were brave enough to leave them and her behind and, despite her complaining and unhappiness, that she could not do the same.

“I can’t believe you,” And, yes, you were fully ready for when Ignace turned his hurt-fueled ire on you. His tail lashed as he spat: “You’re really just gonna to abandon us, huh?”

He did not understand. He didn’t have this nagging drive, this obsessive hunger; you wanted to know everything, to understand everything. And the only way to do that was to go out into the world… And the first step to doing that was to find your lost brother – and maybe your father – and learn about the world Mother left behind. So you’d let him get angry, almost get physical before recalling Mother was watching, and you let him storm off – you said goodbye to his back and told yourself that was just how Ignace was. It never would have ended any other way.

But then, as you vanished in the nearby trees, Corbeau was coming. They ran, calling out your name, wanting to come along. It was a surprise… But you’d never turn them away.

It’s nice, the first two days worth of traveling. Corbeau has always appreciated your way of remembering every little detail, even if they’ve never bothered to understand the reasoning behind your logic, and your understanding of prey in the area makes for full bellies every night and good spots to sleep. With Mother’s directions in mind, you set course and lead your sibling along. The company is nice and you think that getting out into the real world will do both of you well…

But, the third night, you notice Corbeau sneaking into your nest, seeking comfort.

They’re glancing back behind you the rest of the next day, always back towards home. You take a break earlier than normal to hunt and they catch a bird. A robin.

“Is something wrong?” You pry gently, not truly hungry yet. They shake their heads, busying themself with plucking the feathers free delicately and eating.

“Are you sure?” You try again later, when you’ve let them pick the spot to sleep tonight; they shrug this time, less enthusiastic than before.

In the dark of the moonless night, the starlight barely breaching the foliage the pair of you have stowed away in, you watch them. They toss and turn, unable to sleep, and you’ve got an idea of what might be bothering them, but you hold your tongue.

In the morning, as dawn crests the horizon, you wake them.

“Go home,” you urge: “we’re not too far; they’ll be glad you’re back.”

They frown at you, guilty-like, but they don’t protest. You bump heads gently with them, in the light of memories of days past, when Corbeau was Mother’s shadow: gentle, quiet, and never far afield. It was foolish of both of you to think this - them, coming with you - would have any other outcome than discomfort.

“Love you.” That’s the promise you send them off with, that you send them safely home with. It’s for the best; no hard feelings.

---

The only way you aren’t seen – despite the illogic of the thought as it flits in in the space between your ears, barely audible over the terrified race of your heart – is because, somehow, you manage to blend in with the shadows. You should have been spotted by both parties, first by the cat being pursued and then by…

By his murderers.

But they don’t see you, mercifully, because the shadows eat you whole, half-white pelt and all, curling and hiding you like Mother’s protective tail on chilly nights.

At least Corbeau is spared this horror.

These two brutes have an intimate knowledge of a cat’s body: the way they practically dissect their cornered target is a horror that will be imprinted on the back of your eyelids for the rest of your life, you’re sure. You weren’t aware a cat’s body had so much blood until now, unable to tear your gaze away as it soaks the ground as well as the paws and maws of his torturers.

It doesn’t stop coming, either – you thought, distantly, that it would slow gradually as this poor soul bled out – continuing to gush at a steady rate like a small, red stream.

“Where’d she go, huh?” One asks, again, patience thinning: “Those kits belong with their father, with the shadows, you treacherous worm, and you know it.”

“If you just tell us,” The smaller, prettier one coaxes, “We’ll end this now – Calypso will get his kits and you will get that sweet release of death.”

Calypso. The name has your ears perking; are these shadowwalkers? Like him? Mother said they hunted kits for the pack…

“...safe…” The dying cat puffs, like he has been, giving nonanswers of defiance: “...fer…a…way fr-m… him… ‘n’... you—”

He coughs, spluttering blood everywhere and convulses. Both his tormentors curse, jerking in surprise. They scramble, like panicked squirrels, in place…

“Fuck, shit!” The first one turns to their fellow, only to suddenly be slapped across the face – you catch the flash of claws in the dim moonlight.

“You idiot!” Their pretty companion shrieks, composuring crumbling as fast their prey’s life wilts, “I knew he shouldn’t have sent you! Too green, I thought, but I should’ve said something: you went too far!”

