The Roots are what remained after the Cloudchasers fell — former prisoners, rebels, and a few converts who survived the rebellion. Led by Lambthroat, they built their new home on the wreckage of the old, determined to be nothing like their captors. But good intentions curdle in darkness.
Before the second rebellion, Lambthroat saw something in a ravine where the earth had collapsed, revealing the ancient roots of a willow. Warriors had fallen into it during the cave-in, and in their desperation, Lambthroat interpreted this as a sign — nature itself was speaking. The willow's exposed roots became their altar, their proof that the old gods of sky had been wrong, and the true divinities were earth, water, and growth.
Now they worship the willow and the nature around them, believing they are saving cats by bringing them into the group — never mind that those cats rarely choose to stay. Lambthroat is terrified, though he shows it to no one. He dreams of something coming, something worse than Cloudmist ever was, and the rituals are the only thing holding it back.
The Roots abhor violence and deny they commit any. Kidnapping is reframed as "rescue." Sacrifice is "offering." They are desperate to believe they are nothing like the Cloudchasers — but the machinery of captivity remains, only the justifications have changed. Lambthroat protects former prisoners and their descendants fiercely; they are the only ones he trusts absolutely. Others are... replaceable.
The willow in the ravine is not a tree — it is a gateway. Its roots drink from something deeper than water, and its growth must be fed. Lambthroat preaches that nature is balanced on a knife's edge: take too little, and the earth starves; take too much, and it consumes you. Twice per season, they must feed the roots.
Every half-season, a young tom is chosen — healthy, strong, and crucially, never a former prisoner or their descendant. Lambthroat protects his own; the weight falls on others.
The chosen one does not know their fate. Days before the ritual, they are fed special herbs that slowly, painlessly shut down their body. By the night of the offering, they are too weak to resist, barely conscious. The cat leading the ritual — often the one who selected them — administers what should be the final dose.
Then the group feeds. The body is consumed completely, down to the bones, which are cast to the roots below. This, they believe, nourishes the willow and keeps the darkness at bay.
The Roots deny that any of this is violence. They are saving the world. They are nothing like the Cloudchasers. They repeat this until almost believe it.
The Roots do not live in the old camps. After the rebellion, Lambthroat led his followers away from the river, away from the prisoner pits and the warrior clearing. They now dwell in the old barn beyond the clearing — the same barn that once served as a waystation for newly captured prisoners. Now it is home.
The barn is large, drafty, and smells of hay and Twolegs, but it offers something the forest never could: walls. Protection. A place where kits can sleep without guards watching. The Roots have made it their own — nests in the loft, a medicine den in the corner where Mistywater keeps her herbs, a clearing outside where rituals are prepared before moving to the willow.
A short journey from the barn, through the forest and across the old hunting grounds, lies the willow ravine. This is where the earth collapsed seasons ago, swallowing Cloudchasers warriors and revealing the ancient roots below. Now it is their altar — the most sacred place in their territory. Rituals are held here twice a season, always at night, always under the watching moon.
The roots themselves are massive, twisting, half-exposed along the ravine walls. Below, in the darkness, lie the bones of offerings. The Roots do not go down there. They only cast things in.
They built their home in a cage, and called it freedom.
When Cloudmist fell, the prison camps emptied. Cats who had spent seasons in captivity walked free for the first time. Lambthroat, the albino kit who had grown into a rebel leader, stood at the center of it all and realized: freedom is not a destination. It is only the beginning.
Most of the old Cloudchasers were killed or fled. Those who remained — Mintwhisker, Sturdyheart, a handful of others — swore loyalty to the new order. They had been warriors under Cloudmist; now they preach for Lambthroat. Faith, it seems, is flexible.
Before the second rebellion, Lambthroat had failed once. The first attempt crumbled, and he was left with nothing but desperation. It was then that the earth itself seemed to answer. Near the old prisoner camp, the ground collapsed, swallowing several Cloudchasers warriors and revealing the exposed roots of a massive willow. Lambthroat, standing at the edge, saw not a cave-in but a sign. The willow was calling. Nature was choosing sides.
He gathered the second rebellion not with plans, but with conviction. And when they won, he knew what they had to become: not just survivors, but guardians. The willow must be fed. The balance must be kept. Something worse is coming — he feels it in his bones — and the rituals are the only thing holding it back.
The Damned are former Cloudchasers, marked and watched. The Warmed are outsiders being "saved" — they will eventually be integrated, if they survive.