sensitive topics at the end of the thread | death

[BONERIPPLE]

જ➶ --- tw for detailed gore

Days have gone by since she has seen his face. Been able to press herself against the thickness of his coat. Searches have happened but none have returned with reports of the large tom anywhere. Everything feels lonlier. Dread gripping her heart and she has beem trying to quell her children. Of course he is okay, there is no reason he wouldn't be. And she wants to believe this with all of her heart. But as days continue to pass she knows, she knows that something is deeply wrong. Wolverine doesn't much like the river but he came here for her. He wanders away from the place periodically but always he came back to his family. Even now as she peers over the meadow like hills the molly is searching on her own. As she steps over thick growing heather her paws press against the ground and she takes in a slow breath. Dragging through pained lungs as she smells something awful. Something rotten and decayed. For a moment she just stands there and her mind tells her to turn around. Just go the other way and continue being blissfully unaware. It'll be so much better if she had listened because her paws start to carry her forwards with little regard to her screaming mind. Her tail hangs low as she creeps closer to that foul stench. Her heart races in her chest and she wants to believe that maybe it's jusy a piece of crowfood. Prey left out too long.

But as she gets closer to the area she can smell something more. The lingering scent of dog, stale and having gone away. Two. Her mind is fraying, breaking as she processes what the scent means and finally, finally she sees what she wishes not to. Her mate is a tattered and bloodied mess. His body stripped of flesh and bones missing. Torn into like common prey, eaten. "Wolve? She speaks on shakey breathes, speaking to a corpse and hoping for an answer. His eyes are gone, bugs having crawled through and devoured them. His mouth open in a silent scream of pain. A trail of old blood and viscera is behind him. He was trying to get home. The realization seems to hit her over the head and she suddenly screams. "WOLVE!" No, no! This can't happen! This can't be! Her body suddenly rushes forward and she pushes against the days old corpse as if he will come back alive. "Get up! Get up! Get up! Don't do this! You have kits! You stupid fool! Don't!" A wail leaves her as she struggles to get her long dead mate to do something anything before her body tenses up. "D-don't....do....don't..."

Tears are running down her face as she looks at what was once a massive tom in his prime. Taken down like common prey and devoured. The woman lays there then, feeling souless. Like death itself and muttering to herself. "Don't....leave...me. Don't....leave..." But everyone leaves.​

 

[CLAYFUR]

A scream cuts through the air, and the brown and white warrior is on his feet immediately. He pays no further regard for to fish he might have caught in his chosen spot, taking off running in the direction of the sound. The ensuing shouting confirms that it’s Boneripple who’s in distress, and there’s no thought in Clay’s mind except that his clanmate might be in danger and he needs to reach her right now.

The sight that greets him is a grisly one; flesh torn to shreds, exposed bone, the awful smell of something long-dead. But he recognizes the corpse—no, the clanmate—after a few heartbeats. It’s Wolverinefang, who’d been missing for a few days. And Bone had been the one to find him.

He doesn’t want to move closer as the black and white warrior presses her pelt to her mate’s—it isn’t his place to intrude, and besides, his nose stings with the scent. But… he needs to help, somehow. Maybe he should offer to move the tom back to camp, but he knows that the she-cat also needs her time to grieve, right now. He knows the feeling all too well.

He remembers himself saying the same things to Clear, back then. Begging for his mate not to leave—but at least he’d been there. At least he’d gotten the comfort of watching his mate draw his final breath, of knowing that Clearsight was surrounded by those he loved as he died. Wolverine got no such comfort, and the realization of just how terrible it is strikes him in the chest. He hadn’t known the tom closely, but he knew enough. He was a caring father, a devoted mate, a loyal warrior of RiverClan for the few months that he’d lived here. And Boneripple, an equally admirable cat despite her origin. She’s a strong, capable woman, and he wishes he had half her resilience.

It isn’t fair. It’s not… they don’t deserve this, not Bone or Wolverinefang. Nor do their kits.