“Do something, then!” The hiss back, snapping around to reveal a bloodied face, “Ya know-it-all!”

“I can’t!” The other stomps, “The likes of us raiders ain’t taught to feel!”

“What… what do we do? The augur and Calypso will be furious if we come back empty-handed…”

Perhaps tainted by Mother’s bias now, this scene answers too many questions for you. The tom who sired you has enough power to send raiders – not his fellow shadow walkers – after a deserter. The open violence the pair showcased so openly earlier has your pelt standing on end – if this was so normal to them…

They are really like a pack of rabid dogs.

A shift backwards and you blow your own cover: a twig snaps underfoot. Silence falls and you tense; the dying tom’s eyes roll in your direction before glazing over and the other two turn with eerie slowness in your direction.

They plunge into the shadows around you 12 heartbeats later, but they never catch you. Hell, they even find – the darkness of the night devours any traces of you whole.

---

The answers to your ancient questions chase you as far as you can go; you travel at night, sleeping in the shadowy places of the world during the day. And, somehow, you get away.

Moons – 5 to be exact – pass with you living in the shadows of the world. The moon rises and sets on your continuous movement. There’s no path you know that your feet follow, but you make one for yourself. Those first 21 days, you think of going home – to the safe and familiar – but then you decide against it… Even if what Mother told you was true, that Calypso had promised to leave her and your family alone, the fact he has cronies actively hunting, murdering others over missing offspring, makes you weary of him keeping his word – and, even if he did, what if he decided manipulating your siblings into joining his cult now, later, was better than never? No, you couldn’t risk that…

As for your sibling he took…

Maybe it was better to assume the young rascal that happily wrestled with Manon is dead. And if he’s not, you’re not sure he’s the type of cat you want to know…

You knew enough to know that if you stopped, you were dead.

A wintry valley spreads out under your paws.

---

The land is already settled – three clans, another traveler tells you (warns you, more like, the words layered with derision) – and your curiosity is morbidly peaked.

The easiest ones to watch are those settled on the prairie – the wide open fields make it easy to perch atop an old barn and watch the little cat-shapes in the distance go about their lives. The barn cats are friendly folks, surprisingly, but the way they stink of those hairless creatures makes your teeth curdle; you take their hospitality but don’t return any of your own.

You get comfortable – and that’s how you get caught, 13 days into your eleventh moon.

“You watch a lot.” His head pops out of the ground at the bottom of the hill, such a startling movement of gray amongst the tall, lush grass at the bottom you almost careen down the other side in surprise.

His laughter is a gentle thing, so unlike Ignace’s cackle and Manon’s cruel sniggers – so different from the way those two murderers laughed at the dying’s begs of mercy. You blink at him, noting the fur clinging to his pelt and his missing eye as he clambers into view.

“You’ve been getting closer to the border, every 2 to 5 days.” You feel both annoyance at being caught but also… impressed that your pattern had been noticed and tracked; the tom, maybe two moons your senior, gives you plenty of space as he joins you at the top of the hill. “You change where and how much ground you cross, too – my mentor almost didn’t realize, y’know?”

Wearily lifting a paw, you glance around – were you being circled? A pincer maneuver, maybe?

“My littermate’s seen you hunting, too,” He's got a boyish charm to him as he persists – and, suddenly, you know how he is.

“Webpaw.” He jolts, looking like you’ve stripped him of all his moxie in one word (he’ll tell you later that your absurd butchery of his name was what threw him off); you flip through the pages of your memory: “It’s been three moons and 20 days since Riversong scolded you at the border for greeting a barn cat – he chuffed your left ear because you were too quick to get both and you laughed off his words loud enough to spook at bird was I stalking.”

“That was you!” He perks up, moving in close faster than you can think to react– “Everyone thought I spooked some foraging bird but I thought I smelled someone nearby! What did you use to cover your sce—-!”

You smack him in the face several times – a knee-jerk reaction, after having been alone for so long – but that, thankfully, does not dissuade him.

---

“Walnutpaw.”

Two moons and 37 days of a new name, a new life and still it takes you a moment longer than it should to realize you’re being summoned and then answer.

