Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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“Oh, thank god.” Before the passing Inquisitor could get a word in, Bacchuspaw had shoved a screaming kit into her paws. “Here, hold this.” He rushed back into the nursery, and a very tense, biting song drifted back out from the shadows — “shut uuuup, shut uuuuup, go to sleeeeeep.” He sounded a second away from slaughtering all the fledglings under his care — but that was how he always sounded. Bedtime was his least favourite thing in the world; he always had half a dozen kits hanging off his hip. He reappeared, desperately trying to smooth down his fur as he took the kit back from Wickedpaw. “I’m due out,” he explained, though she hadn’t asked, and he looked — sounded — as tormented as he ever had, frazzled and despairing, a frown creasing his face. “Well, not due out,” he continued as he carried the kit back in and set it down beside the others, “but I want to go out — I haven’t been out all week because these little gremlins” he raised his paw like he was going to hit one of them, but at the last second just used it to cover the kit with a blanket, “never want to go to sleep.” He looked insane on the last word, whisper-screaming it in the face of one of the fledglings; she slept on blissfully unaware, her eyes closed and a smile on her face.
When at last it seemed they were all tucked in, Bacchuspaw turned in a slow circle, not daring to hope it could be true — and, when they still stayed silent, finally let out a vague sobbing sound and crept back out to the hallway. “Oh, our merciful Lady, look at me,” he moaned despairingly, finally getting a chance to look down at himself; tufts of his chest fur were dry with kit vomit. His face wrinkled and, not wanting to touch it with his tongue, he licked his paw pads and dragged them gingerly over the fur, again and again and again, each time with less enthusiasm than the last as his paw grew damper and damper. “Whoever decided to make me a Mother, I hope they find a nice spot in hell and rot in it till the rapture.” Finally looking up, his expression still open and tormented, he looked glumly at Wickedpaw for a long moment — and then suddenly seemed to realise there was someone else there with him. His demeanour immediately changed, the haughty disinterest slamming back down, and he leaned back, giving her a slight sneer. “And you’re staring at me for what reason?” he asked, all dryness and disdain, like she were dirt on his shoe.
Wickedpaw hardly ever strayed close to the nursery. The sound of crying kits of frustrated Mothers or screaming or squealing always drove her away to quieter areas of the camp, and even though she was loud and obnoxious herself, there was something about children that just annoyed her. So she didn’t waste her time. But today she had gotten reckless, stupidly so, in passing by, and through whatever might Selene actually had, she had bestowed upon her the worst luck of all time. She didn’t have a moment to think before Bacchuspaw shoved a kit into her paws, so quick Wickedpaw fumbled it. She stared dumbfounded as he left, leaving the kit to stare up at her with big, buggy eyes and and a soggy face. She winced. As an Inquisitor, one of the only free-roam elementals in Moonclan, a hunter, she was used to cats being wary of her, and she could tell this kit had heard at least a few stories based on how it looked at her, slightly fearful but curious, silent as if studying her. She was honestly grateful.
“Okay. But why do I care. Why do I need to hear this?” Her questions ebbed on desperately confused, a high-pitch to her voice as Bacchuspaw explained his woes, but at least he has taken the kit back. When it finally fell silent, she could do nothing but stare at the Mother similarly to how the kit had stared at her, with bewilderment, all wide-eyed and mouth slightly agape, like she was trying to figure out what in the world had just happened. “Why am I staring at you? Why am I staring at you? You walked out and tossed a child in my arms while I was just minding my business! You starting complaining to me as if I’d know what to do, and now you’ve come out again covered in vomit and looking like you had just got back from hell itself! I’m not the crazy one here.” She laughed, but it was more out of exasperation than humour. “Just, like, quit or something, dude. I don’t know.”
At the fresh mention of vomit, Bacchuspaw pulled a melodramatic face — everything about him was melodramatic when he wasn’t drugged to the nines or entirely disinterested — and half turned away, like someone had just offered him a foul-smelling appetiser. “Don’t remind me,” he begged. You started complaining to me as if I’d know what to do. He turned back. “Oh, camaraderie is dead, is it? I can’t bear my woes and sorrows to any passerby? Are we that cold in our society now, that we won’t lift a finger to help someone in need?” As if he would ever help someone in need if it were him. At the barb about him looking like he’d come out of hell, Bacchuspaw sniffed and leaned back, looking at her like she were something so uncouth. “I look marvellous,” he replied. “Even with the unspeakable substance.”
Just, like, quit or something, dude. “Oh, you’re so clever. Ohhh, you’re so clever. ‘Just quit.’ Yes, and why don’t you shrug off your,” he swirled a paw at her in obvious distaste, “little elemental superpower and quit as well. Since it’s just that wonderfully easy. Yes — why don’t we all just throw in the towel and leave this sorry place to ruin and all just go off and live perfectly happy lives?” He scoffed. For a little while he was silent. He tapped his paw against the side of his chin, looking away. Then, after a moment, he flopped his wrist to vaguely point at her, turning his head slightly to make eye contact. “Mind you…” he added, raising his brows, like it weren’t such a bad idea. He certainly didn’t have any love for MoonClan. He also didn’t have any special hatred for elementals — they were as fun as any other at parties. Really, the prejudice made it all terribly exciting.
