you are considered the absolute middle
in all things. never too quick to anger, but never too prone to jokes and humor. mild-mannered, eager to please. you've been called boring
before--- run of the mill, every day. your mind is more preoccupied with herbs and whispered, barely-there spells, eager to heal and eager to help. in all things except your job
, you are forgettable. but even if other cats turn a blind eye, there are parts of you that friends might point out. you've a soft sort of humor, always quick to be polite to your seniors. you are the type to make silly faces to calm kits when no one is looking, the type to laugh sheepishly at any praise, the type to duck your head and ignore others if it means getting work done.
you are the type to be deeply troubled by even the most innocent of things, the type to hold superstitions close to your chest. you prefer the 'old ways' to change, though you've learned long ago to adapt as best you can to change. you struggle with your own shortcomings, and more often than not blame yourself for the deaths of others, even if they were unavoidable. you're described as always slightly awkward, dragging out silences and placing emphasis in the wrong places, but every cat seems to agree that you are trying your hardest, and mostly mean no harm.
granitepelt - sibling | rainstar - cousin | owlfrost - mother | leopardpelt - father
you aren't necessarily born for greatness. there are tales of cats like that, chosen by starclan to protect their clan, to speak for those long departed. but you are not one of those cats--- you don't think starclan has the power they once did, to gift heroes with great skill.
you've always dreamed of the stars. trailing eternities that spiral above you, populating your dreams and reminding you of the sheer size of the world well before you leave the nursery. there's no reason to think of this as anything out of the ordinary. dreams are just dreams, and though you share the little bits that you remember with your parents, those dreams are never anything more than that. signs? prophecies? whispers from dead warriors? there's nothing to make you inclined to think as much. and maybe they weren't anything more than an overactive mind, too big for a tiny body.
perhaps your parents whispered their worries to gorsethroat. perhaps he knew, as intertwined as medicine cats were meant to be with their ancestors. perhaps it was just sheer, dumb luck. whatever the cause, he chose you long before you chose him. you and your siblings had never necessarily caused trouble, nor spent much time in the tom's den, but all the same he seemed to keep popping up into your life. whispering with your parents, watching on as your and your littermates played, approaching when you sat alone, relaxing. sometimes he would ask you things. you always found that part a tad strange, for what little you knew. none of the other warriors or cats paid your siblings any heed. you played in the clearing and laughed too-loud and all enjoyed life, but no one except gorsethroat ever seemed to bother acknowledging you.
so eventually you start to smell that change is coming. you can't tell if you convinced yourself as much after the fact, or if you had dreamed of change, whispered to you by the nothingness or the horizons, forewarning you of his decision long before you consciously came to acknowledge it. you weren't sure what to expect, when you parents brought you before the leader, or all cats. some shadowy figure they'd told tales of, as you all laid in the nursery together, so far removed from reality. emberstar, a great hulking figure. he tells you of littlecloud, and of stormheart, and of their work with the wyrdwalking illness. he finds it funny, though you're not so sure, that you are born just a moon or two after stormheart's passing. as though starclan, even as weak as they were now, had brought you down from the very heavens as a gift. as someone to help gorsethroat in further studying the wyrdwalkers.
gorsethroat sits there and sings you stories and praises, as though he knows all the things you'll do in the future. so you sit in silence and listen to these two strangers tell you what you're meant for. it's hard to imagine some bigger picture that you fit into. your life is the nursery and the clearing of camp and your parents that laugh when your siblings do something strange. all in all, you don't think there's any reason not to assume this was meant for you, or you were meant for this, or whatever gorsethroat tries to tell you. you say yes. you become a medicine cat.
your naming ceremony is the last time you and your siblings will spend all that much time together for a long time. you are carried off into the forest to learn about herbs, their purposes, their locations, how to keep them. sometimes your eyes spin with all the knowledge, but you learn fast and you find it relatively easy.
your first time in the brightmire, your mentor frets in a way you haven't seen him fret before. it's been only a moon since your appointment, and what little he's told you of wyrdwalking thus far hasn't instilled the great fear in you that it will when you finally witness it. but the brightmire is just some unfortunate swamp-y place, as far as you can tell. there is nothing sinister plotting within, no dark force coming forth to coil around you and steal your life. it is just bog water and unfortunate smells, and the more time you spend there the more certain you are of it. you come to recognize wyrdwalking as debilitating. the very idea of losing your own identity boggles your mind. gorsethroat teaches you whispered things, spells and sayings that he superstitiously clings to. you learn enough of the other medicine cats to know that their frustration and their lack of superstition is different than that displayed by your mentor.
you spend most of your days there, silent in your watch. you walk and, in some unfortunate moments, you swim, and you search the entire thing over, desperate to find the 'cure' that everyone is so sure hides within. crowstar lets quillfrost in, one day when you're so deep in the muck you think you might become a part of it. it's easy to watch in the shadows, whisper your own prayers for whitestar. it's even easier to understand that some fundamental part of the brightmire is either to blame, or to use to cure cats. was it the water? was it the air? was it some unseen spore in the air? when gorsethroat passes you are left alone in your worries, and when crowstar passes you are left with rainstar.
the other medicine cats beg you for entrance, and you'd give it to them, let them run across the entirety of the swamps if it meant curing them. but rainstar doesn't want anyone on their territory. you were never raised to hate your contemporaries, or to fear borders. you wish you could understand her, or maybe even understand this damned illness.