Grassfoot does not look impressed, but nothing you’ve done since the afternoon – overcast, dreary and with the promise of rain that the night fulfilled – you were escorted into camp and, miraculously, taken in has pleased your… “mentor”.

Such an odd title to give a cat less than five moons your senior, but Littlestar had said you must train for six moons to become a warrior.

Webroot was disappointed you didn’t want to be a tunneler like him, but that did little to keep him away. It’s nice, you suppose, to have a friend that persists despite your aloofness.

“We’re going hunting,” She sniffs, peering down at you past her nose, “along the river.”

“Frogs are hibernating this time of season,” You’re confused at her decision, even if it involves her favorite type of prey: “And yesterday you recounted to Palesong that the river was frozen, ‘surely all the way to the bottom’. He agreed that fishing would be difficult, but said you were overexaggerating—”

The other two cats gathering for your patrol – Hornetspring and her apprentice – come to a stop to stare; the way the younger cat ogles you makes you pause and reconsider your approach.

“Looking for rabbits in the fields would be more fruitful.” Living in a group is harder than you’d thought: sure, it had benefits such as protection, but it was strikingly different than just living with your family; if you thought living with argumentative Ignace and bitter Manon was hard, clan life was much more of a challenge. “They are active in all seasons—”

“She was so pissed!” Webroot snickered, interrupting your explanation – his group of friends huddled around, having joined you in eating on the second night of your camp-bound punishment. “Went straight to Cindersong to yack her ear off!”

He falls silent at the blank stare you offer in return. Bluethorn snorts and jostles you with the brand of rough affectionate he’s prone to; Webroot’s littermate huffs.

“Don’t take it personally,” They offer from where they are on the other side of their brother, “Grassfoot has the biggest superiority complex in the clan, second to a scarce few – she probably you were trying to show her up, especially in front of Hornetspring’s apprentice.”

“You should just become a tunneler,” Their best friend recommends, “Won’t have to deal with her then.”

Webroot nods so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t get whiplash: “Then we could all hang out!”

“Yeeeeaaah,” Bluethorn sings – he should never do that, you decide, because his voice grates on your ears— “Then he can make sure you fa—”

Any further conversation dissolves into rough-housing, as Webroot lunges for Bluethorn and cuts him short. The other two sigh as the two toms quickly devolve into playfully wrestling in the small space in front of you and all you can do is pull the various prey items close to avoid the two goofballs crushing supper.

Webroot’s sibling helps you with a chuckle, offering a secretive wink at your confused blinking. Despite your growing exasperation – they’re all hiding something from you, apparently – there’s a growing warmth in your chest. Is this what it’s like to have friends?

---

There’s flowers in a nest when you come back from your vigil. They’re young and barely-bloomed, given it’s only the 5th day of spr—of New-leaf and nothing is quite in full bloom yet.

After a grueling day of a warrior assessment before and a night of no sleep, you’re almost too tired to notice; surely those bright pops of color in the lightening warrior’s den belong to someone else, but then Webroot’s sibling – coming in from a night patrol – had told you to sleep next to her and… well, that was the nest they gestured to.

You frown, taking careful steps into the soft nest, and immediately get fit with a rush of Webroot’s scent; you balk and almost bail, but then you catch of glimpse of gray fur at the den entrance—

“These flowers grow near Mistclan’s forest.” You groggily inform the tunneler, blinking owlishly at the fact you’re 90% certain you almost caught their brother spying on you.

“He’s an idiot,” They gruff drowsily, shoving their face deeper into their own nest; as if sensing you confusion – the tom in question is far from what you’d call an idiot – they continue: “Been harassing Lionflower since thaw about the first flowers to start blooming when he could have just bothered you and you’d have never fucking known—”

You’d be offended by the truthfulness of that statement if you weren’t so exhausted.

“—so just give him a chance…”

---

“They love me—”

You pause, ears perking, before sliding into a crouch and creeping after the voice.

“They love me not—” A petal floats down the ground, delicately plucked free with a tooth. Webroot is an idiot…

But he’s an idiot that remembers your recount from your travels, a young kittypet plucking petals of a flower from her housefolks’ garden, switching from one phrase to the other and back. You’d been curious as to what she was doing – it seemed like it had a purpose – and moons ago, when you’d been an apprentice, you’d told Webroot and Yewsong about how disappointed you’d been when she revealed it was some whimsical way to decide if a neighborhood loner was smitten with her.