“No, no, we can’t,” he went on, waving his paw and shaking his head to look away. “Or could we? No, we couldn’t… Weeell…” He shrugged one shoulder and held it, paw frozen in mid-air, eyes to the ceiling — and then he dropped it all again, shaking his head. “No. If you take away the hellspawn, I like the privilege too much. Shall we?” He suddenly smiled and stepped back to gesture down the hallway very gentlemanly, eyes on her, like they were the best of friends and had a date planned.
I can’t bear my woes and sorrows to any passerby? She sputtered, wordless sounds leaving her mouth as if she were so irritated she forgot how to speak, but after a breath she gathered her wits. "No! You can't! Because nobody cares! Especially not me." She rolled her eyes with a huff, letting herself hunch over from where the suddenness of the situation left her tense. He was just as insufferable as every other miserable drag that roamed the Estate, moaning and groaning and preaching their love for their Goddess mommy Selene. Wickedpaw often wondered what life would have been like had Puzzlemaker not stumbled upon her, run thin from unlucky city life, ragged and half-starving. She might be dead, and perhaps it would have been a much better place than whatever was going on here, or perhaps she would have found a nice old human that would take her in (not that the life was any less boring, she'd probably have left that way sooner). But on the other hand, she wouldn't have found out about her super cool, super awesome superpowers. She was a literal superhero, if superheros caused problems instead of helped people and hunted mostly-innocents for simply existing as they were.
"Quit?" She sounded almost offended. "Unlike you, I actually enjoy my job. But I don't know, man, maybe I would. But I don't have anywhere else so it's like. . . what's the point, right? This place's got a roof and all. And like, I have superpowers. Superpowers!" She only held his gaze for a heartbeat, swiftly turning her eyes away, down the hall. Wickedpaw was only there because she was invited, because she had no standards and no other choices, only skirting being prisoner by a thin margin because of her relation to a powerful old guy she hardly knew at all, and still she had to fight for her place to be treated as an equal — which, yes, it had been fun, but had it really worked at all? Feralpaw still wanted to pick a fight afterwards, obviously he hadn't learned the first time. Though if he hadn't she probably wouldn't have found out her super cool, super awesome superpowers. She snapped out of her thoughts. Bacchuspaw was totally driving her into an existential crisis and she hated him for it.
She stared at him blankly. "What are you talking about? What? Huh —" she stepped forward, down the hall, paws surprisingly light, soundless. "I hear stress makes people go crazy. On an unrelated note, I think you should see the doctor." Perhaps she was just dumb (really, she wasn't), but she was having an exponentially difficult time following his strange whims. Still, she would follow.
“No?” If he were in another world, he’d have tossed the end of his scarf over his shoulder in the doorway; as it was, he just gave Wickedpaw a slightly withering, condescending look. “Maybe if you spent a little less time being crabby and a little more time being smiley, darling, people would like you more and you’d actually have friends instead of standing here talking to me.” As if Bacchuspaw weren’t the crabbiest tom in MoonClan. “Oh, you like your job,” he echoed, the words bubbling round a scornful laugh. “Give a teenager a little inkling” He held his clawtips a breath away from each other, “of power and they say ‘oh, I love it; oh, I’m the most important thing in the world.’” Orrerypaw had said exactly the same thing — I enjoy what I do. They were all just brainwashed, Wickedpaw just as much as any of them even if she couldn’t see it, even if her enjoyment came from not wanting to be cast out in the cold and rain again, from having somewhere to call home. What was so special about home? This place’s got a roof and all. Bacchuspaw wrinkled his nose, the corner of his lip curling in distaste as he leaned away from her. “Where on earth were you living before that you didn’t have a roof? You do wash, don’t you? I’m not going to get fleas?”
Superpowers. Superpowers! He rolled his eyes, finally pushing her along with one paw and lurching after her, still not looking at her as he followed. “Yes, scream it a little louder, you blithering idiot. Let them all hear how happy you are to have the thing everyone persecutes your sort for. At least you’ll never be allowed to breed — if I had to have such uncouth, ill-mannered fledglings in my nursery, I’d kill myself. I’d throw myself off the tower.” He padded alongside her. A kit started to cry from behind him but he ignored it, retaining his slow, unhurried gait; let one of the other Mothers come rushing down the hall and coddle the insufferable little mite. Bacchuspaw didn’t physically react to her confusion, just kept walking. “We’re spending the night together — not like that, don’t get your hopes up. You’re far too dirty. I’d touch you and,” he paused to reach his trembling paw close to her fur, a look of vicious disgust on his face, and then stop a hair away from her, spreading his claws and moving his paw through the air in a shallow arc, “a lifetime of dirt would come falling away. It would just start to shed, horribly, because you’re a grimy little street urchin.” He set off again. “We’re spending the night together because I didn’t make plans and it was my horrible luck that I saw you first, of all cats. So. Where are we going?” He stopped again, giving her a little grimace and holding up one elegant, condescending paw like he was stopping her before she’d even began. “Somewhere fun, please.”
