Show me your teeth, 'cause you're a teddy beneath (P, Orangey, Uber Advanced)

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    Over the ShadowClan camp hung an endless black carpet studded with bits and pieces of light, a carpet that rolled on and on over the edges of the earth until it touched its opposite end, which couldn’t exactly be identified because of the infinite nature of the thing. A fast growing cat whose color rivaled that of the night slept soundly in his nest, shifting now and then with a murmur here and there. He dreamt crazy dreams, painted wild with neon hues, the muted earthy colors of the ShadowClan territory made intense with imagination and innocence. Certainly, this young cat had learned of death at an early age, perhaps too early, when his mother gently explained the absence of his father. Such a wide range of fathers existed, from gentler than a butterfly’s wing to absolutely heartless. No matter the parents, birth was always a magnificent miracle not fairly expressed by mere words. This young black tom had been in his mother’s womb not too long before, and had emerged a small sticky bundle of fur, mewling helplessly for mother’s warmth and the sweet nourishment of her milk.


    Born to a great yet flawed leader since deceased and an ex-ThunderClan deputy now ShadowClan general, Inkpaw had quite the lineage to speak of. Yet he didn’t much speak of it, preferring not to get those syrupy sweet looks and equally saccharine apologies. Why in the world would they apologize for his father’s death? Tawnyleg and Apothecarypaw both said that Paragonstar had been an excellent leader who died a heroic death, and Inkpaw felt proud to call him his father. Serpentsnare had died recently, too, but Inkpaw liked to think that Paragonstar did it better. Anyhow, he didn’t plan to spend his younger moons moping around about it and annoying the fur off of his Clanmates. Inkpaw wasn’t even sure if he could mourn for more than three or four seconds, maybe five if he tried reeeeally hard.


    It just so happened that the young tom was dreaming of his father right then, more accurately what he imagined his father was. It was simply a dream, no special visits or anything like that. Inkpaw knew Paragonstar had black fur, but black was so boring, and Inkpaw was absolutely dying to improvise. ‘Paragonstar’ had bright purple fur and eyes that changed color every few seconds and sharp thorns for fangs and gleaming metal claws stained red with deathberry poison. Needles to say, it was awesome. Paragonstar was a terribly boring name, of course, so Inkpaw decided to name his brainchild Orange, despite the fact that the cat was clearly purple. For the past thirteen and a half hours, purple was Inkpaw’s official favorite color. For four hours before that it had been yellow. Inkpaw couldn’t remember further back than that, though. His standards for favorite color were top secret, super confidential; Inkpaw hadn’t even told Doctor-Deputy Castaway about them yet.


    Orange was in a forest. Inkpaw was pretty sure that he was some kind of prey animal, probably some lame rabbit or mouse or something. There was an inkstorm at the moment; droplets of ink fell in force from the dark sky and splattered the ground, forming puddles everywhere. Orange jumped in every one that he could find, reveling in the cool splashes of ink that stained his purple fur. Now his pelt looked like a blend of stripes and blotchy polka dots, like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to be a bengal or a tabby. A squirrel scuttled by, and Orange pounced on it, but the squirrel melted into ink between his paws. Orange crouched down and lapped it up. Then he turned around and spotted Inkpaw, and decided that Inkpaw would be his lunch. Inkpaw tried desperately to run away but felt his body bubbling and melting into a thick black mess, into nothingness.


    He awoke with a start, and for a few dazed moments he still thought he was in the forest. Yet Orange was nowhere in sight, and Inkpaw was in his boring old nest. With a huff of annoyance, the young black tom scrambled out of the nest and shook out his fur. It just wasn’t fair that his dream had to have been stolen from him so quickly! Maybe another cat got jealous and wanted in. As he mentally grumbled to himself, Inkpaw spent exactly one minute licking his mussed up fur, but not too long – appearance didn’t bother him, it was night, and Doctor-Deputy Castaway had told him that true love didn’t come from how good his fur looked. Maybe Doctor-Deputy Castaway would get a mate now that he was deputy. It seemed like all the high ranked cats did it. Doctor-Deputy Castaway was super duper special, though, not like other cats. He could serve a six star breakfast, after all.