It was pure idiocy, because—

It’s not fate that decides – it literally depends on the number of petals of the flower you chose. If you pick a bloom with an odd number of petals, you infatuation will always “love you”, after all.

He’s got two more petals left.

“They love me not—” Your eyes roll; the cat in question is obvious.

You’ve been drowning in flower crowns for moons – every other week, you either find one on your nest or, as has happened once, on your actual head. And you know who the culprit is, even if he makes himself scarce on those occasions.

You stand and move into view; he pauses, looking a bit bashful, before laughing.

“I know,” He drops the flower from between his paws before you can speak, “I know what you think of that – but I thought it was really sweet, y’know? Keeps me going and all you said I needed to do was pick a flower with an odd number of petals…. Sooooo…”

He always seems to remember things you tell him. Webroot has always been appreciative of how your mind works, of how you can just remember, in exacting detail, even if what you’re recalling is embarrassing for him; he’s never put you down for your opinions, never mocked you for the way you can retell a scene verbatim, and… That’s rare. Not even your loving siblings or Mother could say the same thing.

You’ve never been an inconvenience for him. Thanks to him, you’ve found a new home, a safe place with… with friends.

Reaching down with a claw, you hook into the remaining petal and, in a flourish, toss it and the whole stemmed plant aside. He gapes at you and this is stupid that you’re only realizing this now but…

“They love you.”

(You make him a flower crown the next day; the two of you each wear one, handcrafted by the other, when you make yourselves official.)

---

For a cat that had long since learned how to live in the tunnels with only one eye, it was exactly that which got him killed.

He’s late is the first thought you have, when he emerges from the tunnel; you’re willing to rib him for it but ultimately let it slide—

But then he stumbles.

“A snake,” He slurs into your shoulder as you barely manage to catch him, “sssma’, pale, diamon—”

Distantly, you know what he’s doing: trying to help you figure what type of snake bit him. But he’s going limp against, slight convulsions running through his body and you’re so far from camp, that you fear – a knowing kind of horror – that it won’t matter.

Whatever got him is venomous, you reason, trying to drag him back towards camp (just over the hill, so close, so close), liking trying to find a safe place to bed down as Leafbare sets in. It’s not an uncommon thing, you’ve heard other tunnelers complain about having to chase snakes and other small vermin from the tunnels this time of season—

Focus. His breathing is becoming more and more faint, like he’s losing the strength to even suck in air. You murmur and mutter and curse him between heaving pulls – why does he have to be bigger than you? Why aren’t you stronger? – and fight to ignore the nagging feeling that you’re already too late.

Maplefrost’s face says it all, when he bustles out of the medicine den.

Only ten moons together and your mate is dead. He was dead by the time you got to camp.

It’s ridiculous, you think at the vigil that night. Webroot had survived the [animal] attack that took his eye, that made him choose tunneling; he escaped the tunnels collapsing; and he even came back from the impromptu rescue of Mistclan from Ridgeclan unscathed.

But this, a mere oversight, kills him.

Take him from you.

We’d had plans, you find yourself without tears as his littermate leans heavily on you, a future. You’d meticulously laid it all out, talked about it for hours: kits, a family of some kind, hopes for apprentices, and when the two of you would take to the elder’s den to spend your golden moons together.

At least your friends stay with the two of you the whole night, even when the other mourners go to bed. The shadows gather too, stretching out under the crescent of the moon; there’s one for each of you and you all gather so your shadows embrace his pone figure. They hug him, in a way that brings you an odd sense of… comfort. You don’t really believe too much in the clans’ beloved ancestors, but this little play of light makes you feel more at peace; darkness has always been a comfort for you, though you rarely admit it, and here, now, it tucks him in to sleep eternally.

When you bury him, his littermate picks a spot on Rosemary hill closest to a nearby tunnel and you pick wildflowers that bloom at different times to bury with him…

So his grave will always have some kind of bloom decorating it and he’ll be shaded by their growth.

---

“Just two moons,” Yewsong grumbles, nearly growls, next to your ear, “yeah – totally.”