"Smile? I have a dashing smile. A beautiful smile. But I only give it to people who deserve it. And — you chose to talk to me first? I was literally minding my business." Just to be annoying, she gave him a forced, pained, grimace of a smile, one that was all teeth and mockery, before letting it fall away into a scathing look. Where on earth were you living before that you didn’t have a roof? She felt almost defensive, embarrassed, to talk about her life before Moonclan — it was dirtier, it was rougher, it caused an even greater rift than she already had, being an outsider, and his blatant disgust at the notion that she hadn't had proper shelter made her face heat up only slightly.
"No, idiot, you aren't going to get fleas." She hissed. "The city, ever heard of it? I was a stray. Guess I can't say I've never had a roof. But boxes and benches are terrible at keeping the rain and the cold out, so I don't count them." She took the lead naturally, though irritated that she had to do all the work around here, a genuine, mischievous smile crawling onto her face at his biting sarcasm.
Wickedpaw gave an exaggerated pout. "I don't see a reason to be ashamed, can't change it anyway, may as well enjoy it. But just for that, I think I'll breed," she put on a teasing, sophisticated voice to say the word, a clear mockery of him, "and fill the nursery with all my evil little babies just to piss you off. I'll find a way to work around the legal system." She was about to bother him about the crying kit, give him a tap on the shoulder and point back down the hall, wave him off as he went to take care of it and finally, finally be free from his terrible company, but he had already moved on. We’re spending the night together. She almost threw up in her mouth.
As he lifted his paw, she gave a huff and padded forward, silently mimicking him as he spoke off her supposed dirtiness. She wasn't even — she had great hygiene. "Fine, fine, whatever, if you won't leave me alone. Just — just let me think of some place, 'kay? God. . . way to put all the pressure on me, I didn't even agree to this."
At her smile, Bacchuspaw purposefully stopped just to look at her, like she were being judged on the runway at a beauty pageant. “Oh, very pretty,” he replied dryly, walking on. “You have a gap in your front teeth, you know.” He said it airily, off-handedly, smacking her in the face with his tail-tip as he pulled ahead. Didn’t matter if it were even true — he liked sprinkling little insecurities over people so it would haunt them, just a tiny bit, in the backs of their heads. Maybe there is a gap, they would whisper to themselves uncertainly for the rest of their lives.
“A stray?” he echoed, exclaiming in horror. He stopped dead for the second time, staring at her like she’d just said she were carrying the devil’s spawn. “A stray? And you say I won’t get fleas? How can you say it so calmly — a stray. If I were a stray, I’d never let another soul know. I’d take it to my grave.” He started to walk again. “You’re braver than me.” There was almost admiration there, like at last he’d conceded that the street urchin had something of equal value to the aristocracy. “A stray…” he whispered to himself, still struggling to come to terms with it. Well, that explained the general lack of decorum.
When she continued, he laughed, and it was significantly more open than it had been a minute before. The first of the walls had been broken down between them, at least for him. “Yes, well, if you aren’t ashamed of being that unspeakable aforementioned word, then you’re not going to be ashamed of your element, are you?” At her impersonation of him, he cast her a lazy little grin. Then he looked ahead again. “Yes, you do that, and I’ll corrupt all their stupid little heads until they have nothing but the finest tastes and an enduring horror of having such a cretin for a mother. It’ll work out very horribly for the both of us, just as parenthood should do. You haven’t done it right if every party involved isn’t incurably damaged in some fundamental psychological way.” Not his parents — they’d been kind. Lovely. It had been their deaths that had ruined him. But that counted, surely. It was still parent-related. “If you do manage to skirt the legal system, let me know. I think the no waning-on-waning rule could do with a little reshuffling.” Not that he had any particular reason for such a suspiciously self-serving opinion.
God. . . way to put all the pressure on me. “Poor Wickedpaw — think faster. Every second we waste here is a second we could have spent having fun. Getting into assorted shenanigans. I want to be delirious enough by morning that I don’t remember going out with you at all. Come on — how stupid are you? Can your brain only work at one thought a minute?” He lifted a paw and gave her a thwack over the head; it wasn’t as light as it could have been. Really it was rather sharp. “Is there anything in here at all or is it just empty noise? Come on. Come on!”
She jerked back all too late as his tail-tip hit her on the nose, using a paw to brush off the remaining feeling it left. Padding to catch up from where she'd halted, she glared daggers into the back of his head until she caught up again, bumping him with her shoulder as she passed him. She wasn't the insecure type — or, more specifically, she wasn't the physically insecure type, she didn't care for looks or presentation or flaws in her appearance — but his words bothered her for the sheer pettiness of it, the confidence he spoke them with as if she'd care at all, like he assumed she would. Did she really come off as so shallow?
