I know this is just beating a dead horse at this point but good god Warriors really does have so many opportunities to write all kinds of different complex tales and relationships, even just as shorts, and it makes me so so sad. Even just the smaller things, the ones that almost hilariously ignore the bigger plot going on around them.
We all know Breezepelt, but I personally wanna know about his kids! I want to know what kind of father he is to four whole daughters. He’s the guy known for having daddy issues, is he a terrible father? Is he just an okay one? Is he genuinely trying really hard to be good? I want to know!
What about the aftermath of Brokenstar’s reign? What happened to the apprenticed kits who survived the ordeal? Did they remain as paws but had an extended training time? Were they put back in the nursery and expected to just go on knowing what the outside world looked like until moons later? What about the apprentices named before they were adults, were they changed back to paws? What kind of generational trauma did ShadowClan carry from Brokenstar, from all the children who died and all the ones who grew up much too fast?
Dawnpelt was known for mainly one thing: the cat who believed, wholeheartedly, that Jayfeather killed Flametail. She is now also the mother of Sleekwhisker, a Darktail obsessed villain, Juniperclaw, who briefly joined Darktail, poisoned prey, and is now dead and guarding the border between StarClan and the Dark Forest. And then there’s Strikestone, who joined Darktail for a bit but then didn’t do much else except also die. Thats two children dead, one who is denied redemption despite his willingness to, and a third child whos very murderous. Does that not fuck someone up, at least a little?
Pouncestep is my personal favorite simply because she has become the background character in a family of main characters. Lightleap is slowly getting a little bit of spotlight thanks to Blazefire, but Pouncestep is just...there. Literally what is her life even like, watching all her important family members deal with the worst thing ever five times a week. Is she minding her own business. I hope she’s just vibing. I want a calm short with her ignoring all the plot.
Moonkitti brought this up already, but she was so right for it, cause...what about all the cats named in honor of the dead? Hollytuft? Sorrelstripe? Fernsong? Even new Bristlekit and Stemkit, and so many more---does that not mess with a cat? We know it messed with Nightheart, and while being named after and related to Firestar I’m sure does some things to a dude, we have other cats who do look eerily similar to who they’re named after. Lets not even start with Cinderheart. With this naming tradition becoming more and more common, one has to wonder if ThunderClan is gonna be filled to the brim with cats that have some INSANE identity issues.
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They’ve been like this for a while now. The Guardian gets hurt, Ghost scolds them, and they feel guilty for burdening him; for dragging him down with them, and being why he can never go home. They won’t listen when he says they’re his home.
bonk bonk bonk. this is my apology for taking so long on... literally everything else. The Cayde short is actually done now, but wasn't at the time of me finishing this one (which has been done for a few days, I'm just. too lazy lmao) so someone bully me into posting Cayde Hug please
Anyway here is a nice Young Wolf and Ghost short! angst with a side of some beloved bickering <3 they are so stubborn but they are soulmates (platonic), your honor.
[ao3 link]
The statues, twice their size, are caught in poses of combat-ready or investigative, some having tried to run farther down the hall. The blizzard swells and dies out farther down the corridor, leaving the blanket of wisp-soft Void swirling around their steps as mist continues bleeding through the cracks in what was once a battalion of Cabal.
Their arm sways at their side, cold blood squeezing out of shrapnel wounds down the side of their body, the other hand tightly gripping Howl. Ghost materializes to their left, but they stumble forward, stepping towards the frosted over parts of their helmet. There’s a shard of a frag launch splitting down through the eye of it; the orange glow dead.
They plant the tip of the sword on the ground to hold steady as they lower themself over their helmet, Ghost trilling worriedly behind them. The streams of blood begin to reheat, numbness leaving the limb in favor of a boiling pain, and they can feel the soothing chill of Ghost scanning their injuries.
Shakily setting Howl down beside them, they move to pick up the tattered helmet, to be met with an irritated strumming through the Bond. “Guardian, at least hold still long enough for me to heal that arm before you make the bleeding worse,” Ghost sighs out. The Guardian only grumbles, before holding the arm out for a proper scan.
The movement itself makes them tense, resisting the urge to screw their eyes shut against the pins and needles and the accidental twisting of metal scraps still in some wounds. They hiss at the cold air, partially regretting the choice of Void as they all but pour heat out through the shredded armor and skin.
