sensitive topics DELIRIUM TRIGGER

[kuiper]

[cw: violence, blood, death]

Crimson-touched paws would prowl along the gravelly rim of the thunderpath. Their rhythmic motion is ruined by a hobble, an on-again off-again limp in his front leg where a moor cat had relinquished a tooth moons ago. The limb becomes more gruelling to navigate on as every day passes, leading Kuiper to believe it withstands an infection of some variety. It's a deep-seated soreness, an ache entrenched between muscle and cartilidge and bone. With a malady like this, the tom feels that his days are now numbered. He will die soon, he is sure of it, but he shan't let a hapless fate distract him from what's important.

He licks his gums as he walks, finding revelry in the lingering taste of blood.

It is a shame how night casts its shadow over his surroundings. The nature is lovely. To one side of the path, a mighty patch of woodland, marked by a dense treeline and a healthy underbrush. It is the patch of forest where he left that SkyClan child, and had given a scare to one of the locals. A sodden marsh hugs the other flank of the path, and Kuiper cannot say that he has ever had the pleasure of exploring it. But given how the colonist scum seem to pollute every corner of the region, he supposes it isn't worth dirtying his paws over.

His intentions of walking by are promptly thwarted, for a lone outline stands amidst the nighttime newleaf fog. It's thin and rangy, as though it belongs to someone with less meat on their bones than his earlier catch. An easier catch, if you would.

A spark ignites in his mind. His trajectory changes, now swamp-bound, moving on spirited strides down from the thunderpath and towards the silhouhette. He operates with such zeal that he quells the limp altogether. Every footfall sees his speed accelerate, his silvery pelt resembling a burst in the night, until he encroaches on striking distance. When Kuiper can pinpoint specific physical features, such as tall-standing ears, a rich umber colouration and the rosette pattern upon it, he bares fangs and lunges.

Culling a clan cat leaves him ecstatic for a moon; doing so twice in one day, well, it shall prove difficult to come down from.

Thunderous jaws clamp down on the fellow's collar. The both of them are propelled to the ground, where Kuiper maintains his grip on the other's neck. He thrashes about, in the same manner a dog would, in the same manner he treated that moor cat earlier on.

One.

Dagger-like claws pierce through tissue on the tom's throat. They rip viciously, drawing an inclement stream of blood from the wound.

Two.

In a brutal motion, his claws tear down from the cat's chest to his belly, and at once the stream becomes a waterway.

Three. Four. Five.

The onslaught lasts for a manner of moments. By the end of it, Kuiper has inflicted enough hatred onto the other's puny form to slaughter him five times over. An attack befitting of pestilence like him. "Filth," he musters between pants, rising to a steady posture, casting his icy gaze down at the gruesome remnants of the outline. It looks as though he continues to breathe. Good. He can still hear his words. The corners of his maw coil in a grim smile. "You infest the land like rats, so I rid the land of you and your type."

Departing into a full-fledged monologue cannot occur, lamentably. Nearby movement within the swampy thicket prevents his stay from extending any longer.

"Goodbye," he remarks, before tearing off into night's obscurity. "For now."​

 

[PITCHSTAR]

pitchstar doesn't leave his den much anymore, let alone the camp. the oak tree's roots have become a prison as much as they have a sanctuary; inside, he could not hurt. he could not see his clan deteriorating, nor the judgment they cast upon his decisions. what little muscle he has left begins to decay with the lack of proper movement, and his joints are sore from remaining hunched into a crouch within his nest. eyes never leaving the walls, counting the claw marks his fury has left over the past few moons over and over.

newleaf is here, but it doesn't feel like anything will ever change. pitchstar can't imagine shadowclan without envisioning ribs and hunger flashing in sunken eyes.

some of his clanmates urge him to take a walk. get some fresh air, clear his head. he snaps at them, fine, if it'll get you to leave me alone. and he skulks out of his den, out of camp, his legs already aching. without company, believing he would be safer alone. he couldn't trust his own clanmates, life proves this time and time again. fleecefur, bonejaw, flickerfire. the list would continue to lengthen for as long as he lives, and he would inevitably pass it down to chilledgaze to cultivate. sometimes he feels guilty for having to leave them with such a burden. other times, he couldn't wait for his time in this hell to come to an end.