    The good little Doctor he was, Inkpaw wanted to learn herbs, right then and there. His dream had left him wide awake and alert and, unfortunately for Castaway or Jabberjaw, very hyper. Inkpaw suddenly wondered if there was a herb for hyperness. If there was, he wasn’t sure whether he would want to tear it into teeny tiny shreds or eat it for his own good. Such a hard moral dilemma this was; Inkpaw simply could not handle it alone. So, not sure whether Doctor-Deputies Castaway and Jabberjaw would be sleeping in the medicine den or the leader’s den or the warrior’s den, Inkpaw decided to place himself in the middle of camp and call out for him.”Doctor-Deputy Castawaaaay,” Inkpaw sang out, oblivious to the fact that Doctor-Deputy Castaway was probably sleeping and probably valued his sleep very much, as well as any other cat that may have heard. Oh well, they would just have to get their dreams stolen away from them like Inkpaw had. He knew Doctor-Deputy Jabberjaw was a cool cat, er, snow leopard, and so he probably wouldn’t mind. It would be rather unfortunate for Inkpaw if he did, of course. Poor Inkpaw would just be a splatter of ink on the ground after that.

    The post was edited 1 time, last by Inkdrop ().

    [justify][[... rachel ily xD]]


    The inky black figure of Castaway was not one to be missed. His pelt was slicked back and groomed, per usual, resting on his frame with little effort. Beneath it, his muscles moved as he chased a rabbit. He could not hunt for his life, which was why he hunted in his dreams. If there was one place he felt that escape was truly possible, it was in his cynical, slightly depressed mind. There was nothing wrong with having no formal warrior training, it just meant he had to work harder. He proved that a simple medicine cat could become a deputy. It wasn’t like anybody else was truly fit for the position, anyway, not to be conceited and all. Well, he supposed that he was being conceited, and he did not try to hide it.


    Castaway felt his paws thudding beneath his body as he ran over the marshland. He enjoyed the feeling of the breeze rustling his pelt, and causing his verdant eyes to tear in the most insensitive of ways. He was not a bad hunter necessarily, but he spent so much of his time picking up the slack of others that he hardly had time to perfect the skill. Seriously, Jabberjaw and him had demoted a slew of felines from their position as medicine cats in the last few weeks. They did not deserve it if they were only to be sitting on their asses all day. The stupidity of others nagged at his brain as he lost sight of the rodent he had been after. Whatever, he knew it was just a dream, and he was not hungry anyway.


    Sighing, the thin black tom cat made his way over to a tree, one of the few remaining ones that was alive after the fire. Of course, it was only a dream, and he knew that the tree was not real either. But, his longing for inner peace was, no matter how cliché it seemed. He splayed himself out, a mess of limbs, on the revealed roots of the beheamuth plant, his sides heaving as he caught his breath while his mind wandered in solitude. The ShadowClan deputy allowed for himself to be swept up in reverie, aware of his lucid dreaming state, so it was odd, and inception to an extent. He thought about all of those he had lost, and, in turn, all of those he had gained. He was the son of Scorchstar, siblings to Moxieflame and so many others. Yet, he found that the closest of his friends were not related to him in the least.


    Firstly, there was Dandypaw. Dandypaw was an unlikely friend, one who had literally wedged himself into the life of the deputy. One moment, the medicine cat den was peaceful and quiet; whereas, the next, it was chaotic and nosiy. If it had not been for the imperative drive to do well that that possessed the gray and white apprentice, Castaway would have hated him. But, as time passed, he found that there was no possible way to even stay angry at the ditzy guy. As a slight breeze danced around him, merely a product of his own imagination, he purred. He thought about how nice it would be for the comforting paws of another, boy or girl, to be wrapped around him in a comforting embrace. He yearned for it, really, he was lonely. It was a daunting thought, but he knew that he could hardly tolerate anybody on any level save the medicine cat apprentices and his leader.


    With a groan, he shook his head, deterring the line of thought that was so bound to happen and trace teasingly through him. His sudden loneliness pulling him—sucking him—out of his dream. He hated waking up, because that meant he had to face the scorn of others all day until he could retire to his nest once more. Plus, he was doing both the job of a deputy, and a job of a medicine cat. He would be until any of his apprentices were able to call themselves medicine cats. Castaway did not mind though, as it provided a well needed distraction from the stupidity around every corner. And, while he slowly felt himself open his lurid green eyes, he heard the distinct voice of Inkpaw in his ears.


