a friendship that never breaks | cicada

[BONERIPPLE]

A small amount of time has passed. She has tried to feel more at home here despite the looks and some that don't even want to acknowledge her presence. It's okay, she's used to that. There are friendly faces she can talk to, some that are encoursging and for that she is grateful. The molly has yet to attempt to swim for it is too cold but she plans on learning. Plans on mixing what she knows with what any Riverclanner can teach her. After all some of them were once marsh cats. Some were pine and though it makss her uneasy to be around them she has no reason to distrust. At least not completely. Every day her belly swells more and she grows more worried about what the future will hold. Being a mother has never once crossed her mind but then Wolve happened and she knows she loves him. But a family. Is she cut out for it? So many lives she has had in her paws before and they have died. So many names written down upon a scroll of death and she the writter. It hurts. But she played the part that Starclan gave her. Played what they wanted. Hell she had even believed that it was all real. That it was her destiny.

Isn't she naive?

Pushing to her long pale limbs the molly shakes herself. Spiky mane along her spine shifting before she sighs a bit. She remembers Cica wanting to talk and she also wants to. Catching up will be nice plus she has nothing to hide from him. They have been friends since they were small and she trusts him. Perhaps more than she trusts her former home. Stepping forward she easily finds Cicadastar's den and she pokes her head through the entrance, blinking those molten hues against the onset of darkness. "Hey Cica.." Her voice is strong yet soft, easily relaxed now that she has had a chance to get settled in. A small hum leaves her throat before she clears it. "You have time to talk, now? I'm finished with figuring out the territory and at the moment I'm not out hunting so..." This is the best time as any.​

 

[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : the man had long since learned to live with his choice. to lead the waves, king of rivers, water phantom ; enveloped with the power of the stars above and resurrected, the disconnect he felt with the tom he’d been in the marshlands. he is different, forsaken, more or less than the mortality of his peers and he isn’t sure which scares him more — looming death, or the lack of its permanence. it’s a familiar voice that breaks his thoughts, splintering like the ice that lines their riverbeds — hey cica. it’s quiet, though firm in that way he’d known so many moons ago and the warmth of it pulls icy eyes away from the rings of age overhead. the woman stands in the splitting arch of his willow den, sunburst eyes vibrant against the shaded darkness, takes in the curve of her features and knows it like the back of his paw still, “ bone. “ his response, tinged with a smile as he lifts himself, flourishing his tail aside so she could enter. it was a spacious den, his mossy nest layered against the furthest bark wall, still rumpled from a haphazard attempt at sleep, “ come in, come in. you’ll freeze your ears off in this weather. “ a quiet hum, a cleared throat. he worries momentarily that someone had given her an issue, a low - simmering anger stirring within the pit of his stomach on her behalf — it diminishes fractionally as she continues. you have time to talk now?

he feels almost embarrassed at the sting of rage burning out so suddenly, leaving to swallow against it and tilt his head fractionally. to talk. yes, they needed to, he needed to know what had happened. he wanted a reason to wring pitchstar’s neck, vengeful he.

“ of course! yes, yes, “ sudden nerves. cicadastar did not fear her, did not think a second thought of his trust in her ; he’d grown with her, witnessed her first catch under hare whiskers and she his. those days were long gone now, stories woven into the lengths of their limbs — the scars that mar their bicolored coats, from their youth. from cinderfrost, from the war. she is less toned now, he supposed from the time she’d spent in the marshland medicine den and the curve of her heavy belly, “ speaking of — “ he began, giving her a pointed look up and down, “ have you thought of when you’ll be moving to the nursery? you look ready to pop. “ though he says it teasingly, the concern in his voice is evident, “ willowroot could use the company, and i promise they do not bite — wohl, not too hard. “ a chuckle, warm amongst the chill around then. he cares for them, he cares for them all, but his love has not reached beyond the ends of his riverbanks in many moons. but to him, the woman had always belonged to the rivers. selfish of him, so selfish, he would have been beyond livid with beesong, vicious — but cicadastar had the luxury of that not being his problem, “ i’ll have someone teach you the ropes in time, jah. you need to focus on die babys! “

it was hard to keep a good warrior down, he knew all too well. smokethroat, stubborn man as he was, was already back to grouching about being stuck with beesong and he could only imagine the frustration of her staying put, in leafbare more than ever. but the closer she came to kitting, the more dangerous it was for her to be out, venturing alone. the man aims to give her head a friendly bonk with his own, light, “ i worry for you, you know. “ his tone darkens slightly, dampened by the weight of her circumstance.it seemed misfortune had only kept finding her — briarstar’s demise, pitchstar’s reign, her family missing. but he does not jump into the depths of his questioning just yet, instead looking up to meet her gaze, “ how have you been settling? i trust no one has given you any issues? “

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−−−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar is unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
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• none.

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