a starless night & discussion

[SMOKESTAR]

That he felt well enough to be ornery was at least a step in the right direction, his claws itched to action. He wanted to hunt, wanted to get back on pace with Iciclepaw's training, wanted to get every WindClan patrol possible in the near future in the hopes he would be able to sink his teeth into brown tabby throats. His idle daydreaming made him all the more uneasy and he fidgeted in his temporary nest with some annoyance displayed on his maw. Though part of him did not look forward to returning to the warrior's den...
He was fairly certain his grumbling was something Beesong tuned out by default now, not that it stopped him from doing it. Only a little longer, he was told, feeling all the more like a kitten with each passing day and growing ever restless. Still, at the very least this was something productive he could do and also made the time tick by ever faster, he had only the one complaint.
"Did we have to have this talk in the medicine cat den?" They could not have gone outside somewhere, picked a nice spot elsewhere to settle and let him out onto the territory for just a little while?
It had to be here in camp? He supposed it made sense with him still recovering, Beesong having so many patients and Willowroot needing to be by her kits still.
The dark tom gave a dejected sigh, tail slapping the ground as he raised it and dropped it in idle wistfulness. "Fine, I guess...do tell me how the gathering went. Should we expect more nonsense from WindClan?"
No one had updated him yet, though he wasn't going to complain much on it given the circumstances. With the river rising and the clan still needing to be fed in face of the sickness, several cats down including himself; the chaos was obviously overwhelming.


@CICADASTAR & @BUCKGAIT. & @willowroot & @BEESONG & @GLOOMPAW
​

 

[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

she does not want to be here. not in such close quarters with smoke or cicada. the deputy attempts some calm, even breaths but her eyes only narrow at the tom for complaining. she thinks about cuffing him, just to shut him up, but decides against it. best to keep her cool. she's situated next to willow, checking in with the new parent and inquiring on how she is doing, if they need anything, or if buck can help with anything. she still feels guilty for abandoning caraway during the birth, the news of a stillborn reaching the molly soon after. she had not shown her face to the clan that night, grieving once more. she told caraway, she told her to be careful. told them to learn from her own foolishness. yet history repeats itself.

a snort escapes the deputy at smoke's inquiry of windclan. "i doubt it. those moor rats can't keep to themselves." she thinks about making a comment about hyacinth. how the moor-runners can't even keep to their own clan. they had to come here, during leaf-bare. she still thinks about tearing cicada's ear off for letting her in. she knows smokethroat is part of that blame. those two have become closer...annoyingly so. her eyes cast to willow, trying to gauge the smoke's reaction. beesong and gloompaw are only given a spare glance, just to check in with them.
​

 

[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : he's still angry. its clear in the clockwork flick - flick - flick of his tail, wildly differing from the steely, unmoving state of sharp, bicolored features. he is sitting behind the lounging inkspill tom, blunt notches of his spine pressed uncomfortably against the stone pillar of beesong’s lounge. did we have to have this talk in the medicine den? buckgait’s ever - narrowed gaze zeros in on him and the leaders own pallid optics lock almost simultaneously upon her as a result, unmoving — like a string drawn taut, his muscles flex, bound to snap. and for a moment, he says nothing. the wind rushing through camp whispers a hollow, miserable howl, a low whistling where stone meets haphazardly all too loud amidst the solemn den. a habit he’s gaining, it seemed. staring. silent, claws ticking against the freezing ground before finally, finally, he speaks, “ in this weather? youre sick enough as is. ” river phantom, voice like mourning doves and murky, babbling water — there is nothing behind the velveteen roll of his odd tongue. the scent of infection lingers heavy in the brisk leafbare chill, cocooned by the stone walls around then. a beat more passes and at last his gaze moves, shifting towards the yawning entrance. snow falls light, powder - soft outside — do tell me how the gathering went.

the man snorts aloud, seeming to come back to himself a bit if only to whip his narrow head towards smokethroat, coolly indignant, “ oh, to be expected. they’re filthy, lying rats — pitchstar and sootstar both. “ he’d caused a scene, one of many, but he would not be the one to speak on it. it was that damned blue smoke’s fault, proud and boasting as she was. had she come simpering back to him with a measly apology — if she had groveled and simpered at his paws, perhaps he could have reconsidered his anger. weaselclaw had been demoted, had been scorned in his clan, but it wasn’t enough. his claws tap again in brief silence, irritation flaming in his chest. a single ear swivels toward buckgait once she speaks and for the first time, he finds himself not only void of burning rage, but agreeing. long, curling whiskers twitch, “ they’ve no respect, never have. windclan will eat itself alive soon enough. “ both lead warriors, lost or demoted in shame. an exiled medicine cat. their loyalty is faulty at best. the man tips his head away, though in the low light his gaze drifts towards them all, curious of their reactions as he slowly, tentatively continues, “ but . . that hare fed us very well. “ filled many bellies, sent apprentices to their nests happy and strong.

as it is, their freshkill pile continues to dwindle, rivers freezing. snow continues to fall outside and it glints against the alabaster of his face, dusk - lit. his stomach aches.

− ♱ 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​
  
  
• 
• none.