While he spoke in disbelief and disgust at her origins, Wickedpaw walked ahead, pulling faces and silently mimicking him, mockingly. She tried to ignore that wriggle of embarrassment, of defensiveness, that crept in. "You know," her tone was flat, scathing, "technically we're all strays. If humans found us here, they'd regard us all the same. Mangy, dirty, wild little strays. And," she tilted her head to look at him, eyes flicking across him as if she were judging his physique, "you aren't as clean as most kittypets I've seen. They'd writhe in disgust at you."
You haven’t done it right if every party involved isn’t incurably damaged in some fundamental psychological way. Wickedpaw snorted, certainly in no position to argue such a claim, torn between the validity and the ridiculousness of it. Her father had uprooted his entire comfortably life just for her, took care of her for as long as he could, was kind and funny and incredibly, annoyingly stubborn at times, but in the same vain as Bacchuspaw, it had been his death that had set her on the trajectory to whatever she was now; a messy, angry, bitter cat, terribly lonely but never willing to give anyone the time of day in fear they'd leave her too.
"Ow. You —" she smacked him back, on the shoulder, though it was more a harsh shove then anything, "you're lucky I'm doing this at all. I'm getting there." After a turn, the hallway opened up to the stairs and, quickening her pace, she ran down them, slipping on the very last step at the bottom in her haste and tripping as she hit the floor, though she kept upright. Turning Bacchuspaw, she sneered, "oh, hurry up. Come on, come on, you aren't that slow are you?"
Mangy, dirty, wild little strays. “Oh?” Bacchuspaw mocked dryly. “Yes? Does that get you off? You want to be someone’s mangy little stray? Far be it for me to judge.” They’d writhe in disgust at you. “Then they’d best have a fainting couch close at hand when they see you,” he replied, shooting it back to hide the fact her insult had, rather embarrassingly, hit their mark; he wasn’t susceptible to most things, would brush off any comment about his appearance completely unscathed and turn it back on the other cat with twice the amount of venom, but, merely because of the unimpressed way she’d said it, Bacchuspaw found his stomach turning with an odd, foreign… Well, he supposed it was some sort of self-consciousness. He was so unfamiliar with it he hardly knew what to call it. All he knew was it made him want to change all his bedding. That — and it made him like her infinitely more. Good for her; no one had ever gotten to him like that. He liked her meanness. Letting her draw slightly ahead, he hung back to discreetly look over his pelt and brush a bit of dust from his shoulder with a pert quirk of his brows. No, no — he looked fine…. He tossed his head slightly and padded slowly after her, clearing his throat. He looked fine, but just in case he’d groom twice when he got back to his bed.
When he shoved her, he shoved her back twice as roughly — despite the fact she was only shoving him because he’d hit her. This could go on forever. Then he burst out laughing and watched her with a lazy, crooked grin as she thought, tail-tip twitching idly behind him. He followed more slowly behind her as she rushed down the stairs, snorting when she tripped. “You’re the single most unsophisticated creature I’ve ever met,” he replied calmly, descending elegantly without issue and padding past her, ignoring her jibe. Next to her feral energy, he walked upright and unhurriedly, every step like a languid performance, a showcase of money. “So — where are we going? Somewhere debauched? Somewhere poor where I’m going to get mugged? I wouldn’t mind. Just — oh,” he pulled a disgusted face and turned his head away, “not somewhere mundane, please. It’s a fight club, isn’t it? It’s a fight club where you go about biting people for a few scraps of fish. You look the brawler type.”
She had that frazzled look to her, the frizzy, wide-eyed glare of a cat driven mad out of pure irritation. She'd never wanted to crush someone's head more, just to make Bacchuspaw stop talking. She sputtered at his comment. "I — wh — it — no! It does not. And, by the way, you are the most judgmental cat that I've ever met in my entire life."
Like a shark drawn to blood, Wickedpaw was drawn to weakness, and she was damn good at scouting it out. When Bacchuspaw slowed to brush a bit of dust off his shoulder, or smooth his fur, or whatever she'd seen him do from the corner of her eye where she had tilted her head to peek back, she let a venomous smile crawl onto her face, all smug glory at the tiniest hint that she got to him, that his miniscule moment of self-consciousness was her fault. She could feel it in air. As he caught up, her grin lessened, replaced by a smile that still held the same energy.
"Oh, am I? That's such an honour, I'm so glad to be worthy of the title. The single most? My Lady!" She replied snidely, with all the fake glee and tearful gratification she could muster. "Oh, relax, would you?" She snapped, "we are going where we say I'm going, and if you keep complaining I will turn this walk around and we will go straight home. Anyway. . ." her tone grew lazed, "the burned twoleg place — you know the one. It's going to look totally cool and there's probably some sick things there, like secrets. Or other things, I don't know. It's also creepy as hell, so you'll fit right in!"
Bacchuspaw gave her a lazy smile, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. “Oh yeah,” he drawled, “it totally does.” And, by the way, you are the most judgmental cat that I've ever met in my entire life. He shrugged one shoulder, his smile becoming a half-grin, crooked and still just as lazy. His hooded eyes had lightened slightly, and they kept that contented, almost happy sort of lightness as they walked. It was the closest Bacchuspaw had been to tranquil. It was a strange situation to make him so, but it didn’t do to wonder about.
