Post by Heika on Aug 21, 2016 19:29:47 GMT -6
It had been many, many moons since the fabled war with the Dark Forest. Cats like Firestar and The Three had become legends, and, with every passing generation, the link to those ancient cats continued to grow weaker and weaker, until they had become nothing more than bedtime stories with none able to confirm the truthfulness behind them. The Clans took the chance to settle into their lakeside homes. Without any looming threats, they could grow and thrive without having to constantly worry about which loved one they would have to lose next. Of course, there were the occasional territorial disputes — with such hotheaded rivals bordering each other, how could there not be? — but there was never any excessive bloodshed, and peace had finally been achieved.
Or so they thought.
The illness struck swiftly. Taking root in Shadowclan, the infected were unable to communicate what had happened to their medicine cat. Similarly, the medic was at a complete loss; they had never seen such a disease before, and even Starclan had fallen silent, unwilling to help, or, perhaps, unable to. For days, the victims writhed in their nests, sweating feverishly as they gasped for breath. They were delirious one moment, then catatonic the next. And, no matter what the medicine cat tried, he couldn't save them. They died within the week, nearly unrecognizable upon their deathbeds as they foamed at the mouth and snarled at anyone who walked by, and the entire Clan thought that it was all over.
They were wrong.
Soon, the medicine cat began exhibiting the same symptoms, and then the warriors, and apprentices. The entire Clan was in a panic, and, when they found that the other Clans were suffering from the same disease, they realized they had to take action. To protect themselves and the future of the Clans, it was decided that all infected cats would be exiled. Of course, there was an immediate outcry after the announcement had been made, but what could they do? There were innocent kits who could fall prey to the same illness; youngsters who had their whole lives ahead of them were risking their safety every day that they lived in the same camp as the infected. The choice was terrible, the implications of leaving their clan mates to die gut wrenching, but they had no other options.
Within the moon, any cat exhibiting signs of what they dubbed the "biting sickness" was forced to leave the Clans. As they staggered away, their stumbling, ragged forms a pitiful painting against the horizon, those who couldn't stand the guilt followed, and the Clans' numbers diminished one-by-one until they were but a husk of their former glory.
All the medicine cats had died, having exposed themselves to the fatal disease while trying to save others. Most of the leaders were gone too; not even their nine lives could save them. And the Clans had to rebuild themselves, to move on, even as the horror of the Great March never really left them, and many can still see the betrayal in their friends' eyes as they sent them to their deaths.
Or so they thought.
The illness struck swiftly. Taking root in Shadowclan, the infected were unable to communicate what had happened to their medicine cat. Similarly, the medic was at a complete loss; they had never seen such a disease before, and even Starclan had fallen silent, unwilling to help, or, perhaps, unable to. For days, the victims writhed in their nests, sweating feverishly as they gasped for breath. They were delirious one moment, then catatonic the next. And, no matter what the medicine cat tried, he couldn't save them. They died within the week, nearly unrecognizable upon their deathbeds as they foamed at the mouth and snarled at anyone who walked by, and the entire Clan thought that it was all over.
They were wrong.
Soon, the medicine cat began exhibiting the same symptoms, and then the warriors, and apprentices. The entire Clan was in a panic, and, when they found that the other Clans were suffering from the same disease, they realized they had to take action. To protect themselves and the future of the Clans, it was decided that all infected cats would be exiled. Of course, there was an immediate outcry after the announcement had been made, but what could they do? There were innocent kits who could fall prey to the same illness; youngsters who had their whole lives ahead of them were risking their safety every day that they lived in the same camp as the infected. The choice was terrible, the implications of leaving their clan mates to die gut wrenching, but they had no other options.
Within the moon, any cat exhibiting signs of what they dubbed the "biting sickness" was forced to leave the Clans. As they staggered away, their stumbling, ragged forms a pitiful painting against the horizon, those who couldn't stand the guilt followed, and the Clans' numbers diminished one-by-one until they were but a husk of their former glory.
All the medicine cats had died, having exposed themselves to the fatal disease while trying to save others. Most of the leaders were gone too; not even their nine lives could save them. And the Clans had to rebuild themselves, to move on, even as the horror of the Great March never really left them, and many can still see the betrayal in their friends' eyes as they sent them to their deaths.
