Fossilfoot

Like many cats, the war has changed Fossilfoot. Though they were always the more serious, studious type, Fossilfoot has become more quiet and careful with their words, preferring to keep their head down and avoid the spotlight whenever possible. Fossilfoot has a kind heart and is typically well-meaning in their actions, but that is often obscured by their now anxious tendencies and slightly jaded outlook.

Fossilfoot moves like they’re expecting someone to jump out of the shadows and tackle them at any moment. Ears up, eyes alert, always scanning their surroundings. It seems like they don’t know how to relax, even when sleeping. Every sound, every touch, every scent is enough to startle them awake, and that’s without the nightmares.

They don’t seem to have ever really gotten over the war, and now they carry around the baggage from having abandoned their family without a word. It doesn’t take much guessing from the cats who knew them to know the sheer amount of shame they feel about their decision to leave.

It’s clear that Fossilfoot isn’t very comfortable in CreekClan, but as long as they’re here, they’ll be civil and aid them however they can, so long as that doesn’t include confronting CanyonClan.

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Fossilkit was born a few seasons before the war started, alongside their sister Mossykit. The two were very close from the moment they were born, and acted like they were attached at the hip. Fossilkit had a fairly normal kithood, born before the war really started.

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As an apprentice, Fossilpaw was known as a stick-in-the-mud. Serious and moral, Fossilpaw was often excluded from any apprentice shenanigans because they would tattle, given the chance, and spoil the fun. This isn’t to say Fossilpaw couldn’t have fun—they liked to paint and spar and play with the other apprentices, so long as no one was being too rough and no one was breaking any rules. And they would even crack jokes, though, how funny they actually were was up to debate.

The closest Fossilpaw ever got to breaking the rules was when Mossypaw was involved, but they always made their displeasure about it very known.

But above all else, Fossilpaw always preferred to spend their time learning about anything and everything, and they especially liked to know things no cat ever bothered to know—which birds nested in which part of the season, where to find a certain kind of rock, how many sunrises it takes for a butterfly to emerge from its cocoon. They often chattered about things that no cat ever cared about, like how Fossilpaw had been marking the stream to see how much it would rise or sink by the rain and snowmelt, and it’s really actually super interesting, you see, because yesterday was the highest Fossilpaw had ever seen the stream, and hey, wait, where are you going?

They were only an apprentice when the first skirmishes started, and started to worry about what they would mean.

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It didn’t take a genius to see that Fossilfoot was concerned about the growing tensions between CanyonClan and AspenClan, even if they weren’t shared by all of their clanmates. But Fossilfoot was no pacifist—eventually, the fighting turned to war, and when Fossilfoot was called to fight, they did so.

The war was exhausting. Fossilfoot much preferred to do their part by staying out of the fighting whenever possible, and instead doing the tasks no one else had the energy for, like maintaining the camp and hunting for prey. But fighting was inevitable, and Fossilfoot did a lot of it. The things they saw on the battlefield… with each passing battle, Fossilfoot retreated further and further into their shell, struggling to process the blood and loss and grief. And as it dragged on, it only got worse as each fight became more personal and drenched in vengeance.

They were supposed to be a warrior. Warriors were supposed to fight with honor, and accept defeat with grace. But there was no honor in this war, and Fossilfoot came to loathe some of their very own clanmates for their actions during it.

And right near the very end of it, Fossilfoot found out they were expecting kits. Although, leaving for the nursery as early as they did may have raised a few brows.

For a time, life was a little bit easier. In the shelter of the nursery, Fossilfoot could pretend the war wasn’t happening—that it was only them and their kits, happy and safe far away from the front lines. And oh, how they loved their kits. So energetic and kind and untainted by the war. But as they grew older, Fossilfoot began to dread the day they would be old enough to start training, and sent into battle themselves.

But then the war ended, with Fossilfoot having missed the bloodiest battles of it. Sandstar was gone—it was all actually over.

But Fossilfoot was not the same cat they had been. Their Clan was steeped in grief for a war that did not have to be fought for as long as it was, a fraction of the size it once was due to all the death and deserters. Of which they secretly supported; they would not say as much, but they had started having thoughts of leaving themself.

They did not approve of Aspenwatcher’s choice in deputy, but was too withdrawn to speak out and say anything. So they just worried, waiting for the inevitable, where someone would want revenge, and everyone would remember all of the loss and suffering and then they would all be fighting again, until all the canyons were stained red with blood and there was nothing left.

And then the worst came to pass.

Aspenwatcher died, and Duskfall took his place.

Fossilfoot spiraled heavily into their memories of the war that night. They feared what Duskwatcher may do with his newfound power, and they feared that CanyonClan would blindly support him once again, and of course, they feared the worst: that the war would begin anew, restarting the blood feud that would never be satisfied.

So, without a word to anyone, Fossilfoot fled the Clan.

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The sun had barely risen by the time Fossilfoot started to regret leaving their kits and Mossypath behind without a word, but by then their absence would have been discovered—possibly they had been followed, and it would have been extremely obvious what Fossilfoot had done. And after moons of deserters, and the harsh opinions their clanmates had of them…

And they couldn’t go back to another war. They couldn’t stomach any more bloodshed over old wounds, wounds that would almost certainly be reopened due to CanyonClan’s change in leadership.

And what would their kits think? Their sister? They wouldn’t have come with them even if they had asked. That had to be true. Because if it wasn’t, then Fossilfoot had just…

Left.

They had many moons of solitude as a loner, though they never strayed more than a few sunrises’ travel from Clan territory. It was almost like they couldn’t commit to leaving, but they knew they couldn’t return either. So they remained, gone but not too far, alone with their guilt and regret in the maddening isolation of the forest.

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Fossilfoot has only just returned to Clan land, though it was partially an accident as leafbare drove them closer to the Clans than they had realized. But when they were so close to the Clan lands again… they realized they couldn’t make themself leave a second time. So they decided to take asylum in CreekClan, just long enough to find out what they had missed and share some prey, and then they’d be on their way again.

A chocolate-and-white tortoiseshell with green eyes. Their fur is laced with color like the rock sediment of CanyonClan’s cliffs, and their fur is sleek and wispy. Their slashed ear, scarred cheek, scarred side, and ankle bite are all scars from the war. They often walk with their head and tail low. They have a low, hoarse voice.

VC: Shohreh Aghdashloo as Grasyon in Arcane