Kindred Souls (MistxRowan :: Private)

[Spec]

If the pleasure was sound, she would be able to hear Starclan's creation purr around her, brightened by the rays of sunlight that reflected off her pelt and shimmering her white fur into stardust. When would a time like this come again, when Mistpelt would consider this confrontation, however delightful, once more? Indeed, she indulged in his company, yet, if only for his opinion and voice. Loyalty was all that she could ever wish for, and yet...the idea of placing upon herself the gift of life fluttered absently against the corners of her mind. As leader, she would certainly need to preserve Starclan's bloodline, and that would mean breaking the warrior code if she were to have kits herself. Shaking these thoughts out of her brain, which was constantly straining and plotting with ideas, she shifted her focus on current matters; the dream in which the great starry cats themselves, her very ancestors, descended upon her – soon to be the Voice of Fogclan. Rowanheart, naturally was left with almost a kit like fascination in his stare, perfectly consumed by her soon-to-be words of confinement. As a feline of faith, she expected no less from him, and was obviously pleased by his reaction, as a soft purr escaped her partially parted jaws, flicking her tail lazily beside her in exaggerated jovial affection. That was when she remembered that this role she intended to play needed to be acted out accordingly with a somber and wide-eyed expression herself, and those required features dawned upon her face steadily, so not to draw suspicion. Of course, Starclan couldn't sit back and allow idleness any longer.

The ivory and silver marked she-cat inched closer to her male companion, head lowering in secrecy at the words given to her by Starclan's grace and All Seeing Eyes. Ears twitching keenly, she listened to the sound of her own heart beating in single steady thuds, quietly and eerily as if she was sharing it with the whole of nature itself. “Well...Starclan did not actually speak, so the meaning isn't entirely clear to me...but this is what I witnessed.” Mistpelt paused, shuttering visibly as if a cold gust of wind coursed through her body, trying to cast aside the feeling of horror that reigned in the beginning of her dream. When she deemed herself ready, she stared sharply, familiarizing herself with the typical concise and icy gaze that held her eyes in almost constant embrace. “ I remember seeing a very small outcrop, as if everything was downsized for my viewing...A fog lingered over the earth. Flowers sprung where the fog touched and life seemed well, but then...something fell from the sky and I soon saw that it was a feather and I heard the cry of an owl as it descended upon the ground. When it settled, the fog receded from it as if it were cursed. There the feather stayed, void of any life, while the flowers died around it.” Mistpelt took breath, catching him straight in the eyes with her own. “I thought the earth would simply die, but as I watched further and squinted through the darkness, an ghostly mist fell upon the feather and the feather blew away. It ended up getting caught in a pine tree. Then the fog mysteriously came back into the clearing, although it was dry, but with the mist, they moistened the ground and brought back the life, restoring it three fold.” Her senses bade him to keep this precious information to himself, for as she knew, loyalties were divided still between Owlstar. A sin that she could no longer ignore or push aside. Something had to be done about it. With another moment's delay, she sighed heavily, concluding her words with a dull air. “That was when I awoke.”

[Whiskers]

As the glorious dream was described, it materialized in front of Rowanheart, condensing into almost a solid form. He could see it, every glowing detail, and his eyes were wide and shining in admiration of the work of Starclan. The fog, how it lightly kissed the flowers and swept through the earth, bringing joy and prosperity. This was the easiest part of her dream to interpret, to Rowanheart-- for he knew the fog well. It had appeared in his own dream, with Zoe. It was a sign of Fogclan.

He had been right. Fogclan was the chosen clan, handpicked by the holy. It would be the clan to bring good fortune to the forest. Soon, Streamclan and Meadowclan would be drowned in their glory-- and Pineclan would be just a faint and scary story he would tell the kits.

As for the next part of the vision... the owl feather was ominious and it chilled him to his bone. Not because it had chased away the flowers, but because his mind jumped to Owlstar. His leader. How could Starclan be saying that Owlstar was evil? She was strong, loyal, a believer! There was no way that she would ever bring Fogclan down, or be turned toward evil.

Yet Starclan speaks of it. And who am I, just a warrior, to question the knowledge of Starclan? If they say it's so, it's so.

