sensitive topics ’TIL THE BOY STOPS SHAKING [death]

[FROSTWIND]

CW — descriptive violence, blood, death


꙳•❅* The blizzard swirls around him, blocking out most of his sight. The moorland is turned into a wasteland of white, making finding prey almost impossible. But Frostwind presses on, because his clan needs him to. His family needs him to. He manages to catch the scent of something, at least—prey is nearby. He darts in the direction of the smell, his paws landing neatly on the back of a mouse's tiny body. He grins, but his pride doesn't last long. Before he can snatch up his kill, a dark paw slides into his view and rips it away. When he tips his head up to look at the thief, it's… no one familiar. A dark form, half-hidden now by the swirling snow, retreats with their stolen prize. A rogue. "HEY! That isn't yours!" He rages as he takes off toward the intruder, his paws burning as he tears across the snow-covered ground. He may be a tunneler, but what he lacks in bulk he makes up for in speed. Light-footed and lithe, the tom looks more weasel than cat as he throws himself through the air at the last moment, crashing into one of the rogues and locking his teeth around their neck. He tugs at their scruff, tasting blood as he manages to break skin.

He doesn't notice his mistake until another weight slams into his back, claws tearing across his ears and down his spine. A feral howl escapes him, and he whirls around just in time for a large paw to slam into his face. Claws sink into the flesh around his eye socket, and Frostwind lashes out with claws and teeth, attempting to haul himself away from both threats. As he does, another mistake is realized. He can't get away. Not from this. He shouldn't have jerked his head backward, because there are claws too close to his eye. But he's already done it, and it's too late now. There's tugging, and then something in his head explodes with pain. "AUGH!" His vision floods with red—what little vision he has left, at least, because his right side… his right side is blank. Empty. He can't feel his face now, just as he hasn't been able to feel his paws.

He whirls around, staggering, trying to face his enemy head-on. The ground beneath him is red (or is it just the blood clouding his sight?) and the stench of blood fills his head. Where is the rest of the patrol? Are they even nearby, or has he lost them in the snow? He can't tell. He spots one of the rogues in the corner of his remaining eyesight and lunges for them, but before he can reach them he's tugged backward by teeth in one of his hind legs. Off-balance, he's dragged down into the snow, icy eye left gazing up into the white sky. And framing it, there are three, four, how many faces. Snarling cats, starving, determined to bring him down.

He can't see Scorchstorm anywhere, and for that he's grateful. Maybe his sister won't even see this, through all the blinding snow. "Is that… all you've got?" He huffs out, unable to stop himself. They haven't beaten him down just yet. But he can only watch as they close in around him, their bodies acting as a barrier against the cold. Every part of him is cold, now, he's noticed.

He manages to pull himself to his paws, even as their blows rain down on him. Claws and teeth alike leave their marks, and crimson spills across the snow. At last, a strike to the face sends the tunneler reeling backward, landing hard on the ground once more. His paws scrabble about, trying in desperation to heave his tired body up again, but his frantic effort proves to be in vain. He can't die like this… but he's going to, isn't he? The feeling of claws in his flesh no longer brings a flare of adrenaline and heat, and his body shakes with the sudden chill that crawls through his bones. He doesn't get far on trembling limbs before he collapses once more into the snow. His eyes—eye—rolls back, and then it's over.

(It's strange, Frostwind thinks. He'd expected dying to be a process, slow and painful. But instead, it all happens in the span of a blink. His eyes close, and when they open he's outside of his body. And then he's gone.)

At last, the black-and-white form amidst the rogues falls still. There's no fight left to be had, and so with a final slash of claws, the first rogue turns on the rest of the patrol, if they've stuck around. The others follow suit as well, fangs bared in preparation to strike at whoever remains.