the rosette tabby doesn't think about his destination, not until his paws have carried him to the edge of the thunderpath. pitchstar doesn't know why; this place has been nothing but a source of suffering. he swears he could still see remnants of his mother, even now, crimson darkening the asphalt in grotesque smears. it's impossible, he knows. the elements have long since washed away the evidence. but when he stares, wide-eyed, at the path... it's all that he could see.

why did she have to leave him? why did marrowpaw have to sneak out that night? why did starclan have to take all of her lives away?

why didn't it ever stop hurting?

grunting from the pain spreading up his underused limbs, pitchstar collapses onto his haunches, leaning over as he tries to catch the breath that'd been stolen from him by his trek here. it's all that he focuses on, approaching pawsteps going unnoticed until-

a weight slams into his side, and the malnourished tom is knocked over with ease. the startled cry building in his throat is cut short by the air being forced out of him by the impact of his flank hitting the ground. teeth meet his collar, cutting off his already limited supply of oxygen, and pitchstar flails with claws desperate to get this attacker off of him. but he's much too weak. the other feline thrashes him about, and all that he could manage is a strangled hiss as his vision blurs and his chest constricts with the need for air that he could not gulp enough of down. "get- off, fu-"

panic rises. claws reopen the scars along the delicate tissue of his throat. blood sprays from his severed arteries, coating the thawing marshland and his matted fur. pitchstar chokes, copper filling his mouth. he couldn't even feel the pain above the adrenaline coursing through his veins, screaming at him to fight back, get away. but he couldn't, no matter how hard he tries. little strength sapped from the amount of blood he's lost already, the rogue keeps him pinned. all that pitchstar could do is writhe until even that is too tiresome for him to muster.

the rogue's claws tear down his throat, across his chest, before ending at his soft underbelly. a gargled cry is drawn from pitchstar, weak as he feels. his vision fades in and out, and his heart pounds relentlessly in his ears. the tom could not even hear the rogue's spat words, nor register when the weight is lifted from him. all that he could hear is that deafening rush. all that he could feel is his own blood pouring from him.

he slips away moments later, eyes rolling back into his skull as the leader falls limp.

one.

the deep puncture wounds on his neck are sutured back together by the stars. pitchstar reemerges from the icy waters of death with a strained gasp. this should've been like the last time he'd lost a life; everything would fade to black, and he would wake minutes later with only a scar to remember the ordeal. but it isn't. he wakes, and he is still pouring, an intense burning spreading up his abdomen and to his mangled throat.

he tries to cry out for someone, anyone, to help. but his own blood chokes him once again. no. no, this couldn't- he couldn't be dying again. he couldn't, he shouldn't.

the image of his mother's broken body flashes behind his skull before he succumbs to the darkness again.

two.

one carotid artery repaired, but the other remains a broken faucet that sprays blood at an alarming rate. pitchstar wakes again to that burning in his underbelly and his blood seeping deeper into the earth. his paws thrash frantically, his yowls muffled by the copper still building in the back of his throat.

just like mom. he's dying again, just like his mother. why? why wasn't anyone coming to help him? why wasn't starclan helping him?

three.

the other artery healed, the lacerations along his chest and abdomen still unfixed. there is no shower of blood from his throat, now, but it still pools further and further. tears blur his faltering vision. why?

four.

the thick coat of blood hides the scar that is left on his heaving chest. the burning has not been extinguished. pitchstar's trembling body is wracked with broken sobs. all alone. he's all alone, he doesn't want to be alone. why wasn't anyone coming? why was he still alone?

he wants briarstar. he wants amber. he wants starlingheart. hell, in his desperation, he even wants bonejaw.

five.

pitchstar resurfaces for the last time. the burning has stopped. tears mix with blood as he continues to cry, all alone, still alone. his flanks rise and fall spasmodically as he tries to drink in as much oxygen as he could between sobs. he's alive. he's still alive- but how many times had he died?

why is he still alive? why hadn't his mother lived?

he attempts to push his paws underneath him, to flee back to the safety of the camp. but he's still too weak, hindered by the amount of blood he'd lost. the rosette tabby collapses back onto his scarred stomach with a grunt. the panic has not settled. how is he going to get back? what if the rogue comes to finish him off before a patrol finds him?​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Pitchstar has not been a true mentor to him since he'd started his training at four moons. Granitepaw's skills are not where they should be, and it infuriates him to know he's comparable to an apprentice much younger than he in combat and hunting. The sulking excuse for their leader rarely leaves camp anymore, though -- and it's hard to learn anything from a cat who does not care to teach it.