They trace the broken edges of their helmet with their spare hand, rather than watch Ghost knit the skin back together. The feeling of the metal shards being pushed out from the inside as the torn muscle pulls back together makes them nauseous.
No matter how many times they’ve felt it, or woken up from a death to their insides still being patched together, or had to pull themself off of spikes for it to even happen—The nausea always comes back. The frustration of never getting used to something so common in their non-life always comes back.
“Guardian.” Their fingers are bleeding, cut on the broken metal. The edges of their vision swims in and out, and they're not sure if it’s blood loss or the hallucinations again. “Guardian? You’re doing it again.”
They blink, and lower the outstretched arm. The burning feels distant, and the skin is stiff with dried blood, but the wounds feel closed, and the repaired parts of their armor are thinner than the parts that hadn’t been damaged.
He sighs, more irritated—exhausted?—this time. “We’ll need to see Drifter again if we want to repair your armor properly. There’s only so much I can do.” It feels as if he’s scanning them, but the blue glow never comes. “Still with me?”
As a soothing pulse pushes through stiff barriers of Light, they feel some sense return to their body and their face soften. Turning their head away from Ghost, the Guardian gives a small nod. A part of them wants to cradle him; say they’re sorry for putting him through this. He should’ve had someone better.
They settle instead for a soft rippling in the Light; the feeling of tucking a sleeping other’s hair away. He knows what they mean.
Ghost shoves his shell into the side of their head, making them lose the thought and duck away. “We’re not doing this again, Guardian! If the Traveler itself gave me a chance to pick someone else, you know I’d refuse every time.” His voice softens as he speaks, and he must have seen the small wince that crosses their face.
“I mean it, Guardian,” he chimes, firm but soft. Wholly faithful. “When I told you, through Light or Dark, I meant it. Even if it’s just you and me against the world, I wouldn’t change a thing so long as I had you.”
They know Ghost means it; they’ve never doubted it—But that’s the problem. He deserves so much better than a monster for a partner. The crumbling, now barely recognizable statues of Stasis prove them, if not a monster, a force of chaos. Both unstoppable, and immovable. Even with the explosives and traps, there was never a chance.
The shared turmoil strains the Bond with impressions of spirals, and Ghost lowers himself to hover just over their shoulder as they hold their other hand up for him. “Monster or not—and I’m not saying you are, but you never believe me—” He rambles, “You’re still my partner. My Guardian.”
And he’s their Ghost. But it changes nothing. The blood is half dried, dripping sluggishly, as he closes the cuts in the pads of their fingers. They rub them together, the nerves still knitting together feeling like pins and needles.
Nudging him with their shoulder draws a huff out of Ghost. “Yes, I’m done. But this conversation isn’t over.”
It’s their turn to sulk—The conversation is never over. Who’s the monster, who’s to blame, who should suffer: Ghost’s answer is always the same—They scoop the parts of their helmet up, moving it to one arm, before sheathing Howl on their back.
They could clean it later. Ghost gives a puff of discontent.
As they stand, the sound of the last remnants of Stasis crackling out of existence drags their eyes up. The remaining wisps of Void smoke are quickly phasing out of the air, and they take a moment to watch the last evidence of their destruction crumble into nothing. Only the damage of weaponry to the building and their spilt blood remain.
“I’d say that’s progress, wouldn’t you?” Ghost murmurs, tone light, and they can’t help but give him a weird look. This quiet destruction– progress? They get a puff of indignity in exchange. “Well, I did get the data Drifter needed, so yes– But not what I’m talking about.”
The look he gives them is… cheeky. They don’t like it. “What I meant was…” There’s an audible smile creeping into his voice—victoriously smug—as he bumps their head. “Youuu didn’t fight me on healing this time.”
Scars. He’s smug about the scars.
They give a thin-lipped grimace at his priorities, and he just beams brighter. “It’s not much, but you don’t make personal progress very easy, Guardian.” They huff and turn away from him, walking down the hall to the back exit.
Ghost rests his shell in the junction of their hood as they pull it back up, both of them knowing the Guardian will walk slower so he won’t fall out.
“I’ll take any win I can get with you,” he chimes to himself, quiet.
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