    Inkpaw was, if anything, jubilant and jovial in his nature. He was caring and funny, passionate, and had great potential stowed somewhere within him. After all, he had been picked as a medicine cat apprentice, to be taught beneath two of the most notorious healers that the Clans had ever seen. The time he spent laughing with the almost miniature version of himself was the best. Ink-kit had barged into his den one day, smiling and giggling, asking Castaway if he was the smartest cat in ShadowClan. Sometimes, he could not tell if the medicine cat apprentice could pick up on his sardonic ways, but, either way, he did not show it. In his innocence, Inkpaw could be excessively infuriating with his joyful outlook on life. But, he supposed, that it was only fair for him to live in a reality that was not yet tainted by those around him. He hoped that he would stay that way for a long time.


    Castaway raised his head with a startled yet agitated sound. It was not a growl, not quite, but it was slightly more taken aback. So, with his odd vocal expression of emotion, he turned to see the bounding figure of Inkpaw. Unsure if he should be rejoicing or annoyed, he rubbed his eyes to counter the effects of having just woken up. “Inkpaw, what a fantastic entrance you made.” His retort was grumpy, nothing out of the normal, but there was the smallest trace of a smile that was etched upon his typically sour maw. “Hello, Doctor-in-training-Inkpaw. Are you here for more of my six-star breakfast, or did you just want to interrupt my beauty sleep in the hopes that you would become prettier than me?” Castaway snorted with a fully broken-out grin, now, batting his tail playfully behind him. Only few cats could make the deputy smile so quickly, and Inkpaw was one of them.
    [/justify]

    Inkpaw answered after a moment of thought. ”Both! Make me the bestest six star breakfast ever! Better than the twoleg food Jabberjaw brings in!” he said smugly. The twoleg food would be hard to beat, a difficult mission indeed but one that Inkpaw was fully confident Castaway could complete. ”You were thinking that up in your sleep,” Inkpaw said smugly, flopping down and then hopping up to his paws barely a second later. ”Probably have been for the past quarter moon.” His green eyes were bright with happiness, almost as if they were laughing. The apprentice licked his paw and drew it over his ear in one quick fluid motion. ”If-when I become prettier than you, whatchoo gonna do about it, Doctor Castaway?”


    The night seemed so dull, so boring. Inkpaw wished a rainbow could suddenly appear, or better yet a double rainbow. Two bands of countless colors stretching across the sky, shimmering brighter than the stars and sprinkling dust over all the kitties that would make them sneeze and wake up and look at the sky and be happy and stuff. Then some ThunderClanners would come and be party poopers and start a fight or something. His mother and Apothecarypaw were from ThunderClan, which made him half ThunderClan although his mother had moved to ShadowClan before he was born….ugh, Inkpaw gave up just thinking about it. Clan politics seemed too complicated, and he got all muddled sometimes and forgot who was who. But some Clan cats were so serious sometimes; Inkpaw was glad there were some animals in the clan that knew how to have fun, how to relax, how to make a killer six star breakfast. Oh wait, there was only one cat who knew how to do that last one. Unless Castaway decided to pass on this immense talent to his lowly apprentices. Inkpaw doubted he’d be able to whip up even a one star meal, and so settled on the hope that he could learn from the master.


    Inkpaw was getting better at the whole medicine thing. He was still clumsy and had to think for cases that weren’t the standard thorn or scratch or something like that. Relief filled him whenever he remembered that Castaway and Jabberjaw were still hanging around, helping out and teaching them, because if a cat ever came in with something he didn’t have a clue how to treat, the cat would probably die because of his incompetence. Which would make Inkpaw super depressed. At least he had two partners in crime. The three apprentices probably looked ridiculous to the other Clans, who had two or three or more full medicine cats.