YOU ARE FAR TOO NICE ❆ MERCY HAS A PRICE

• ooc: rolled 7 (frostbite), 6 (rogues), 11 (prey stolen) — but does any of that matter? Frostwind is now dead, and the rogues are turning on the rest of the patrol. Feel free to powerplay them running away or doing whatever
  
  @SCORCHSTORM
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• FROSTWIND ❯❯ he/him, tunneler of windclan
  ❆ scruffy black and white tom with icy eyes. casual and friendly, but jumpy when threatened.
  ❆ son of scorchstreak and badgermoon ; brother to scorchstorm, luckypaw, rumblerain
  ❆ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ❆ penned by foxlore

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[SCORCHSTORM]

It's a snow she hasn't seen since the mountains. The blizzard had crushed whatever remnants of warmth they'd been blessed with under its boot. It was cloaked in white with ice on its coattails; it's sharp and suffocating; a truly vicious little thing. But Scorchstorm had survived the mountains. So had her mother, and Sedgepounce, and Periwinklebreeze, and Sunstar and Wolfsong (StarClan damn them) and so many other WindClanners that still walk this earth. When Frostwind and the rest of the patrol dove into the breast of the storm, Scorchstorm followed without a second thought.

It had been normal enough at first — as normal as hunting in the blizzard can be, when sheets of white intercept every movement, when the cold robs her of feeling in her paws. She hunts in tandem with her littermate, though they are hardly in sight of each other. When his paws crunch the mouse's little spine, Scorchstorm's fangs sever a vole's quaint carotid. The blood freezes before it hits the earth. The press on. Little do they know, there's company.

The blustering wind and limited sight mean that Scorchstorm doesn't know there's rogues upon them until Frostwind is already shouting at them. It is by chance that the snow parts to allow her a view of her littermate leaping, leaping onto the offender's back, locking himself in wicked choreography — and then the wind blows again, and they are gone.

Scorchstorm feels her heart in the otherwise numb valleys of her paws. She's thoroughly frosted as she weathers waves of thick and pelting snow, as it melts against the heat of her skin only to freeze again in the same second. It's just a second, and then it's two, and then four, and they keep adding and piling just like the flakes on the ground, the seconds between seeing Frostwind and not seeing Frostwind. Her paws are moving, she knows, but she can't see him, and StarClan, what was that sound? What was that caterwaul? Why is there red on the ground, in the air, in her nose? "Frostwind!" Scorchstorm screams, but hears nothing back above the mournful howling of the wind.

And then it stops. The wind stops, or maybe time itself stops, allowing her to see past the dominating white curtain. Frostwind is collapsed in center stage, his still-hot blood making maroon slush of the snow around him.

Scorchstorm's eyes snap to the rogue that dares remain. The oath is already made: I'll fucking kill you.

The snow whirls about them again. No words rip from her white throat as she charges ahead. She has forgotten the language of the tongue in favor of its primordial predecessor: the language of violence. Muscles collapsing and expanding, synapses exploding, a coordinated effort to rip life away from a body, the earliest justice possible. When Scorchstorm moves to kill the rogue that has slain her brother, that is what she calls it: justice.

She does not log the steps it takes to finish him. Blood coats her muzzle, her neck, her chest, her paws; she spits out a chunk of his throat as if it were merely gristle in her freshkill. Then, she turns her attention to the rest of her patrol (though she can only see them in fleeting moments through the snow). "Kill them!" she commands with a bellow, her muzzle wrinkled in a monstrous snarl. "Don't come back to camp until they are all dead!"

Adrenaline pumps through her body. Frostwind cools on the ground while she fires up. She cannot look at him — not yet, at least, not fully. She touches her tailtip to his still flank before she launches after another rogue, stalling reality for as long as possible.