When he speaks, his voice shakes. "Bone…" For once, he doesn’t know what to say. What can he say, to make this any better? There’s nothing. But he can’t just… leave her here while he fetches a patrol, can he? "I’m so sorry."
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[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

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[FERNGILL]

He'd have to be deaf to miss it, that- screech. Splits the air like an eagles cry, it does, and- Fernpaw was pulled from his fishing, a single catch that was usually so important to him left abandoned on the dirt, turning the grass sodden with its scale-slick. Clayfur- Clayfur, ahead, and... something in the air. Darkened, putrid smell... one that churned his stomach and filled his chest with every synonym for dread that could possibly exist. He'd never scented this before. It was- crowfoot-like, rot razed and bloody, but... worse. Worse, ten times so. A hundred times so. He didn't want to look, but-

Boneripple- she wasn't harmed, either. But... there was something at her feet, mangy and torn. Blood-crusted with missing ribs, with splintered bone... Wolverinefang. A body. One or the other, because... how could it be both? Someone in the Clan- someone who he'd known, someone who could speak and smile just the same as him... a body. An it. A something that lay at its mates paws, and...

Poor Boneripple. Through the sickness that flared, through the stunned tremble of his expression, Fernpaw felt immense pity for the magpie-pelted femme. Her mate- father to her kits, the cat she'd moved here from ShadowClan with. Dead, without even getting to bid goodbye. It was horrible, and more than anything did Fernpaw want to reach out, press against her side and turn her away so she could feel maybe a little less like this was real.

Foolish of him to think he could get any closer than he was. The sight of this... this cadaver that once held Wolverinefang's spirit was enough to root his paws to the ground. All that could struggle free from his frozen throat were the words, "Bone- Boneripple, I..." What it might have been hung in stasis. I'm sorry, probably. When would it end, this... this sourceless karma? Who would own up to earning the ire of the reaper, leading to these slaughters?​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[✧ Stalkingpaw.]

˚⊹ COME ON MAKE ME FEEL ALIVE ⊹˚
stalkingpaw | 05 months | polygender | any pronouns | physically easy | mentally medium | attack in bold crimson

---

Whatever stalkingpaw expects - it is not this. Her father is missing - she can feel her mothers worry, one she shares, one written so clearly in the white furred mollys face. The way her smiles are more like grimaces, the hollowness in her eyes, the lip chewing - the lingering gazes towards the camp entrance as though he'll just stroll right back in like nothings wrong. Her mind is a blur as she follows the patrol, memories fuzzy, questions running through her mind a mile a minute as she wanders along aimlessly - whet did she eat, no- did she eat that morning, what time is it, what was she supposed to be doing again, was she supposed to be hunting or marking or-

The piercing cry that rings through her ears and head like an endless echo sets her fur on edge, emerald eyes blown wide. Mother - her mother is screaming. She's hot on the heels of clayfur, moving so swiftly she cannot even recall it. The sight that welcomes her is beyond even her worst nightmares. "I-... n-no... no, that's not- what-?" Blood, so much blood - painting everything red, oh how she once loved that color, but not like this - not like this. Her stomach churns as her senses register the scene - the sight, the sound, the scent.

Her breakfast spills out past her lips before she can stop it, the puddle spreading at her paws a welcome distraction. 'Oh... so it was mouse' she can't help but think, in a mind numbing state of shock, staring down at bile and half-digested remains. It's not dissimilar to the picture played out before her. Reality begins to set in past the hysteria at this observation - her father is dead, torn apart limb-from-limb. She heaves again before she can help it - again and again, as tears begin to drip down ink stained cheeks.

She- she can't do this. She can't look anymore - doesn't want to see him, no not like this. Her first experience with death and it has to be this? The moment she can catch her breath, her rollig stomach utterly emptied upon the ground, she turns tail and flees, ignoring the rest, not even sparing them a glance in her terror. She doesn't even know where she's running - only knows that she needs to be far, far, far away from here.

//TW: gross description of bodily fluids (throw up)
&& also out

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[Snakeblink]

MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————​

Snakeblink runs towards Boneripple’s shout, but he’s too slow — they all are, an unfortunate audience to the grim spectacle of Wolverinefang’s ravaged body. Devoured by a threat they did not even notice. Another cat bleeding under the blind eyes of the distracted clan. How many must they lose because they weren’t paying attention? Because they were drawn thin by other catastrophes, because they were too slow, or weak, or—

They should have sent more patrols to look for Wolverinefang once he disappeared. Snakeblink should have searched harder, been out longer; he should have been the one to find the body today, not Boneripple. It’s unfair that she was. It’s cruel.