Yet part of his mind refused this. He had to be sure he wasn't simply jumping to conclusions. "Mistpelt," he meowed, hesitantly, "could the owl feather be referring to Owlstar? Do you think that Starclan is telling us it's time for new leadership?"

Rowanheart prayed that Mistpelt would not reprimand him for such traitorous talk. He shouldn't even be thinking that, let alone voicing the concern aloud. But it had to be said.

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[Spec]

Eyes, still a bit exuberant from her vision, lay heavily upon her companion, her ginger tom. And indeed, she hoarded this feeling all to herself. Still, she was inclined to ponder her words, cautious assuming the outcome, because frankly, she'd been one to assert frequently upon even the simplest of daily chores. Being deputy wasn't all song and dance, and demanded discipline and action, as well as a few moments of thought. She inched closer to his flame colored pelt still, fearful that even the grass would conspire against her wishes. If she wasn't careful, every ear would perk ,prying, into her business – and she couldn't have that. Concealing a partially creasing simper, she leaned gently into his frame, half supporting herself in his own girth as she reclined. When she turned to face him again, her expression was anything but contented, and appeared ponderous, brows furrowed together in exaggerated thought. Of course, she suspected any good hearted cat would echo their concern for Owlstar, and wasn't at all surprised when Rowanheart hesitantly brought up the tender subject of leadership. A flash of mock concern blazed lethargically in her sea foam gaze, a sigh rocking her chest as she debated silently in thought. Her whiskers twitched, addressing the tom's question with sturdy confidence.

“What else could it mean, Rowanheart? Even without the word of Starclan, wouldn't I, the chosen deputy by Owlstar herself, know more about our so-called leader more than anyone else?” She calmly argued, arching a brow, half wanting for him to contradict her again with mute provocation, but the other side of him wanted for him to settle alongside her reasoning and agree. Mistpelt bent close to her ear, her hot breath stirring his fur as she spoke in a hushed, angelic softness. “Haven't you seen her at the Gatherings? She's always so friendly towards Gingerstar. Haven't you realized that at least half of our clan are watered down in faith, and don't believe in the glory and truth of Starclan as you and I – and all because of Owlstar's and Gingerstar's connection!” She spat out the name of her leader and enemy, loathing them with all with the full front of her words. Such filthy she-cats were never meant to obtain the nine lives of Starclan, why...it was downright sacrilege to even think they were totally undeserving of such a privileged and honor bestowed upon the starry cats of Silverpelt! She spoke the entire truth and nothing but the truth to her dear friend, with whom were destined to be a perfect pair. “Starclan speaks the truth, or do you deny that as well?” She half hissed in his direction, the anger from her accusation towards her once beloved leader still lingering upon her lyrics. Her next speech was more subdued, more imploring as she gazed almost longingly into his fiery orbs."Are you denying me, Rowanheart?"

[Whiskers]

To even hear Mistpelt utter those words, suggesting that he doubted her and the beloved Starclan, made him cringe inwardly, his heartbeat paused for a moment. He would never have thought that his words would be taken as such, but now that they had he needed to correct them. His loyalty was with Starclan first, and if Starclan was casting Owlstar aside because her soul was too filthy, her mind too impure, then he too would have to cast her aside. Did he really have a choice? Of course not. His paw was now and forever guided by Starclan and Starclan's chosen.

And Mistpelt was among them, a prophet in ivory fur. He should bow at her feet and pledge his allegiance right now. But this was not the place... the rest of the camp still did not know of the corruption that lived within the very heart of Fogclan. They'd find out soon enough, but until then, he would keep his devotion a well-kept secret to all but Mistpelt.

"Never," his voice was rough with emotion as he spoke to Mistpelt, "To deny you is to deny Starclan-- I would never do such a thing, I am no fool. I didn't want to jump to conclusions, Mistpelt. But now I see, that you're completely right and Starclan was being especially clear with their message. Who else could the feather represent?"

He licked his muzzle, the excitement brewing in his stomach as he continued. "Which of course means, that the mist meant you. What an honor, to be chosen as the savior of Fogclan-- no, the whole forest. Only someone like you-- just and strong-- can lead Fogclan to true purity. I don't know how I didn't see it before!"

