private 𝐈 𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐋 𝐌𝐘𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐓𝐎 𝗕𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄 ╱ 𝐂𝐈𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐀𝐅𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓

[SUNNVAR]

Dawn comes in a pitiful crusade against all that transpired in the night, and Sunstar limps from camp like a ghost. The sunwarmed pool is closest, its waters singing promise of soothing warmth against his aching paws. The stones at its edges would melt the worry from his muscles and sing him to sleep — he turns his body in another direction and falls into silence as he heads away from the ruined safety of WindClan's camp. Blood spilled in the night may have dried, yet he swears that he tracks it in hobbling patches through the surviving moorland.

Death and its shadow, baring silver fangs. The weight of StarClan's judgement upon his shoulders; their ire, both his damnation and his clan's salvation. (Had they not touched his pelt with star-filled guidance for this very reason? To take the dark burden off of his clanmates' shoulders? To die for them in every way that he could, again and again still?)

The dreams from half-death still haunt his mind as the blood-rusted tom spills across the rocky shore near the bridge into RiverClan's territory. Cold water laps at his belly and steals the murk from his paws. Wolfsong would nip at his ears for finding his way here. This could have been cleansed with gentle moss and the rasp of a loving tongue. His fur, dried to the points of bloodied blades, cleansed of his death and his wounds delicately wrapped. Infection will take him before his wounded pride does at this rate. But he cannot separate himself from either.

When the WindClanner's head lifts from the river, rehydrated blood drips from his throat like a gaping maw. Red rivulets down his jaw and slicking his fur to bare where skin had torn. He looks haunted. He looks like a ghost. And briefly, he looks defeated, lowering himself back down to the river's shore and coming up no cleaner.

𝐈 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐌𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐌 𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐔𝐒 ╱ ( 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝗕𝐀𝐃 𝐃𝐎𝐆 ) 〚 06.17 〛 🟒ᨒ

• ooc: @CICADAFLIGHT i thought it'd be interesting if a riverclanner could get a glimpse of what went down post-gathering <3
• ↟ 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑.  ╱  AMAB  HE - HIM - HIS.  LEADER OF WINDCLAN.  ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆ ⋆  ⋆̴͖̻̌͛ ⋆̵̼͈̐̿̓̏͝ ⋆̶̬́̀
  ————  a rogue brought to windclan in a search for greatness, one of sootstar's most loyal warriors turned into her downfall. with a mate and kits to worry about, and now nine lives from starclan with a missing limb, windclan's leader has a lot to prove.
  
  
  
  a large chocolate and white rosette tom with seaglass eyes. the first thing many see when looking at sunstar now is not his proud posture or un-windclan build, but the scarred stump that remains of his front left leg. a wound that would have killed most other cats took one of his lives; not even starclan could repair it.

• "speech"

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[CICADAFLIGHT]

He still wears the remnants of beauty like a snake's skin half - shed, Mothpaw's efforts molting a little more with every step. White petals drift behind him, trailing ghostlike, pale iridescent scales flaking off his tail as if he were half some kind of serpent. It would be a lie to say he didn't completely appreciate it, her efforts to beautify him, the rare and slightly squirming sensation of being decorated so. The Gathering is long ended, though, and spectacularly at that, so he's trekking out alone to the river's furthest points to cleanse himself of the last dregs of elegance.

Those that he can, anyways. Some of it . . . some of it is forever.

Sure, he could do it equally well in camp, but dawn is coming. To be seen in such a way by more cats than he already has . . . it would be more than embarassing, and for some reason, recent moons have brought a new awareness of how many eyes might flutter to him at any moment. Perception has always been a heavy weight, doubly so now. And besides, he can squeeze in some fishing once he's gotten himself back to normal, the river water restoring him to what he deserves to be.

He's lost in the snake - ridden reeds of his mind as per usual, and also as is typical, he is not as conscientious of the world around him as he ought to be. He finds himself lapsing in his vigilance when he's alone, when there's nobody with him who deserves protection. Today is no exception, for as he scoops dawn - marbled water over a tail studded with stubbornly tenacious scales, it takes the lifting of Sunstar's defeated shoulders for two - toned eyes to flick up. There's no great full - body reaction, no unsheathed claws or bared fangs, just a slight stiffening and the stilling of an obedient paw, leaving water to dribble back to its mother in the river, the soft plips suspended in silence.

The flaming pelt across the river is of unfamiliar hues, certainly not the ones he was borne of, and the heather - smoked scent that drifts on the lazy sunrise wind equally so, though the stink of copper with which it mingles is a familiar face. Sunstar wears a second mouth, fangs of blood streaking down his chest and newborn in the dawn's light, scarlet slicking his first jaw ( usually so proudly set ) and dribbling from his throat to form the pale imitation of a second. Eyes as deep as the cloudy glass that wash up on their shores are empty of the prideful gleam, the malevolent triumph, he would expect from the leader of his fathers' most hated Clan—and yet Sunstar merely looks haunted. Worn - down. Defeated. Like any other cat rinsing blood from white fur.

The thought comes unbidden: He looks like my father.

Which one, he isn't sure, but perhaps it's half - memory which summons forth his voice. He calls out with Smokestar's voice from Cicadastar's face, a gravelly greeting that aches of familarity, breathes almost of respect, " Sunstar. "

" speech "

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