When she went on about her feigned gratification, Bacchuspaw just watched her with that same unbothered, mollified smile, his brows slightly, lazily arched. “You’d make a very good Mother,” was all he took from it, padding along like she hadn’t snapped at him. “Maybe we should swap for a day or two. Maybe we should all swap. Just shuffle it all about amongst ourselves, see how long it takes them to notice. You a Mother, Orrerypaw a Student — he’d love that, just a regular student — me an Inquisitor. It can’t be that hard, whatever it is you do — easier than dealing with,” he said the next words like they were his greatest foe on his earth, his most singular enemy, “kit spit-up. Kit-up.” It didn’t occur to him that he could hardly go a sentence nowadays without bringing Orrerypaw into it out of the blue, when he had no place nor reason to be mentioned.
The burned twoleg place — you know the one. “I know the one — yes, I know the one. You really are the worst tour guide I’ve ever had the utter, harrowing misfortune of being saddled with. And what if there aren’t cool and sick things? Hm? What if it’s just the same ashy old place it’s been every time I’ve been there — except all of those times, there’s at least been a party on.” Really, he didn’t mind going there at all — was rather looking forward to it. He’d meant it when he’d said he’d go anywhere she led him, good or bad, fun or boring — half the entertainment for himself was that dedication to such a commitment, the amusement of an aristocrat who found hanging around any sort of poor person very fun and very authentic. Seeing their little houses, their little kettles and things — it always gave good stories once you got back to tea in the drawing room. Bacchuspaw laughed, low and lazy. “Or are you hoping maybe your twoleg will be there, ready to take back its little mewling pet?” It's also creepy as hell, so you'll fit right in! He smiled, crooked and languid. “And it’s dirty and poverty-stricken, so you’ll be right at home with all the other ugly awnings.” He watched her with that same hooded smile.
You’d make a very good Mother. She made a twisted face, nose scrunching and mouth curling into a grimace, revolted at the very idea and shocked that Bacchuspaw would ever think to suggest it. She would never put a toe near those kits, and truthfully she avoided them as much as possible — in a strange, silly way she was scared of them, their softness, their youth, and in part she was also jealous of them. Wickedpaw acted immature, frivolous; a nuisance who never had anything bright to say but always had a quip at hand, and in a way she was exactly that, but the truth wasn't that difficult to gage, either, even for her own lack of self-reflection she understood that it was a coverup for the fact that she never truly got to be that way when she should have. She had been too busy worrying about her next meal, caring for her sick father, finding shelter after angry twolegs or other cats chased them away from their previous one. It was a loss, in a way, a little abyss where something should have been but it just wasn't, so she sought to replace it herself in the time afterwards, where nobody actually needed her to be tough or prudent or helpful, where she was just Wickedpaw the Inquisitor who didn't do much at all, and nothing else.
"Do I need to remind you every five minutes? You dragged me along," still walking forward, she swivelled her head back and stuck her tongue out and blew a raspberry, an uncomfortably long sound made just to irritate, before turning back to skip ahead towards the door. She slipped through the broken glass pane, and stopping just outside. Her head poked through it again moments later, blocking Bacchuspaw from leaving. "And I don't have a twoleg, idiot, I'm not that low." Technically it was the truth, though if he were to ask her when she was a few weeks old she would have said yes. Sometimes she wondered what she would be like if her father had decided to stay, but then she recalled the reason he had left in the first place: so she wouldn't be given to another human, away from him. She pulled back, standing to the side in some undignified, mocking bow as he met her outside, pushing him forward like he was supposed to take the lead, though she scurried past him and did that as well.
She took an obnoxiously loud breath. "Oh, sweet summer air," she sighed wistfully, "how I've missed you since I last saw you this morning. You know, I got in trouble once for 'attacking another student,'" she would have made air quotes if she could, but her voice gave the impression away regardless of her physical limitations, "and I wasn't allowed outside for, like, a week or whatever. It sucked so bad. Second worst time of my life aside from talking to you."
The entire time she blew the raspberry, Bacchuspaw just smiled — the kind of smile that he might have used on a kit being irritating, the kind of mock-patient one that said ‘are you done?’, if he ever smiled at kits to begin with. No — he was markedly more patient with Wickedpaw than he ever was with the ones who actually deserved it, the ones who didn’t know the harm they did. “And don’t I just regret it every moment I spend with you,” he replied sweetly, with that same smile. He wiped a spray of spit off his fur with one paw, then padded languidly after her. And I don't have a twoleg, idiot, I’m not that low. “No,” he agreed in that same sweet, pleasant voice, like he were talking slowly to an idiot, “you just eat garbage off the side of the road instead. What a marked improvement. Do you drag it into the Estate as well or have you become potty trained since then?” He didn’t comment as she shoved him forward, just let out a little laugh that was as happy with her unexpectedness as he was surprised by it. He stumbled and then found his footing, all very graceful.