His heart hammered like the spastic wings of a hummingbird. Finally, the day of reckoning was here and Pineclan would be no more. With Mistpelt, he would never have to worry about their sin poisoning the flesh of Fogclan. Firepaw, Finchpaw-- he, himself, would truly be saved. Rowanheart fervently dipped his head in silent gratitude to Mistpelt, his eyes closed as he imagined the next few moons. Many changes were ahead, if Starclan truly wished for the beautiful Mistpelt to take over Fogclan. At first, it would be messy and troublesome. But out of darkness, the sun would rise and there would be peace.

Then, Rowanheart would have perfection.

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Liquid laughter echoed throughout her mind, driven by the pure -pure instinct of saving the forest as Their envoy, their voice and right paw among the living. Why else would they grant her such a pristine vision of succession, in which she was destined to dethrone that re pungent Owlstar and cleanse the land of sin? Her suspicions were all by faded from her mind, silently cursing herself to ever think that her dear Rowanheart could ever betray her. His soul was so innocent, filled with nearly all of Starclan's good graces. For now. Mistpelt waited, heart beating every drop of her precious lifeblood through her veins. How could someone not be excited, let alone contain oneself from revealing anything less than almost kit-like enthusiasm? This was easier said than done, the ivory and silver marked she-cat's paws stirring gently beneath her poised frame. A smile could be deciphered upon her lips as well, as bright as the dawn, celestial even, with the slightest hint of feathery firmness. His face when she so openly accused him lit a strong surge of defiance, as she knew it would. Such an accusation would certainly erupt something similar to verbal rebuke as well and if not, then one could only be a fool not to fall for such a obviously baited pitfall. Her ears swerved to his direction, eyes narrowed a fraction as an inch, but this look was hardly hostile, more curious to his answer, yet sagely nodded in earnest agreement. Indeed, to her divine Sight, the feather could only be the traitorous bane mark of Owlstar. The word itself made her shiver, as if that name itself were cursed beyond all recondition. It would not do to address her as such in the future, whatever Starclan forsaken destiny she was ever inclined to lead.

This being said, she was distracted by shadowed thoughts, creeping tendrils of darkness that would later present obstacles if she were to truly succeed in fulfilling her destiny – that was when the flame pelted tom spoke again, words sweet and caring and – Curtly, she halted herself from thinking another thing of him, shutting off her switch completely until he was finished. Obviously she was pleased, visibly so, as her grin increased two fold, stretching widely with a proud glint in her oceanic gaze. Oh, she took the compliments alright, but her pelt pricked with eagerness all the more in knowing that she was backed by by divine right, guided by none other than Starclan, and how glorious They were! So full of blessing and mercy enough to spare this whole land once she riddled the waste that cruelly rooted itself into the souls of those around her. Pineclan would be purged from this existence, naturally, in only a place were Mistpelt sincerely wished them to be; in Damnation for all eternity. Shifting back to Rowanheart, she temporarily forgave him for his brash sentence earlier in their conversation, hinting that perhaps there was something misread about the signs. Punishment would come later. Her eyes followed his frame as his entire body dipped down in reverence at her authority, drinking in his gratitude and admiration like a drug until she was quite drunk off the feeling. But instead of returning the warm action with word of thanks, or even a murmur of gentle jest, she found herself bending down with him. Although she did not bow as he was, she placed her ivory chin against the soft fur of his forehead as their scent momentarily mingled as long as time allowed before pulling back as quietly as she had touched him. The smile had not entirely faltered when she rose once more. “Starclans blessings...and mine too.” She whispered, lyrics laced beautifully with the sound of her own breathing. “We have much to do in so little time...but no matter what evil is thrown at me, I shall not be hindered and I shall bestow Their purifying light upon the forest.” After she had spoken those words, she padded closer to her tom cat, tail curling in a light, yet firm hold against his own as her body sat just brushing against his own, contours seemingly made for each other to snuggle fondly in each other's grasp."With you at my side."However, Mistpelt never allowed herself the pleasure of the first advance, and patiently waited to see if he would take this a step further.