When he scents Pitchstar out in the territory, Granitepaw stows away the cobwebs he'd been collecting. Why was he here? Especially so near the Thunderpath, a place the rosette tabby treats like a cursed body of land?

The gray and white tom tastes the air, and his brow furrows as a result. The tang of blood, far too much of it, rivers of it, seeps into his scent glands. There's another strange scent on the wind, too -- a nasty smell, the putrid stench of infection and rogue.

Granitepaw's hackles raise. He lowers himself to the marshy earth, his paws squelching quietly as he shimmies closer to the source of the scents. The patchy foliage conceals him just enough -- he peers through the sparsely-adorned twigs and branches of the bushes he slinks behind.

Green eyes bulge, and his mouth falls open. He just barely sees a cat slinking away, gray-pelted like himself, his body coated in blood up to his belly. Pitchstar spasms. His thin body is wracked with the agony of his deaths, the toll it's taken on his malnourished form evident in the glaze of his eyes. Scarlet stains the marshy earth around him.

Granitepaw stares. Heartbeats pass into a minute, two. Pitchstar has come back to life. How many times had he died? He does not know. By the amount of blood, though, the gray apprentice can assume it's been more than once. More than twice. His claws unsheathe, and his glare flicks to the shadows, where Pitchstar's would-be murderer had defected to. A loyal ShadowClan would chase after them, attack them, drag them to camp for execution. Maybe just kill them here, without ceremony.

He thinks, for a heartbeat, that he will avenge his mentor, his leader.

His tormentor.

Granitepaw's disgust begins to ebb like a distant tide from its shore. He remembers the mocking smile from moons ago, egging him on, forcing him to do extra chores for calling Bonejaw what she was -- useless. A murderer. Remembers the distrust and distaste Pitchstar has always regarded him with.

He is still. He can see those hateful flanks begin to rise again, pulsing with feeble life.

"Pitchstar!" He breaks coverage, racing toward the mangled rosette tabby slumped near the Thunderpath. "Oh, thank StarClan, you're still alive!" The concern in his face is evident -- and all the while, his heart is fluttering, his belly greasy and twisting.

"I'll go get Starlingheart. I'll be right back," he promises, knowing exactly what he's going to do.

And he must do it quickly.

"Poisonous," she'd called the nightshade, her paws cold and wet from the thorough rinsing she'd given them. "Can kill a cat if eaten. Can you get rid of them for me?" Bundled into a fern, he'd taken them from her den, but Granitepaw had not gotten rid of them yet.

He's about to.

It takes him a sliver of time to locate the deadly nightshade he'd stashed away, buried beneath pine needles and bits of dried mud. He is carefully carrying it to Pitchstar; he does not want to lose his only life.

"Here," he says, pushing the bundle toward the tabby's mouth. "She's on her way, but she had to grab more stuff. She gave me this. It will stop the pain."

If Pitchstar does not die -- if Pitchstar has more than one life left -- what will Granitepaw do? He will watch his mentor closely as he chews the herbs, and anxiety -- too late -- will start to rumble in his body.​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

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[PITCHSTAR]

[ this is a very important ooc note so please read!! there will be NO OUTWARD SIGNS that pitch lost his last life to poisoning when the body is found, therefore granitepaw will not be discovered to be guilty; granitepaw will be coming up with a convincing alibi immediately after pitch's death, and the amount of blood + the scent of rogue will make it all the more believable!! <3

and there is a CW for descriptions of poisoning in this post as well! ]

there's a voice. it breaks through the ringing in his ears, just barely, enough to send a quiver of hope along his bristling spine. he's not alone, he won't be alone anymore. more tears darken the fur along his crimson-painted cheeks, the panic ebbing. granitepaw's face enters his vision, blurred with moisture, and pitchstar couldn't even wish that it was someone he cared for more at that moment. he does not like granitepaw, granitepaw does not like him, but his apprentice is here with him and he isn't alone. "granite..." the rosette tabby manages in between breaths, staring up at the gray tom with pleading eyes. yes, go get starlingheart. he's safe, he's going to be okay. granitepaw runs to fetch starlingheart, and pitchstar will soon be back in his camp. safe.

time ticks on, agonizingly slow. his breathing evens out as much as it could, but his legs still shake too much to carry his weight. starlingheart will be here soon. she would never betray him. sweet little starlingheart, she would be at his side any moment now. copper eyes drift closed, weariness washing over him. soon, he'd be able to sleep in his nest.