You know, I got in trouble once for’ attacking another student and I wasn’t allowed outside for, like, a week or whatever. “Oh? And did they get rabies? Was it— who’s that little fellow I see you with. The one with one eye and the funny name.” Like Bacchus weren’t funny. “Whatever his name is — was it him? Or do you just make a habit of attacking students like the horrible monster you are?” Second worst time of my life aside from talking to you. “You know,” he laughed, “I’m glad you said something — I was beginning to feel bad about wishing for the purge back if it meant seeing less of you, but now I know we’re on the same page. I. Am. Miserable.” He gave her a winning smile, full of distaste. Bounding ahead, he leaped up a particular marble column that had fallen against the tall stone wall encircling the Estate and was up to the top in a few long strides. From there, he trotted along the top of the wall, high above the courtyard. “Well,” he said, like he had no say in where his paws took him, “this certainly isn’t the way to the old twolegplace.”
You just eat garbage off the side of the road instead. She laughed, sharp and loud. "Damn right I do!" Her tail flicked him violently, the equivalent of excitedly, playfully patting him on the shoulder. There was a teasing sense of false pride in her voice — though, she was exceptional at finding the best pieces of garbage, the fresh food behind restaurants or superstores that were tossed before they were even touched, and she supposed she did have a sense of pride in that. "Of course I don't, now I'm eating good." Obsessively, as well, she might have added had she not had any dignity at all. She hoarded food in whatever little crevices she would, and perhaps it was that that made the Estate's mice population boom, and she always found herself inhaling her meals as quickly as she could, eating until she physically could not any longer.
Wickedpaw gave an exaggerated wistful sigh. "Oh, I wish — but of course it was. Though maybe I should take someone else on, just for fun." Ungracefully, she scrapped her way up the column after him, clambering onto the wall and peering over the edge for a moment before marching forward.
"Well — God — you just can't be pleased for once, can you? After everything I do for this family. . ." The end of her sentence trailed off into muttering as she turned sharply on her heel and headed in the complete opposite direction, stopping before a large, gaping crack in the wall that dipped far enough to allow a safer jump onto the ground outside. She walked steadily down the crumbly, uneven slope, nearly falling forward, before turning and jumping forward, onto the forest floor.
Pacing from her spot below, she looked towards the spot she once was, then towards Bacchuspaw. "Hurry up, lover boy, I haven't got all day — night?"
If Wickedpaw was trying to disgust Bacchuspaw, trying to get to him, it was working — really, it was the easiest thing in the world. For most everyone else, it was a near impossible thing; he was unflappable, dead-eyed, mocking. For her, it seemed the easiest thing in the world: she spoke and his skin crawled. She moved too fast and he flinched. She made her horrible sounds and he moaned, his stomach roiling with nausea. At her enthusiasm about eating garbage, Bacchuspaw leaned his head back, his eyes closing and his face constricting into queasy, abject disgust. “Ohh…” he groaned softly, like he was going to be sick. Even her mention of eating good made him sick with the uncouthness of it — in polite society, you didn’t talk about food. You didn’t talk about eating. It was something you did discreetly, or made a great show of doing just because you had the means to. They were the anthesis of each other. Strange, then, that he felt remarkably free with her, remarkably untroubled — his chest was quiet; his head was still. And not in the way they usually were, when he was doped out of his mind. She was just so unconscionably mad that he felt settled in the waves of it.
Well — God — you just can’t be pleased for once, can you? “Careful,” he replied cheerily over his shoulder, stopping briefly to raise one paw in the air like he were saying uh-uh-uh! He would have been holding up one finger if he could. “You’re dancing close to impiety, Wickedpaw.” His voice was singsong, rising and falling throughout, the ‘paw’ of her name drawn out faintly. More than that, the day Bacchuspaw was pleased with anything would be a sorry day indeed. He accepted everything, tolerated most things. But he was never pleased.
At the sound of dust falling and rock crumbling, he looked over just in time to see her jump down to the forest floor. It was to be expected, he supposed, with disdainful harmlessness — she was scrappy and ill-kempt; he was trying to find the mannerly way down. Of course she’d get there first, devilspawn that she was. Discarding propriety, he scrambled down the rest of the wall to join her. “Lover boy?” he greeted immediately, knocking his side against hers with obnoxious, irritating force, his eyes dark and heavy and his expression perfectly mocking, like he’d make out with her in a broom closet during a big, rich party just because it would be so funny for both the troublemakers when someone opened the door and found them, sending the whole night into uproar and fervent apologies from their guardians. The platonic, dastardly cooperation of frenemies to cause the utmost chaos, dissent and disarray. With most of his feelings locked away and holding no interest for him, things like that were just pleasurably semi-tolerable parlour tricks with which to cause chaos with someone else and split the winnings with after over shared grins and matching whiskeys. There was nothing in the world he, a rich person, liked more than making a great number of rich people unbearably uncomfortable. And running about with a garbage-eating pauper, one with an element against god herself — that was an unmissable opportunity. “You’d have to pay me, stray. And there are no sums on earth that high.” Plus, it seemed obvious to everyone in the world but him that he had his eye on someone else. Even his tone as he said it was uncharacteristically pleasant, uncharacteristically light, uncharacteristically happy.