    Of course, ShadowClan was totally different and much better. Obviously. ShadowClan cats were clearly smarter than all the other Clans put together, so ShadowClanners wouldn’t get hurt as much. One thing Inkpaw knew he had to do was figure out a way to get rid of all those thorns that somehow worked their way into paws so easily. It was as if some prankster purposefully laid them out specifically for that purpose. Something Inkpaw might have considered doing if he wasn’t training to become a medicine cat, something he still might consider someday. Which brought to mind the thought that ShadowClan should totally have a Prank Day or something like that, where every member was required to prank at least one other member. Team bonding and all of that gooey stuff. Then on the night of Prank Day they could gather around a fire and eat Jabberjaw’s special food. They’d tell ghost stories and make shadow shapes behind the fire and then they could play hide and seek or something.


    The young black tom yawned, making a cute little squeaky sound, and started to tear up a stray ball of moss. ”Were you dreaming ‘fore I woke you up? I was dreaming and I was a rabbit and I got all melted and I forgot why I came,” Inkpaw rambled. He didn’t quite care if he was slinging a bazillion questions at Castaway; the smartest cat in the universe could handle it. The moss ball was shredded into teensy tiny pieces now, little bits of green that stuck to his fur and mingled with the dust. ”Oh! Yeah, I wanted to know if there was like an herb for hyperness. Ooh ooh, you can tell me if there’s an herb for prettiness, too. Although you’ll probably tell me about one that makes all your fur fall off ‘cause you’re so jealous of me.” Inkpaw gasped, out of breath, quickly taking in big gulps of air. ”Breathing is so annoying,” he muttered, plopping down on his butt before bouncing back up, swatting at Castaway’s tail, and then padding over to try to sit on his mentor. Maybe he could give Inkpaw a piggy back ride. Yush, that would be fun. It would be hard to tell that Castaway was carrying a cat on his back, though, since they were the same color, although a sudden growth of such a size on the deputy’s back may raise some suspicions.


    Castaway was an interesting kitty. Well, not quite a kitty anymore, more like a big growed up cat with a tongue that was sharper than his claws. Of course, now that he was deputy he had to keep his claws super sharp, too. Inkpaw just wanted to run around to all the different Clans in the middle of the night and scream “ShadowClan rocks” as loud as he could. The urge was almost unbearable, pulling at his paws, his tail, his tummy, his nose, even his whiskers. Maybe Castaway could come along, maybe Burnkit and Caramelkit and Snowqueen and Dandypaw and Jabberjaw and Tawnyleg and Apothecarypaw and Scorpionking could come along with him. Castaway could piggy-back Inkpaw there. Although it wouldn’t be quiet as fun with so many cats. But they were all so amazing and cool and he didn’t want to leave any of them out, especially Burn, who Inkpaw was sure he had an extra special bond with, beyond that shared by siblings. But then once he did it, other cats would start copying him and it wouldn’t be cool anymore. Yuck, and then what would he do?

    [justify]He chuckled because that’s all he could do. There was something about happiness—genuine happiness—that removed the disdain from Castaway’s disposition, even if it was only temporary. Few cats and dogs alike were able to maintain an irritated mood when in the presence of a kitten or puppy. Youth was enviable, in many senses, but it was something that had its own fair share of consequences and downfalls. Castaway would be the first to admit that. The same odd standard followed and applied to adulthood, though; and it was to be expected, right?


    As he allowed for an influx of juxtapositions regarding aging to flood his now-aware mind, he began to look around for a mouse to give to his apprentice. Little Inky was almost a carbon copy of the older tomcat. For starters, they shared the same pelt whose blackness was a void. There was nothing in the sleek obsidian that coated their equally lanky and seemingly oddly proportioned figures. Castaway and Inkpaw also had increasingly similar green eyes. The ShadowClan deputy’s were slightly fierier, in a cooler, more haunting way; the medicine cat apprentice’s were filled with resplendent bliss and gleefulness. Believe it or not, whatever one may choose, Castaway was once Castkit. He had been young and foolish, too, although there was always and had always been a mature air about him.


    He found a mouse, which was fortunate for him and admittedly unfortunate for the rodent as it implied the end of its short life. The medicine cat den often harbored creatures in its depths, but Castaway had learned to pay them no attention. Mice were merely mice, nothing more and nothing less. It was simple that way, and something that took very little time to adjust to, that is the scampering and squeaking of gray rat-like beings. Aside from mice and the slightly sloppy stacks of herbs that resided in the back of the den, the place was surprisingly clean. Jabberjaw had expanded it a while ago, but it was good. Everything was airier now, and it allowed for the place to hold more patients.


