Mary, by snappy.
Mary. Bloodclan Guard, daughter of Sheogorath, a force to be reckoned with. A demoness of strength and skill, white-furred and blessed with two tone eyes of fierce, rusted copper and striking sapphire blue. Mary carries a type of ruthless elegance, the kind that slams the door open and commands respect. She wears a coat of pristine white, draped over her shoulders and showcasing the sleek muscles underneath, ready to spring into action at a second’s notice.
Mary isn’t a cat to mess with and Waspwing knows this. Waspwing can see it in the way that Mary stalks the Bloodhouse, hazel and blue hues scanning the floorboards below her, claws digging into the soft wood as she stalks along the rafters above the heads of the cats on the floor. Slow, steady does the Bloodclan guard move, paws placed calculatively as she teases the idea of hopping down from her perch in the Bloodhouse, the wooden beams creaking slightly as she continued to slink along them. Thud, Thud. Two sets of alabaster land near Waspwing, making her coal fur stand on end as her eyes find the large molly in the crowd of Bloodclanners. She doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to say anything. They know when they should shut their traps and simply let Mary through, a few of the cats shuffling awkwardly out of the way of the large female.
Mary stands there for a moment, possibly soaking in the stunned silence of the crowd before she starts to move. The guard slipped through the throng of cats languidly, head held high as the cats around her shy away as she closes in on them. Waspwing simply watched from a safe distance, tail curled tight across her paws as Mary made her way over to the pile of rats in the corner. The healer wasn’t quite sure why everybody was so quiet, though Sheogorath had died only a few days ago and maybe, just maybe...the cats were afraid of Mary and what she could do, what she would do. They had been close from what Waspwing could tell, the old king and his daughter were tight-knit and as close as a father and daughter could be, from the perspective of the clan. Losing somebody like that who was a part of you, it changed you and made you into somebody that nobody could recognize, not even yourself. Grief changed and molded you, like hands grazing over wet clay, creating and shifting until you were left with a finished product that looked completely different from what you had started with. Mary was different, they could all tell.
They could tell when a cat got in Mary’s way, obliviously cutting her off from the freshkill pile as the flea-brained cat dipped their head to grab a rat, right in front of the white molly. Waspwing visibly cringed, the tension skyrocketing as Mary simply watched, her face stoic as her gaze bored into the cat. There was a moment of silence, the entire Bloodhouse on the edge of their seats as they waited, watched. The sound of a slap and a whimpering cat was all that they needed, droplets of shimmery blood falling to the floor as the cat took off, deep cuts in their cheek from where Mary’s talon-cloaked claws had dug into their skin, tore their soft flesh and left them mauled and mangled. Punishment, punishment for daring to cross the path of the guard who had just lost her father. Mary was hurting, but she wore her hurt under a layer of sharp words and poison-ladened looks.
Waspwing had stopped the guard, although Mary was looking like she didn’t want to talk to anybody. Her ears were flat against her hair, snowy white fur puffed up in a clear sign of agitation. The black tabby healer simply laid a paw on Mary’s shoulder before giving her a swift dip of her head and disappearing into the shadows; Waspwing knew how Mary felt and she...just wanted to give her a little bit of comfort in the ways that she could. Waspwing knew that Mary didn’t fancy here all too much, but Mary was still part of Bloodclan and she was going to do her best to support Mary in the ways that the both of them could agree on.
Mary was strong, she could and would get through it.