something is dropped in front of his muzzle. pitchstar's eyes flutter open, blinking up at granitepaw with an incredulous expression. "where-" he begins to croak, but granitepaw answers him before he could even get the question out of his tight throat. she had to grab some stuff, he says. she told him to give him this... for pain. he looks back down at the plant. it isn't recognizable; a flower with bell-shaped petals tinged with purple. maybe he'd seen it around shadowclan's territory, but it's never been anything more to him than a flower. he never knew it could be used as a painkiller... pride swells in his chest. starlingheart is learning so fast, isn't she? he would have to praise her for her hard work when she arrives...

pitchstar doesn't think twice about grabbing the flower between his teeth, shocked to find that the juice that trickles onto his tongue is sickly sweet as he chews and swallows. most herbs taste bitter, downright awful at times. this is a pleasant surprise, though...

a couple of heartbeats pass without any noticeable changes. aside from his mouth feeling like it'd been stuffed full of cotton, he doesn't feel any different...

the sudden convulsion that overtakes him is unexpected, his eyes widening as his muscles contract painfully. limbs contorting into unnatural angles, jerking uncontrollably. "wh-" pitchstar couldn't force any words out, his voice slurring. what is happening? it's becoming harder and harder to breathe, his mouth falling open as he pants. shallow and fast, he cannot pull in enough air. his pupils dilate. why is this happening? numbness begins to creep up his limbs, yet they continue to spasm as if they are being controlled by someone else.

granitepaw's face blurs and distorts, shadows dancing in his vision. taunting him, watching him. jaw twitching, he manages to choke out, "h-help." help me, please, help me. why is this happening? what is happening? he doesn't understand. granitepaw said starlingheart was coming. he said the herbs would help. starlingheart, she wouldn't betray him. she wouldn't. right?

a fool he was to allow his heart to trust in this moment of weakness. so blinded by his need to not be alone, he forgot that trusting others only hurt him in return.

the shadows surround him. wheezing as his esophagus swells closed, pitchstar squeezes his eyes shut to block the phantoms out. his lungs burn from the lack of oxygen, his pulse pounding relentlessly in his head. make it stop, please, make it stop-

with one last convulsion, and a final sob caught in his throat, pitchstar stills for the final time.​

 

[GRANITEPELT]

Granitepaw's hesitation comes too late. The relief in Pitchstar's dull amber gaze sends shivers up his spine, but he cannot back down now. His mentor is chewing the herb, the dark, rich-looking berries, and for a moment, he's at peace.

That peace vanishes with a startled cry, a realization. He cannot move his limbs, he cannot speak besides a gurgling sob, and his body begins to move as though possessed. Pitchstar is dying. The nightshade worked.

Granitepaw feels strange when Pitchstar's body exhales, a death rattle. He waits for the rosette tabby to get back up. To move.

He's not getting back up. Blood-flecked spittle and panicked, heaving gasps for air that won't come, and Pitchstar's pathetic nine lives are over. Granitepaw does not know what he expected to happen when he gave the ShadowClan leader his borrowed nightshade, but it wasn't that. He admittedly hadn't expected that gruesome of a death, and the horror does not leave his eyes even several moments after Pitchstar loses his final life.

What am I supposed to do now? The feeling is surreal. He's killed a cat. He has murdered ShadowClan's leader -- not alone, no, but he took Pitchstar's final life. The angry bastard is rotting somewhere now, in some personal hell he surely can't escape. Just as in life.

For the longest time, Granitepaw doesn't move. He can't manage it. His limbs feel stuck with honey or sap, locked into a stiff sitting position, head tilted down to look at a tom he'd known his entire life.

I killed you. I killed you. The words echo. Granitepaw has killed someone. Despite the mantra, repeating in his head, it's not sinking in. He'd always thought his first glory would come in battle, claws bared against an enemy Clan's or a trespassing rogue.

This doesn't feel right.

Granitepaw's body begins to shake, tremors causing his paws to quake and his whiskers to tremble. "Oh, StarClan," he whispers to himself. He's nine moons old and he's killed Pitchstar. Had the bastard deserved it? Of course, every second of it, but he--

He hadn't--

Granitepaw's panic begins to burst like a bitten berry.

His own throat constricts, as Pitchstar's must have in his final moments. His breathing is fast and hard. He almost doesn't notice when a familiar scent, a rustle of greenery, announces his littermate's arrival.