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 ✧

• ooc. she killed the rogue that killed frostwind! but has ordered the patrol to hunt down the last of them. whether they obey or not is up to you / your character :- )
• SCORCHSTORM —— lead warrior of windclan, mentored by sunstar & badgermoon . scorchstreak x badgermoon . littermate to rumblerain, frostwind, and luckypaw ✦ penned by meghan
  
  ✦ a broad-shouldered tortoiseshell with low white and dual-toned amber eyes. extremely loyal to sunstar and her family, and enjoys a deep connection to the moorlands
  ✦ demigirl / she they pronouns / lesbian / 19 moons & ages every 1st
  ✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
  —— will start fights / will not flee / may show mercy. fights honorably and with great ferocity. can tank a few hits, but is not the sturdiest cat in windclan. starts fights with the intention of finishing them permanently, but will not aim to maim or kill obviously young cats
  
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are in character
  ✦ full biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
  

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[milkthorn.]

He knew the wrath of losing a sibling. He knew the pain of the heart, the anger that floods through, the clouding of ones vision. But it was more than that, the vision clouded by a fierce blizzard, not allowing the sight of the rogues till far too late. Crimson splattered the ivory sparkling ground, the scent of iron flooding the air and making the scarred tom grimace.

He would not go against her word, her pain. A loyal ragged warrior- he hoped to be. He wished to be. But it was the loss of the eye that ruined and made him fail the leap after another rogue. Ivory claws swung down on air, and claws met his nose as blood splattered down his chin. But he did not faulter as they tried to turn.

Claws ripped through snow and brown pelt, a wail of pain from the intruder, before fangs embedded into their shoulder. The form beneath him writhed. But it was revenge. Revenge for anger that boiled inside of him. He released the shoulder, only to cling onto the side of the throat, claws digging until a spray of blood came from the rogues throat, blue eye flashing with anger.

When the sepia returned to the scene, blood covered paws and muzzle, fur scruffier then before, and eye filled with a mix of emotions, breath ragged.

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[Mallowtail]

With its crescent claws ready to snare any unprepared victims, violence never paused. Starving rogues had ambushed them while they were hunting for prey, and Frostwind and them had been surprised. The smell of blood permeated the air as the howling blizzard obscured their vision, making it hard to see even inches ahead. Shouting could be heard over the hammering winds, and they soon located the assailants. The brother of Scorchstorm was outlined in crimson-stained snow, and the lioness watching the fiery molly launch at the rogue who killed her brother is filled with rage. The blood that stains her jaws is a combination of bloody and fiery colors, just like her coat.

A splintering image of their forebears and her mother, her words split the storm's winds like thunder. As she turns to face them, her amber eyes are filled with pain, anguish, and rage. Mallowtail feels her heart ache in sadness for her friend for her loss that now hid underneath violent rage as she says a quiet prayer to Starclan. These outsiders were acting irrationally, and it was heartbreaking to see how desperate they were, grabbing at anything to survive until the next day, even if it meant killing someone. When she smacks a stray paw at one of the rogues, her lips peel back to reveal pristine fangs, and her cream-colored coat bristles.

As soon as the rogue she fended off retreats, she glances at Scorchstorm and the body of Frostwind. "S-Scorch, we need to get him back to camp." The cream sepia calls out as she moves to the black and white tom as she checks his pulse. Although it was gone, perhaps Cottonsprig could help? The moorlands medicine cat could only figure it out, and if there was a chance that she could save him, she'd want that. She doesn't want to see Scorchstorm sad, filled with unbridled rage while she followed a self-destructing path that would lead to her demise. "Cottonsprig may be able to help him if he's still hanging on," she meows softly towards the tortoiseshell.

She felt as if she were walking on eggshells. It was obvious that Scorchstorm wanted them dead, but they would die regardless of starvation, and if not that, then the infection of their wounds. In the end, justice and karma would be served, but they risked more lives with Frostwind's and everyone else in this storm. Mallowtail only hopes that her friend can see past her bloodied rage that her actions would risk harm to her clanmates "Justice will be served, but if we can save Frostwind then it's worth putting your venegance on hold for now. I'll help you in both paths, friend."
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