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[Whiskers]

ooc// Mm, no dialogue in this one, so I hope you can reply x3;; -- unless you wish to stop it here. I would find it fitting, especially because of my little twist at the end. -wink-

bic// Was it wrong to indulge himself like this, Rowanheart wondered, as he drank in her scent like the sweetest nectar, the ambrosia of the pure? It should be positively sinful to enjoy himself so much-- it probably was. But Starclan could not frown on him today, not when Mistpelt herself was allowing him the pleasure. Mistpelt was the greatest servant-- no, not servant, she was the greatest ally to Starclan and if Starclan trusted her implicitly, then she could do no wrong. Therefore, it wasn't bad of him to feel this way around her. He was allowed to. No matter what part of him argued and whispered hoarse memories of days with Zoe, he was free to embrace the next step and truly let such memories fade. It was a new beginning, now. He had the chance to start over, to have his slate wiped clean.

He was being saved from the grief, truly saved. He could feel Zoe smile down on him now, as the sunlight cast itself across the camp floor and onto his fur. The warmth cleansed him. And then, when the cloud meandered its way over the sun, any thought of Zoe disappeared forever.

Rowanheart's throat rumbled with a purr, as he pressed his body closer to Mistpelt's, if that was even possible. But this is as far as he went. Although he felt healed, clean and new, he still remembered the pain quite well and decided that, perhaps, if this was to happen, it best happen slowly. Especially since he had his boys to think about as well. He would always be, first and foremost, a father, and he would have to be careful about telling his sons the news...yes it would be best to wait...

Yet across the clearing, unknown to Rowanheart, a red-furred apprentice watched.

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[Spec]

Mistpelt sat in sin, wallowing in a scent that reeked of such...perfection. Surely Starclan wouldn't approve of them being together, of the intended savior of the forest being aligned with an unpurged feline. His judgment would come soon, where she may cast aside each of his previous sins in each well balanced swing of her paw, glinting with the edge of her claws to his pelt. Her love would not truly shine until he was introduced to her loving embrace, an embrace born from the spilling of impure blood, to dawn upon a new beginning, a new era of Purification and Life. Her nostrils quivered, inhaling his scent in slow, deep breaths. Her eyes were long closed, forsaking the light and diving into herself for the inner most cherish source of all warmth, with radiated from her heart, her spiritual core that drove her to such wondrous deeds. The corners of her lips tugged in a soft smirk, still nestled into his fur, the flames which threatened to devour her soul whole lest she be wary of this handsome tom that stood before her, not yet revealed. Not yet. But soon. Inching back, she withdrew her muzzle almost with a morose glance at her partner, unwilling to separate. Every hair of her pelt pricked inwardly, a warning not sounding off in the back of her skull, yet this wasn't the effect of Rowanheart, it...it was something else. Something she was quite unsure of.

It irked her slightly, this unseen presence, friend or foe, ethereal or solid, she could not make out. Clearing passed his defenses, she threw him a quick smile, all too forced, fangs bared in seemingly good humor as she donned a mask of indifference to the situation. The shifted she-cat angled her head, tilting her chin upwards as she caught his gaze, allowing her gleaming orbs one last gift of echoing her promised love and acknowledgment. Clearing her throat audibly, her legs pushed her to her paws, stretching her back paws as she extended her legs each in turn, shaking out her claws before returning them into their concealed sheaths. “I am glad I have shown you Truth, but that Truth must be repaid by future deed, as well as reflection on past ones...” She bent her silver streaked face to her shoulder, giving herself a few self conscious strokes of her salmon tongue, smoothing down the ruffled fur that had gathered at their semi embrace. Giving herself one final shake, Mistpelt neared Rowanheart once more, creeping beside his face, mouth hovering gently over his ear, voice leeching from her maw in a feral purr, cut short by a subtle hiss, possibly a mental distraction as her thoughts wove intricate plans within the tangles of her mind. “Dear Rowanheart... You are so sweet, I could eat you up.” Smiling into her worded kiss, she gave him one final departing caress, tail lashing out of his grip as she turned, reclining into a commanding and purposeful posture, pointing her maw towards the forest. Sea foam optics narrowed, the warmth in her smile faded into one of icy solidity, thinning into a line of winter as she licked her lips at the thought of prey and blood as well as the killing that went along with it. “I'm going hunting... The pile's pitiful.” The last part was outwardly murmured, ears twitching to catch her own voice and padded away.

{{OOC: We could always have it that they continue this thread into the forest and hunt together, or we could end it here and start a new one at a different time. I'll let you decide. I'm game for any.}}