    Castaway scooped the mouse in his jaws quickly, not realizing how far he had traveled in search of food. Instead of sitting and sprawled out in his mossy nest, he now held a limp piece of fresh-kill in his mouth while he stood at the mouth of the den. The supple-framed tomcat walked over and tossed the mouse in the direction of Inkpaw. “There, Inky, enjoy the six-star breakfast. I think mice are my specialty. Pardon the lack of a chef’s specialty as well, I’m afraid I have not had much time to organize a formal menu for this place. Although, we really could use one,” he mused with a smirk as he returned to the rich, evergreen colored nest. His paws disappeared beneath him as he sat there, his eyes flicking to look at what the apprentice had to say.


    “When you become prettier? I don’t think so. I’m a supermodel, you see. Just look at my toned bodice and my long legs.” He stretched out a hindquarter and flexed. “There is no way to surpass such superior beauty, my love.” Castaway purred. Oh he was getting more and more sarcastic by the second. He knew that Inkpaw, having been around the senile deputy for a few moons, would understand the humor that was to be extracted from his eloquently proposed statement.


    It was funny to think that Castaway was the product of Scorchstar and some she-cat. Here he was, the deputy of one of the infamous AntiClans, yet he had been fathered by the leader of ThunderClan. How funny. If ShadowClan had not been at such odds with the largest of the main Clans, perhaps Castaway would have been able to grow up with his siblings and parents. He did not dwell on the thought. Unknowingly, his sister was Moxieflame. She was a familiar face at the medicine cat gatherings, which tended to be pretty dry and boring. He no longer attended them; it was not his job to. His job was to make sure that all of ShadowClan’s general population did not disintegrate. Fun, fun, and more fun!


    In the previous weeks and months, there had been many cats seeking the position of medicine cat. They saw that nobody occupied the position. The apprentices were being mentored by Jabberjaw and himself, which was working out fine. When the day came that they were ready to be promoted, they would be. Cats like Hawkcry had been interfering with their productivity. He knew that Dandypaw was having a particularly rough time trying to get the ex-medicine cat out of the den. The thought of the brown tabby made the thirty-month old tom want to gag. He was everywhere, when he was not wanted anywhere near the medicine cat den. Although he may have been the worst of the offenders, there were plenty of other felines who had disrupted the work of the medicine cat apprentices and deputies. They wanted to prove their worth, and be named ShadowClan’s next medicine cat. Well, they could go fuck themselves ‘cause that was not happening.


    And, then, as to be expected, Inkpaw began to speak at a mile per minute. That apprentice could speak for hours to nobody in particular at all. He cracked a smile, “because I can totally keep up with you.” Castaway muttered to himself before returning his attention to Inky. “No—I wasn’t dreaming, I was floating around in purgatory.” He figured that anybody would be able to pick up on his facetiousness. “I was hunting in my dream, though, nothing special. Honestly, yours sounds more interesting.” Castaway managed to get a few words in before Inkpaw went off on another ceaseless ramble. “If there were an herb to dull hyperactive behavior, every kit in all of the Clan would be pumped full of it. Thyme and lavender help calm cats down, though, but I use them as perfumes; they’re much too good to be disposed of so carelessly.” Laughing a bit more, the former medicine cat yawned, revealing a velvety pink tongue.
    [/justify]

    Inkpaw watched Castaway bring back the mouse and not two seconds after it touched the ground the apprentice was attacking it, intending to devour it in the least amount of time possible and most likely choke himself in the process. Of course, a deputy trained in herbs sat next to him, so he didn’t really worry much for trivial things like choking.


    ”I’d say that was a five-star breakfast,” Inkpaw said after some deep thought. ”You should make a menu! Jabberjaw and, uh, um, Scorpionking can take care of all of that boring leaderly stuff. ‘Cause you know you missed me.” Inkpaw licked his paw and brought it across his face with a flourish. ”You know you did, Casty Cast. Inside, you miss Inkpaw every night. You think about Inkpaw every seventeen and a half seconds,” he said matter-of-factly, quite proud that he was able to speak of himself in such an eloquent way. To achieve eloquence required a certain degree of verbal restraint, an area of course that Inkpaw severely lacked in.


