Recent content by Swansong

They settle together, in the roots beneath an old tree. It is a spot that she and Ashenfall would once go to; the aching of loss is a familiar feeling, by now. Another gone, with no body to mourn. She breathes out slowly, and wrenches herself back into the present. If she is to guide them...

Everything went perfectly. Ternstar spoke her name like a prayer, dripping with reverence. She is the spirits' voice, with her own seat upon their chosen leader's council. A guide and a careful watcher, ensuring their will is carried out properly. The satisfaction thrums through her like a purr...

No inch of the marshlands remains untouched. Rot hangs like a spectre, its dregs lingering in the gnarls of every branch. They tower like those terrible trees in the tainted land of the dead, and the scent of decay is thick. Bloated bodies float in marshwater, prey turned before its time. And...

They hate to see a girlboss winning. :)

Mist creeps in along the edges of ShadowClan's camp, rising from the pools of swampy water. It crawls along gnarled roots and buds of gasping Newleaf flowers. It moves in time with the soft thud of rain, a gentle drizzle whose pattering beats marked the transition from day to night. The smell of...

They walk, a chorus of frog-chirrups guiding their path. Swansong is quiet, her mind a swirling miasma of uncertainty. She does her best to tear through it; she acts upon StarClan's will. She is their voice, and she will ensure that they are listened to. It is the only way forward, if they are...

Swansong is no stranger to finding bodies of clanmates. Though she is not there to witness this loss, she is dutiful in her carrying of the dead. Quiet, as she walks with the exhausted Sneezeduck. She does not question him, for she knows he is as much a pupil of the spirits as she. For whatever...

Again, Siltcloud comes to her. The face of one condemned, cast out from the ranks of their clan. Her voice is a tattered thing, scraped over harsh stones. Still, there is something soothing in it. With her, there are no tangled webs of metaphor to tear apart. Whatever the stars speak to their...

Soft paws pad across the Thunderpath, onto that cursed strip of land. Blood soaks the soil, every blade of grass a reminder of what has been lost. It hangs heavy in the air, the knowledge. The ghosts that claim this earth are vengeful ones, and Swansong breathes a shaky breath into the night...

Caterpillarfuzz leans back into a recline, and Swansong follows suit. The marsh grass brushes against their back as the two gaze skywards, one pair of eyes seeing for the both of them. "There is a bright one... just above the burnt sycamore..." Swansong murmurs. It's impossible to miss, its glow...

The moon hangs overhead, and two pale eyes cut through the dim of night. There is a chill creeping in. Though blossoms flourish in the light day, cold mist rises from the swamplands in tandem with the moon. It hides them well; they will need discretion, lest the judgemental eyes of mortals catch...

"Cubkit, dear," Swansong calls softly. She lays merely a fox-length from the kit, head resting upon her paws. Half-lidded eyes peer lazy up at the small gaggle of kits - the pack is still as thick as ever. Even as they integrate, there is still a wildness in each of them. Cubkit, named in...

They could care less for the squabbling of clanmates, even it is their leader's voice that rings through the clearing. She speaks true, even as her words drip with venom. Sharpshadow hardly seems fit for deputy, hardly seems to want the role at all. And yet, Ternstar thrust her into this...

Swansong trails after the leader like a wayward ghost, eyes set on catching her alone. It is their duty, after all, to do whatever they can. In lieu of StarClan's guidance, they let their own thoughts spill from their head. "You made... the right choice..." They call to her softly, a dove's...

Looking at Sharpshadow now, she cannot find that memory of Smogstar. Her father fit the role of deputy with an easy kind of cunning, a level head and a narrowed gaze. His apprentice seems more fit without it, among the panicked and gnashing ranks of the rabble. And still, there is no peace on...