Eager to stretch his legs after being cramped in the nursery, he quickened their pace, loping in an almost slow motion run through the trees.
"Im — imp —" Wickedpaw stumbled over the word for a moment, repeating it as if the meaning would simply be bestowed upon her, but it didn't last long. Eventually, she gave up with a scowl. "Impiesy — whatever. I don't even know what that means!" The words were paired with a prideful, satisfactory sort of smile, as if it were a gotcha moment on her part, as if Bacchuspaw was the fool. She gave a haughty, quick laugh, jumping down the side of the crumbling wall.
Standing just beside the wall, Wickedpaw shook out the last bits of dust and speckles of stone from where it had gathered on her tufty fur, pacing and turning in circles in a silent attempt to urge Bacchuspaw to move faster. Despite the fact that she despised, loathed, his company, she hated standing still even more. "Yes," she huffed defensively, "lover boy. Because you're like obsessed with Orrerypaw, or whatever." She gave him another rough push in retaliation — Wickedpaw was one who always had to have the last laugh, the last shove, the last remark, for the pettiness and the added confidence booster. Perhaps it was her need to fight, to defend herself, at every minor act of distaste or cruelty against her, or maybe it was a simple case of self-righteousness.
She stuck out her tongue with an exaggerated gag, bouncing ahead of him as they set out into the woods. "Ew. I wasn't talking about me. Why do you keep thinking about me? Are you, like, obsessed or something? I'd rather die than do anything else with you." She flicked her tail sharply over his nose as she moved forward. The new quickness in Bacchuspaw's pace didn't go unnoticed, and with a quirk of her brow, Wickedpaw sped up into a jog, though it was closer to a run, and she skittered over a hollow, fallen log. In her natural fashion, she tripped over her own paws when they landed on the ground below once more, but — surprisingly — she stayed upright. Suddenly, she skidded to a halt.
"Wait!" She called, desperation clear in her voice, though it faded with her next words, "I forgot where we were supposed to go." She gave a dopey, jockish grin, almost bashful, embarrassed, in nature — though she wasn't sure why.
“Yeees, impiety,” he agreed slowly, like she were a stupid dog in a kennel. “You’d better learn that word quick, given where we live. What do you call it when the cats like Orrerypaw go about looking for it? ’No-good-very-bad-Godlessness’? Do you know blasphemy or is that too large a word for you too?” He flicked his eyes up to the sky, looking away; his voice sounded tired — not with life, not with the reality of what they were talking about, but with her, like just being around her was draining him. “Honestly, Wickedpaw, you act like the rules don’t apply to you — it must be a marvellous thing to be Puzzlemaker’s… what are you again? His niece? His cousin? It’s all such a mess; no wonder you’re inbred.”
Because you're like obsessed with Orrerypaw, or whatever. Bacchuspaw wrinkled his nose, looking down at her in distaste. “Wickedpaw, I could not care less about Orrerypaw.” Despite the fact he’d mentioned him yet again not a minute earlier; but he’d sounded very calm when he’d glossed over his name, perfectly disinterested, unaffected — no trace of the slight illicit tingle that fizzled through him when he found a way to mention him in passing to people who couldn’t feel the tingling, who just heard the dreary monotone and didn’t notice the watchful amusement that gave life and light to his usually dead eyes. He stumbled when she shoved him but hardly broke his stride, not commenting on it; he knew already that if he were to comment every time she hit or pushed him, it would consume him. His whole life. She never stopped; he had to be one of those adults who continued on a polite conversation while a feral toddler attacked their leg. “In that vein, though,” he went on after a moment, giving her a look out of the corner of his eye, trying terribly to appear disinterested; really, he looked as illicitly eager as he’d ever looked in his life — which was still miles below the average, but a staggering difference for him. She was a wolfish savage, a rebel — she might turn him in for a life, but she might equally be the only one he could confide in. “Has he said anything?”
Are you, like, obsessed or something? “Are you, like, obsessed with the word obsessed or something? Do you, like, have another accusation or is that, like, it for you?” His voice was unflappably amiable; when she slapped her tail against his face for the hundredth time, he just fluttered his eyes against the fur, holding his breath for a moment so he didn’t sneeze, and let her. I forgot where we were supposed to go. “How could you possibly have forgotten where we were going between here and the Estate?” he asked with irritated exasperation, padding towards her through the trees and slowing to a stop in front of her. He eyed her grin with lofty, half-sneering disdain. “Is it all just garbage foraging knowledge in there?” He smacked his paw over her head more roughly than anyone else might have thought to do. “The old twolegplace — does that dislodge anything? You barbarian?” He smacked her head again, in the same place. He looked like he was gearing up to hit her a third time.