    "So we should have a contest where - ooh, it'll be a supermodel contest. Cats will pose and strut around and drop a few winks, and and the judges will pick the best ones. You should be a judge. 'Cause standing in front of you will make everyone want to work harder, to be as pretty as you," Inkpaw said. He didn't care much for being concise and didn't quite realize that some cats tuned him out after the first couple of words. A smile and a nod would probably be all that it would take, saying 'Yes, yes, very true. Mm-hmm. Quite. Indeed' while considering taking two pawfuls of poppy seeds and shoving them down the apprentice's throat to knock him out for a few days, hopefully.


    But then, what once the solid black tom woke up? What words would spout from his mouth, then? He would have missed a full forty-eight hours of talking, and would need to talk thrice as fast to get it all in. Maybe not such a good idea, after all. Plus, he would more than likely talk while he slept; talking was probably his brain's way of functioning, as essential as his heartbeat. Which would stop first, his heart or his mouth?


    ”We should have code names for each other. It’ll probably be useful some day, right? Can’t hurt, and code names will make us twenty-four times cooler. No, wait, twenty-five, sorry. You said you were the smartest cat around, so so you can make them up. You can use that funny thing you do with your words. It’s called spasm, or something like that? Spasm. Spazz. That’s a cool name,” Inkpaw said, unaware that he had mixed up sarcasm with spasm.


    ”La la la la la, can you make perfume for me? How does it work? I mean, cats would be like stunned by your beauty and wouldn’t really notice your smell, right?” he asked, taking a stab at this “spasm” thing. ”Has anyone ever asked you to be your mate before? Like, how does it work? Does the she-cat ask, or the tom, or is there like some sort of mind connection that goes zoo-wing and poof, they’re mates?” He narrowed his eyes as he made the sound effect, and then his thoughts wandered over to Snowpaw, his Snowqueen. She was really cool, and he was glad to see her every day, and sleep near her at nights.


    Not that greenleaf nights were particularly cold, but there was no reason why he could not pretend that they were. Or he could pretend that he had a cold and Snowpaw could get up and get him some honey and give him some tansy or coltsfoot or whatever else cured coughs – he was pretty sure those were it, though. Inkpaw’s mind wasn’t quite mature or developed enough to know what might happen next – the two would lift their heads at the same time and bump heads, which would lead into an adorable nuzzling of the cheeks, or Inkpaw would bite onto the tansy but Snowpaw wouldn’t quite let go, and Inkpaw would chew it up until his nose touched hers and then – –


    Inkpaw wasn’t quite keeping track of his questions, simply expected the intelligent Castaway to be able to catch all of them. The obsidian furred tom jumped up and grabbed a bit of catnip from the pile. ”You haven’t taught me this yet, what is it, what is it?” the young medicine cat apprentice asked, practically shoving it in Castaway’s face. He paused for exactly three seconds to sniff the plant. ”It smells…weird,” he said. ”Is it one of your super special perfumes?” For some reason, it looked important. For all he knew, it was there just for perfume, but its green leaves and purplish flowers probably meant it was significant, somehow.


    Inkpaw didn’t mind when cats came strolling into the den and sat in front of the herb stock and nonverbally blurted in his face if they could become a medicine cat. Another pair of ears to suffer his tongue, which probably burned more calories than his body. Every cat everywhere obviously dreamed of getting the workout that Inkpaw’s tongue got on a daily basis. Except Castaway, of course, because he was already pretty content with his body shape. In fact, those cats who came into the medicine den probably secretly wanted to become Inkpaw’s apprentice just so they could learn that very workout. Of course, they would never dare to say such a thing out loud.


    After a moment of thought on the subject, Inkpaw wasn’t quite sure why they wouldn’t want to say anything about it. Perhaps they were too embarrassed, too shy, or perhaps they had come to him after they got one of Dandy’s famous tongue lashings. Snowpaw could be pretty blunt, too, but Dandy could come up with insults so quickly and so well that he was almost unparalleled. Castaway surpassed him, of course. Perhaps Dandy was a more realistic standard for everyone to live up to, although likely still very far out of reach for most of them.