​

​

 

[willowroot]

( ☾ ) in the back of her mind, she realizes her absence has been perfectly valid. if any other queen has been pregnant throughout these winter months, she too would've pushed for the other to rest. so, yes, willowroot knows no one blames her entirely for her truancy, but there is that ever gnawing guilt. it has burrowed into her gut and found a home there, festering and feeding on her worst fears. over the moon she's spent in the nursery, fulfilling any whim that passes in her children's little minds, she cannot help but long for warmer days. things were far more simple just mere moons ago.

now, as she settles softly beside her pseudo sister in the darkened medicine den, eyes of evergreen cast a worried look across her fellows gathered here. smokethroat, no longer crimson hued, but weakened nonetheless, hisses softly at the close quarters, and the smoke queen cannot help her soft snort. the man is in no condition to travel now, and beesong would likely have him by the scruff if he tried. "it's hard enough getting away from my little ones," she murmurs, amusement flickering, a small corner of light in her otherwise solemn eyes. "we'll make it back outside one day smokey." perhaps she is less prisoner than he- her choice sent her condemned to the nursery- there is nothing but violance to thank for the man's seclusion, but she tries humor anyway.

as buckgait's eyes narrow beside her, willowroot flicks her tail out gently brush the earthen woman. it is very clear her friend's opinions on two of the toms in this leadership team, but silently willow prays she'll tolerate them anyway. it seems the femme is not interested in a spat today, and instead address smokethroat's question with a snort. lips twitching, the silver tipped queen nods to her deputy's words, head swiveling to watch cicadastar as he speaks up. 'windclan will eat itself alive,' he grumbles, and he's right- of course he is, master of politics and all. tufted ears twitch, the narrow head tipping in thought as willowroot speaks up. "aye they'll soon chase their own tails, but what remains to be seen is whether it'll only make them stronger. sootstar has many devoted followers. if what i've heard from those at the gathering is true, then she appears to be trying to give the impression that despite her... less than loyal former clanmates, she is guiding the rest of windclan into her clutches," the femme sniffs, wetting her lips before continuing. "i don't doubt that a majority of sootstar's warriors are as devoted as she says they are. certainly we've seen their faithfulness in action with that border fight."

buck's violet gaze finds their own, and willow feels an odd flash of reminiscence. times when she'd been in quarters as close as this, huddling beside raccoon and buck, drawing out fake battle plans for the fight they would never have with their neighbors who minded their business. how similar this moment is to that, and yet so different. moons fly by quickly. clearing her throat as the fog of memory fades, willowroot speaks again. "if push comes to shove, sootstar will not hesitate to take more territory. i find that very clear. leafbare has come down disastrously on every clan, despite what she might say. there's no saying what a hungry windclan would do, given the chance." ​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )

 

[BEESONG]

the gathering had been disastrous.

it seems to be that way every full moon, as of late. tensions woven by the antagonistic shadowclan and windclan, sinking venomous fangs into anyone who falls into their web. weaselclaw had gotten away with little more than a slap on the wrist, while smokethroat had laid in beesong's den, night after night, barely clinging to life. even now, with the riverclan council gathered around the black tom's nest, the scent of infection permeates the air.

still, smokethroat complains. beesong thinks that must be a good sign; it isn't smokethroat if he's not grumbling about something. the healer sends him an exasperated glance, one that tells him to be quiet. cicadastar is right, it is too cold for the healing warrior to be huddled outside. he's already fighting off an infection, he doesn't need whitecough to add to the list.

the cool indignance of the river king is a stark contrast to earlier in the night, atop the great rock with saccharine sweet poison dripping from ivory fangs. but it unnerves beesong, nonetheless. that ire could so easily be turned onto them, should they slip up. jaw clenched, shoulders tight, they opt to remain silent throughout the exchange; eye drifting from each council member as they voice their fury with windclan and shadowclan alike. they do not all get along, but tonight, they are united by hatred. and beesong is bound to this unity of hatred, too. sootstar has hurt riverclan and skyclan alike; pitchstar turns a blind eye to her crimes in favor of an alliance. the two are dangerous, a threat to the forest with their barbaric ways. the blood of the innocent stains their paws.

his gaze always falls back onto cicadastar, watching him for any minute changes in his demeanor that might suggest a need to retreat. tongue held firmly within its cage, face forcibly impassive, the medicine cat observes. cicadastar, he mentions that damned hare. and it is then that beesong slips, a slight narrowing of his eye... certainly, cicadastar isn't suggesting...? would the river king be so foolish as to intentionally antagonize sootstar with prey theft? one hare had nearly cost smokethroat's life, how could the thought of sending warriors into the viper's den ever cross cicadastar's mind?

"i agree; windclan and shadowclan both are a danger," beesong begins, truthful at first, if not intentionally vague. (no room for error, there. they are, essentially, parroting back what everyone has already made clear, after all.) until... their voice dips into faux innocence, blinking up at cicadastar through a gaze that is unreadable once more. "but, cicadastar... what is your next course of action, if you don't mind my asking?" they need to know... if cicadastar is truly insinuating filling the prey pile with moorland quarry, or if it's all in beesong's head.​