She snorted in offense. "Of course I know what blast-phamy is. Sorry, I have more important things than words to worry about." The 'sorry' was dragged out at multiple points, giving it a scorning tone. It’s all such a mess; no wonder you’re inbred. Her ears immediately burned red, and her mouth opened as if she were about to speak, but nothing came to mind. Truthfully, she didn't know how to respond, it was such a wildish, outlandish insult that she couldn't help but feel embarrassed by. What did he even mean? She couldn't think of any good response, so she settled on rolling her eyes instead.
On the topic of Orrerypaw, Wickedpaw hummed teasingly at his response, the long, drawn out sound of someone who didn't believe him in the slightest, all mocking and knowing. "Right," she added, just in case he hadn't caught on. Bacchuspaw's disinterest didn't go unnoticed, of course — Wickedpaw almost worried that she had gotten the wrong cat, or that she had read something wrong, but her need to make fun of him won out. It didn't matter if it wasn't Orerrypaw he was interested, or if he wasn't interested in anyone at all, it mattered that she could bother him with the idea, true or not. Has he said anything? She laughed, long and loud, priding her own social intelligence. In hindsight, it was so obvious — how could she ever have doubted herself. "Mm, not to me," she smiled sweetly, slyly, like she were hiding something. Of course, she was Wickedpaw, and nobody wanted to talk to Wickedpaw about their personal problems, so she wasn't hiding anything at all.
Her pace slowed to a lavish stroll now, sick of nearly tripping over undergrowth every few seconds, and her grin still stuck when he appeared in front of her. "You know when there's a super annoying fly near you?" Her eyes widdened at the word 'annoying' for emphasis, "and it just won't leave you alone and you keep swatting at it but you can't get it? And it drives you so insane that you forget what you were even doing? That's what happened, but you're the fly." Her paw flicked offhandedly in his direction. She tried to duck out of the way of his paw, but it still made contact, and she sat back to rub the back the back of her head with a scowl, "yeah, probably," her words, despite the humour, still held a bite to them. She stood up again, shouldering past him to walk forward again, changing their directory only slightly as to align with the burned twoleg place. "But thanks for the reminder, I guess."
“Words!” Bacchuspaw suddenly exclaimed, his very voice different, like he were no longer in a forest with Wickedpaw but upon a howling hill, the last man on Earth; this was a side of him no one had yet seen — the insufferable Romantic poet, the Shelley, the Keats, the Wordsworth. And what a tremendous name for a poet was Wordsworth! “There’s nothing more important than words! They’re all we have! When the world has ended and we’re all rotting under the earth, having lived our brief, miserable existences upon it, words will be all that are left — and with them we’ll be remembered for a year, for two years, before being forgotten entirely. ‘A sophist enamoured of death, who so wanted to make his own funeral oration’ — his own epitaphios logos, his own panegyric; that’s the most beautiful thing in the world, my darling Wickedpaw. To die in flesh, then to die in words — there’s nothing more poetic.”
And then the misty hill was gone and he was back in the dingy woods. He sighed. “Oh, I hate this place.” He was a poet among the benighted, among philistines. And then, suddenly, it all seemed very irrelevant, and he seemed horribly hypocritical, because the second Wickedpaw let out her doubtful hum, his ears grew hot, and clearly he did care very much, at least about one or two among the oafish barbarians. He looked away, his expression viciously unhappy about the mockery — and yet part of him felt immensely relieved, because this was the closest he’d come to admitting anything out loud.
You know when there's a super annoying fly near you? He listened to her tirade quietly, and then immediately replied, “I can’t really say I have much experience with flies. They tend to avoid cleanliness.” Would he ever tire of calling Wickedpaw dirty, or illiterate, or poor? It was superbly unlikely.
The silence fell as he loped along beside her. And then, finally, his face growing hot again, he broke it, pointedly not looking at her as he pretended to take great interest in the trees alongside them. “Of course, if there were anything between Orrerypaw and I, it would be one-sided — wouldn’t it? He’s so obsessed with pleasing the Minister and the Commissioner — fixated on it, really, is probably the right word. He would never want to do anything that might jeopardise that. Even I— well it’s just not done, is it? And ordinarily that wouldn’t bother me one bit — I relish the not-done thing — but… Not with him. I don’t want to ruin Orrerypaw’s life, his career.” His voice had become almost pleading, almost desperately sorrowful, like he were realising that for the first time, and he’d long since turned his head to look at Wickedpaw like she had any sort of contribution to offer. And then, suddenly, it became more brusque. “Of course this is all irrelevant, because any relationship I have with Orrerypaw is purely professional. And, anyway, there’s no way of knowing whether he… You know, what his preferences are.” If Bacchuspaw were his usual self, so astute, so able to cut someone open with one look and slap their greatest dreams down on the table, he would have known that was a laughable thing to say, because truly it couldn’t have been more obvious; but when it came to the Luminary, he was blind and stupid, like all his knowledge and personality went out the window and he was left wavering and uncertain. To the rest of MoonClan’s youth, it was so obvious; to him, it was some insurmountable, foggy path, treacherous and half-blockaded. What a Romantic thing, though — to exist in anguish over some incalculable love affair.
