- Jun 7, 2022
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he knows when they are angry.
the world shakes, a fierce thunder echoing somewhere around him — from everywhere, reverberating from the trees, sounding just outside his box of existence. as if his ears were stuffed, covered in a thick film that dulled each decimal to a hole thrum he could feel in the hollow of his chest.. the thunder rolls, more growl than anything else, lifting his head from the pool of water that seemed to entrance him. ice chip gaze flits only briefly upwards, then back down, towards the image that swirls of moonlit skies and familiar, faraway stars. their brilliant gleam nearly blinds him, but starclan presumably does the work for him — he sees claws. claws too frequently unsheathed, stained with blood and obscenity, caked with guilt as she was with marshland muck. thornlike claws catch silver light just in time for his eyes to widen, for sharp ends to connect and carve incantations into the cheek of windclan’s medicine cat.
it feels blasphemous. it feels dirty, repulsive, bristles the length of his spine in a way that has long limbs extending him to full, haunting height. the night plays for him, a scene he can only watch — a memory, a severed limb, a cruel glimpse into a rotting world. it serves as a map to starclan’s wrath, a sudden departure of clan cats from their ancestors burial place, swarming like ants to rid themselves of the sticky, suffocating darkness that had briefly enveloped them. light returns and in it, chilledtstar murmurs that riverclan has their support.. cicadastar figures it only suiting of his clans decent into misery to earn praise of the impious. they had taken in one of their scraps, after all — riverclan may as well be the marshlanders dirtplace. a place for the carrion, their leftovers.. the windclanners scurry off as they were off to do, tongue hot but paws soft, out into the murky undergrowth. he’s not seen anything like it, not since sootstar’s lightning strike.
cicadastar watches as they retreat, watches chilledstar utter not a word to the one who had besmirched their name even further. cicadastar.. feels his ears burn with open disdain. he sniffs, ” shadowclan has lain claw on the windclan medicine cat. “ muses he, into the sullen darkness. shadows move, but his eyes do not, ” that mongrel would have been left at fourtrees to rot, had she been my warrior. what an embarrassment.. “ to showcase their disobedience for a half - starved moor rat, beaten raw already with loss and public shame.. and even worse, to keep them amongst their ranks, a testament to starclan’s wrath.
he’d have never done the same.
the world shakes, a fierce thunder echoing somewhere around him — from everywhere, reverberating from the trees, sounding just outside his box of existence. as if his ears were stuffed, covered in a thick film that dulled each decimal to a hole thrum he could feel in the hollow of his chest.. the thunder rolls, more growl than anything else, lifting his head from the pool of water that seemed to entrance him. ice chip gaze flits only briefly upwards, then back down, towards the image that swirls of moonlit skies and familiar, faraway stars. their brilliant gleam nearly blinds him, but starclan presumably does the work for him — he sees claws. claws too frequently unsheathed, stained with blood and obscenity, caked with guilt as she was with marshland muck. thornlike claws catch silver light just in time for his eyes to widen, for sharp ends to connect and carve incantations into the cheek of windclan’s medicine cat.
it feels blasphemous. it feels dirty, repulsive, bristles the length of his spine in a way that has long limbs extending him to full, haunting height. the night plays for him, a scene he can only watch — a memory, a severed limb, a cruel glimpse into a rotting world. it serves as a map to starclan’s wrath, a sudden departure of clan cats from their ancestors burial place, swarming like ants to rid themselves of the sticky, suffocating darkness that had briefly enveloped them. light returns and in it, chilledtstar murmurs that riverclan has their support.. cicadastar figures it only suiting of his clans decent into misery to earn praise of the impious. they had taken in one of their scraps, after all — riverclan may as well be the marshlanders dirtplace. a place for the carrion, their leftovers.. the windclanners scurry off as they were off to do, tongue hot but paws soft, out into the murky undergrowth. he’s not seen anything like it, not since sootstar’s lightning strike.
cicadastar watches as they retreat, watches chilledstar utter not a word to the one who had besmirched their name even further. cicadastar.. feels his ears burn with open disdain. he sniffs, ” shadowclan has lain claw on the windclan medicine cat. “ muses he, into the sullen darkness. shadows move, but his eyes do not, ” that mongrel would have been left at fourtrees to rot, had she been my warrior. what an embarrassment.. “ to showcase their disobedience for a half - starved moor rat, beaten raw already with loss and public shame.. and even worse, to keep them amongst their ranks, a testament to starclan’s wrath.
he’d have never done the same.
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★ ⋆ CICADASTAR
−−−FOUNDING LEADER OF RIVERCLAN. HOMOSEXUAL, MATED TOSMOKESTAR; FATHER TO CRICKETPAW, CICADAPAW && BEEPAW. DARK FOREST RESIDENT. SMELLS LIKE FROST ROT AND DIRTY FLOODWATER. PENNED BY ANTLERS−−−−⁺₊✧
he / him. gaunt, curled black tortoiseshell smoke with paralyzing permafrost eyes. his structure sings a feral sort of hymnal, presenting an almost dangerous sort of beauty veiling what monstrosities lie beneath the ivory of his skull. frighteningly thin, sunken cheeks drawing a shadow beneath high, sharp cheekbones with tall, angular ears settling high atop the flatter slope of his cranium. he is beautiful, in a haunting sort of way ; but for all this looks, his expression is lax, void — corpse - eyed and hollow until spoken to, when he smiles with too many teeth, blackened frostbite pulling back his maw to bear canines set beneath curling whiskers, pantomime skeletal. a predatory gracefulness from the lines that press the image of exhaustion beneath ice water hues to the slow, sure gait in which he walks, nameless strength poorly concealed within the gaunt lines of his physique. always holding himself with a tragic sort of grace ; poised, prim and uncanny, shrouded forever at tendril - like limbs with thick, dark mist.