Worse even that Stalkingpaw had to see it, as well: the apprentice runs past Snakeblink as he approaches, eyes haunted, breathing quick. Strange how there's always a little more innocence left to lose. Their lives are already filled with so much hardship, but this — seeing her father dead and in such a way — is an introduction to the darkest aspects of it in the worst possible way.

He stands there, powerless and fairly useless, as Clayfur and Fernpaw try to comfort the grieving molly. There are no words that can end this pain, but their attempts are better than anything he could have found himself.

”I’ll… go fetch a patrol,” he mutters, and flees after Stalkingpaw.​

——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely ​

ooc. information.

• 
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 40 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

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[BEESONG]

he knows, the moment that the gut-wrenching cry splits the air, that something horrible has happened. it speaks of grief, earth-shattering and harrowing, a ghastly song of mourning that beesong has heard keened far too many times. today will be a bad one, the healer thinks to himself as he abandons the patch of marigold he'd been tending to, weeding forgotten to the anxiety coiling around his chest.

a nearby warrior— snakeblink, beesong recognizes vaguely through the haze of disquiet— surges forward in what they believe must be the direction of the scream. they don't know whether they should be thankful for having someone to guide them, or resentful that they didn't have an excuse to delay reality. it should probably be the former if they're even the slightest bit of a good healer.

he thinks of all the possibilities, runs through each one in his head until it is pounding with a dizzying ache, while he chases after snakeblink. but nothing that his racing thoughts conjure could prepare him for what they find. the smell hits him first; putrid, rotting, and it reminds him too much of crow-food. he wishes that was all it was, and not the grisly sight he stumbles across. what used to be wolverinefang, torn apart and ravaged by carnivorous teeth. eyes gouged out, maggots taking their place. bones ripped out and viscera scattered across the clearing. reduced to nothing more than rotting prey for scavengers to finish the job of picking apart.

beesong has seen a lot of shit in their three seasons of life. pain, suffering, death. but this? it's grisly. it feels too much like something out of a nightmare to be reality. beesong wants to look away, but their eyes could not leave the half-eaten corpse. their stomach churns, bile burning their throat. it takes everything in them not to double over and heave the contents of their breakfast onto the bloodied earth. underneath the nausea and horror, they know they couldn't falter. no matter how much they desire to run after snakeblink and stalkingpaw... it is their duty to help, and it will be their duty to prepare wolverinefang's body for burial.

beesong has never loathed being a medicine cat more than he does in this moment.

how could he make this presentable in any way for a vigil? he's hidden wounds on bodies before— the memory of grooming clearsight's fur to lay in a way that hid the deceased warrior's injuries far too fresh on his mind— but beesong doesn't even try to fool himself and believe that he could do the same for wolverinefang. and the stench... could any amount of mint mask it completely?

and boneripple... the she-cat presses herself against her deceased mate, pleading futilely for wolverinefang to come back to her. beesong has never claimed to trust the former shadowclanner, much less like her, but one would have to be heartless to not look at the grieving widow with anything but pity. their curled ear falls flat against their skull, brows pinched and mouth pulled into a taut frown. no, beesong had never really liked boneripple or her mate... but they'd never want this fate to fall upon the family. their heart aches for boneripple and her children.

without a clue on what to do next, aside from the mental note to offer goatweed to the grieving family back at the makeshift camp, beesong stands there. still and silent as a statue, shoulders rigid and jaw clenched so tight that a dull ache spreads across his face. what could he do?​

 

[Cindershade]