“At least,” Ivywhisker hums in equally soft measure, “we don’t seem to be the only dissenters, now…”

Bluethorn, to your surprise, holds his tongue – but, from where you’re sat a touch back and to the side, you can see his prickling pelt; a sure sign of his displeasure. His apprentice’s training will need to be delayed a further two moons, when the runt was only a mere moon from getting their warrior name. No doubt the big brute would feel this as a slight against himself. You slide your tail gently over to press against his hind leg.

The announcement stings you, even as a warrior. A large part of you is very glad that Webroot isn’t around to see this – you are sure his sibling feels the same.

The group of you loiter at the back of the crowd – as close as either Ivywhisker and Yewsong could stand to be near your new leader – and you make a point to commit everything you see to memory (which is unnecessary, but, as you intensely rake your gaze over everything, from the two high ranks to the lowliest apprentice present, you feel vindictive satisfaction that this is something you choose purposefully to never forget). It goes without saying, as Cinderstar tries to soothe various clanmates ruffled feathers with demands of respect, that you will not be the only one holding her to her word…

For her sake, as a faint toothy grin flashes in the corner of your eye from Ivywhisker’s direction, you hope she does.

Estranged, Unknown: Walnutnose, formerly known as Noyer, is one of Sanguine's four other littermates, filling the role from his wanted ad: "the horrors i promised you". Unlike other members of their litter, Walnutnose had no interest in seeking out Sanguine - not after getting a peek at the cult their father ran and seeing what likely become of his brother. Given his insatiable need to know, though, Walnutnose has been trying to subtly get tabs on their siblings now that he's settled.

Foreign Sage: Practicality is the lifeblood of Walnutnose's existence. While kindness can be a stretch, when talking about the former outsider, it is undeniable that Walnutnose is one of those rare few that can keep their head in highly emotional situations and almost never regret their choices in the aftermath. They have very little interest in inter-clan politics, they can agree that Prairieclan has decisively shown their cards and broadcasted the power that Ridgeclan and Mistclan overlooked in favor of stereotyping. The future is in Prairieclan's paws and the clan needs to be a united front in whatever decision they make next... It needs to think with the collective brain of the cats in it and not let their foolish, fickle hearts lead them astray.

---

[family tree link here]

While family is important to Walnutnose, it was not enough to keep them in one place; the world and all its vast knowledge was always calling him outside the fold. Still, he loves them the way most love their families, and they wish the best for the ones they left behind to seek a missing member of the flock. And, after seeing the gang Calypso led, they can only hope their missing sibling is... happy, wherever he is.

Feuilly (mother, somewhere) - Walnutnose remembers their mother fondly, and, despite her many attempts to shelter them, understand on some level that she was just trying to protect them and his littermates. He hopes she finally has the life she deserves, peaceful and surrounded by family because she loved Noyer enough to let them go be themself.

Ignace (brother, somewhere) - Walnutnose's temperamental brother, in spite of his flaws, meant well. He wanted to protect Mother and the rest of the family and they have learned, over time, to let his cruel words at their departure go.

Corbeau (sibling, somewhere) - little, gently Corbeau; Walnutnose wishes, some days, that they had come with him, stuck it out, and traveled all the way to the valley together. They would have liked the clans, he's sure, but it was not meant to be and he understands they are a homebody.

Manon (sister, somewhere) - the one sibling that Walnutnose did not try too hard to be closer with; Manon was never happy with her life and nothing anyone did, not even Mother, could make her so. He doubts she has left her bitterness behind...

Calypso (father, nowhere nearby thankfully) - a cult leader, a horrid tom. A thief and a liar, they may have only gotten a glimpse of what he created but Walnutnose hopes to never actually meet their sire... ever.

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Romance was... well, honestly, Walnutnose didn't really believe in it. It seemed like that mythical Starclan his clanmates worship: spoken of often and highly but never truly tangible. Then, Webroot came along and quite literally swept them off their feet. And in his wake, while Walnutnose hasn't looked for another in many moons, he is not against the idea of finding something like that again - something warm and nice, safe and comfortable.

✝ Webroot (PC tunneler) - one of the few cats to look at Walnutnose, to listen to him and to not only not mock them but to understand them. Webroot was a mind at work, yes, and a kindred spirit as well as first love... Walnutnose hopes he has found peace, wherever the clan dead may truly go.

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