"Siltpaw?" He hopes to StarClan it's her, not some other ShadowClan cat he's gotten confused with another in his wavering state. But no, it's her, dull cinnamon fur and strange green eyes. Granitepaw looks from his sister to the cat lying dead at his paws.

"I..." The gray tom's limbs loosen, and he begins to pace. "I don't know -- I followed him here, and he was dying over and over again -- a rogue," he stumbles over his words, but continues. "He woke back up and I. I had. Starlinghea--" He exhales rapidly, sucks another breath in, "Starlingheart told me to get rid of some nightshade and I gave it to him. He's dead, Siltpaw. All of his lives are gone now."

He fixes Siltpaw with a desperate look. "What do I do? What am I supposed to do?"​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

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[✧ Siltcloud.]

HUMBLE MY BONES WITH A CARDIAC
siltpaw | 09 months | female | she/her | physically medium | mentally easy | attack in bold color

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This is... certainly not how Siltpaw had expecter her day to go.

She'd already grown tired of Lichentails presence - she's not a kit that needs sitting, and having a mentor who was actually itnerested in her (no matter how short lived it would hopefully be) was unsettling to say the least. It's not as though she doesn't understand why- this is not only her third mentor, but her previous one had been branded a traitor - and so had she, it seemed, by simple association. Even granitepaw, her beloved brother, had thought to question her loyalty - something that had hurt more than she'd like to admit. She wasn't sure how to fix this, how to mend this bridge, how to atone for a sin she hadn't ever committed in the first place. But how?

It is these dark and rather dreary thoughts that haunt her mind when she slips from the camp by herself - Nettlepaw had been no more than reprimanded by the irate Chilledgaze, so she feels it worth the risk to do so herself just this once. She's never broken a rule before now after all. Sighing heavily, green gaze leaves the slick marsh floor to glance overhead - she wonders what horrors today will bring.

She doesn't expect to get the answer to her musing quite so... sudden and clearly. Her keen senses are quick to catch the scent of blood, and when jaws part wide to inhale it's clear the metallic tang is that of another feline not of prey. Ears angle towards the direction of... the thunderpath of all places, leaving her uneasy. She avoids the area like the plague when not on patrol. She has half a mind to turn around, but her pawsteps carry her onwards without her permission.

It is not until she is almost close enough to make out the sound of an all to familiar voice that she begins to recognize the scents - pitchstar, granitepaw, and.... someone unfamiliar. A loner or a rogue she thinks - there is no tang of clan-scent to taint it. Pawsteps quicken until she's almost at a run, pushing through the undergrowth just in time to catch her brothers panicked ramblings. Dull green gaze takes in the scene as though it is effortless, as though it is just another day in the life of a shadowclan apprentice. As though absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.

Internally, of course, she can feel her chest squeeze tight and her stomach churn uneasily, but then she looks at granitepaw - really looks at him, and for the first time she sees him look afraid. It hurts worse than anything else, seeing that look - and suddenly she finds the determination she so often lacks when it comes to matters regarding herself.

She doesn't have to ask what has happened - the truth comes spilling from her siblings lips like the rushing crash of rain from the heavens, and she listens attentively - nodding resolutely. There is a hard look in her eyes - she will not let him get caught. Besides - if she really thinks about it, wasn't this only to be expected? It's granitepaw after all.

"Granitepaw." she says, words quiet yet stern, voice as hardened as her cold heart. Soothing, calming, scolding. "Granitepaw. There's no need to fuss,"

She moves to touch his flank with her own, a quiet sort of determination steeling her resolve. "You didn't kill him. Some rogue did, and when we got here, there was nothing we could do, he was already dying right before our very eyes." she says slowly, calmly - words drawled out as though it is their normal conversation. That's not what happened of course - they both know that - but from this point on it's become something unspeakable, unthinkable.

There is no longer the truth, only lies. "... get rid of any evidence," she whispers, voice suddenly hushed as her small ears prick up in attentive. Who know who else is out here? "Keep silent, or be angry, but..." she says, gaze turning heavenwards in silent payer. "... I will be the one to go get help," she touches her nose to his cheek, gives a bittersweet smile, and then as suddenly as a switch being switched she's back to her 'normal' self - flighty and panicked and harmless and pitiful... were it not for the utterly dead look in her eyes. She will protect him.

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