Today of all days, she had desperately wished she had not taken her apprentice out for training. Death was usually not something that scared the lead warrior, she only could learn to respect it and accept death. Death was inevitable. All things that once lived would soon ease into eternal rest. Often times she's thought of her brushes with it, the exhilarating but panicked feel when claws were at your throat—or when hounds are snapping at your tail—even taking a plunge into ravenous waters. But only the most succumbed to cruelty deserved such a morbid and excruciating pain that Wolverinefang had suffered.
Cindershade had heard the wailing of a clan mate, a recognizable shrill of horror that never seemed to get easier to hear over time. Each time she met it with fluid movements, heart beat causing a ruckus within it's ivory cage. Rosetted fur was now disheveled and ruffled, muscles tensed as she sprints with Sablepaw in tow. It doesn't take long before a gut-wrenching putrid stench permeates her nostrils and catches into back of the throat. Unmistakable as always. The smell of death and rot. She slows her pace, making sure to keep her apprentice tucked behind her with a protective press of her tail against her shoulder. The familiar curled singed and cinnamon ears enter her line of sight amongst the reeds, followed by wails of grief. Cindershade sets her jaw to embrace the smell, but it's damn near overwhelming. She peers over and nearly winces back as bike threatens to shoot up her esophagus. Her ears begin to ring and her head swims when she sees Boneripple crouch beside what was once a large cat. Tufts of black still clung to his half eaten form, matted and stained with crimson.
Cindershade stones herself as Stalkingpaw's own cries are heard followed by the spewing of vomit, the child unable to hold her own meal at the sight. The lead warrior couldn't blame her and for once, her usual blazing star fire gaze softens in sympathy. A picture no child should ever have to see, a picture no mate should have to bear. Her mind snaps to Sablepaw and she stops her with a raised tail, attempting to spare her a picture that would burn into her psyche forever. "Sablepaw. Please stay back." She murmurs, her tone nearly cracking and almost—pleading. It was so foreign to her now. Willowroot was surely rubbing their influence off on her, it seemed. Ivory whiskers twitch, followed by a dusted pink nose and she clenches her jaw. The lead warrior takes a deep breath, another mouthful of rotting stench slapping her in the face as she looks to Beesong. Her gaze searches his face, wondering what the next steps were to be. Should they bring him to camp? His remains were barely recognizable and the maggots that feasted upon what remained of his rotting flesh and bones would surely be a hazard.
Something had to be done. The rosetted molly stepped to Boneripple, crouched and pressed against a carcass that had once been her mate. The days that she'd looked for him, that they'd all look for him. It ended as this. A gentle placement of her paw against the shaded warrior, shaking her gently. "Boneripple, come. We need to bury him and hold a vigil." She murmurs to her, a tone that was void of her usual cooling tone but unreadable still. She shared a mixture of unfamiliarity and mistrust towards her, but she'd never wish such a grueling death to her or her family.

Apprentice tag @Sablepaw ):
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[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[hyacinthbreath]

To lose one's mate felt like you lost a part of oneself. Hyacinthbreath presses her paw to a lavender stem, the long purple flower a beauty. Her eyes, cold and distant, betrays one emotion- grief. It had been many moons already since Lavenderstorm had passed, found in the heap of fur she was. Hyacinth's last significant memory of Lavender was the day she had been promoted to Lead Warrior, when she pressed her face into her mate's fur and listened to her praise. Sleeping amongst the stars, feeling like the world could stop and she'd still keep moving for Lavenderstorm. Her love for the molly was intense, her heart swollen with adoration- for her smile could brighten any bad days. Clear any cloudy skies. Hyacinthbreath believed they were soulmates, trusted her with her everything. And when she died, Lavenderstorm took a chunk of Hyacinthbreath with her. There was always a piece of her that didn't belong, but that piece could always come home to Lavenderstorm- with her gone, what home did she have to return to?

But Lavenderstorm was dead, and it seemed her own grief was shared by Boneripple as she cries out for her lost mate. His body, deformed and bloodied, days old at this point- the decay setting in. When she had found Lavenderstorm's body weeks after her disappearance, Hyacinth was inconsolable. Silvery paws carry her over to the scene, Stalkingpaw's form retreating soon after- her eyes follow after the apprentice, pity in her stomach. "I'm.. Sorry for your loss, Boneripple." She whispers, though she doesn't know if she could hear her. It would never be fair for anyone, especially not for Boneripple right now. It would take time to heal, if she ever did.

Cindershade says they need to hold a vigil, and Hyacinthbreath nods her agreement. "If I can be of service," She offers, dipping her head to the Lead Warrior. ​

❝ there are wounds inside me, gaping holes of disconnect.
can you drown inside your own body? can you suffocate within this mind? ❞