She'll be out of here soon, Larkwing knows, out of this den that's begun to feel more like a prison cell. How long has it been since she's even left camp? More than six moons, she knows that. There were two moons when her broken bones were healing before her kits were born that she couldn't leave. And then Faith, Fern and Hound were born.... and then Hound died. She'd left camp to bury her child. Broken down on Fishfreckle's shoulder. And he'd left again.

She's used to that... to everyone leaving. Wither. Falconfeather. Gingerstar. Springburst. Birdsnow. Fishfreckle. Houndkit.... Fernkit. She doesn't know how her remaining tortie daughter escaped. Doesn't know when it happened. A sliver of her blames RiverClan for not paying attention to the kits. Most of her blames herself. She should have been watching. Should've hovered. Shouldn't have let her out of her sight even to sleep.

But 'should' won't bring any of them back.

Maybe Larkwing's cursed. She's had that thought before, when she returned home. Immediately they were driven out of the forest. And then bad things just. Kept. Happening. But Faithkit is almost an apprentice, and Fernkit is too... assuming she's still alive (though, Larkwing almost can't believe that with how often everyone she loves ends up dead), and soon Larkwing can be out of this place.

If she were a more social cat, she might think that getting out of the nursery was a good opportunity to go hunting or training with friends, but presently her closest connection is her daughter, and friends are hard to make, so really she just is eager for the chance to do something different again. The chance to hunt. To swim. To imagine she is a different cat living a different life.

[ open maybe if u want ]