no angst autumnal • picking flowers

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : rare are the times he finds himself contented to be alone ; when he is not thrashing within confines of his willow den, attempting to sleep through the plague of memory flitting behind paper thin eyelids and silence that spurs it. today, though — he finds himself out in the midst of drooping willows, floating gentle in the early leaffall air. cicadastar is surrounded by neatly plucked flowers, all arranged in small piles and lain out before the sun. bronzing leaves cast dapples of gold - orange over the dying flora underfoot. the moons were changing, and soon all that remained around him would be lost to frostbitten air. regardless, the beech copse was beginning to glow with the golds and browns of floral death, dusting the air with a crisp, cool sweetness.

things must end to begin again, he thinks, hums to himself at the bittersweet twinge in his chest. the dirt on his paws is a testament to life ; to one outlived, damp and matting with river - softened soil and it’s a comfort, the coolness seeping into aching knuckles beneath. it’s only when a twig snaps to his rear does an ear twitch, muzzle opening slightly to take in the intruding scent and — “ would you like one? “ a purr, amused and teasing. the man spares a glance towards his pile of drying flowers, inclining his skull, “ they’ll be wilting soon. help me grab a couple, it’ll be one the last batches we can weave. “ he was sure the river territories would be dreary during leafbare, maybe they could make the best of what blooms they had left by threading them fresh into riverclan’s reed - lined walls.

out of character information translations

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and icy blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a thick german accent, former marsh cat, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[CLAYFUR]

The beech copse is a part of the territory that Clay often finds himself lounging near. Although he doesn’t have an apprentice of his own—no matter how much he wishes for one—he enjoys watching the mentors of RiverClan as they train the youth of the clan. He’s on his way there, just trotting past on his way to his favorite fishing spot, when he spots a figure sitting surrounded by dried flowers.

He stumbles, nearly trips, and a twig snaps underfoot as he spots the handsome, dappled leader. Cicadastar surprises him by asking if he’d like a flower, and he chuckles. "Think they’re edible?" If they’re the last batches, they’re also the last flowers he can eat until the weather starts to grow warm again.

He grabs for a flower, carefully snatching up the prettiest one, the one that catches his eye the most. Then he settles onto his haunches, one hind leg stretched out along the ground. "We’re weaving them? Into what?" He chews at the end of the flower’s dry stem, hazel eyes trained curiously on Cicada’s face. He’s an interesting guy, the RiverClan leader. Clayfur wouldn’t peg him as the type of cat to go out and collect flowers simply to weave together—he seems too stoic, too serious, but perhaps Clay hasn’t given him enough credit.
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[ WHAT'S MY AGE AGAIN? ]​

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[Foxpaw—]

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮​

Foxpaw's first leaf-fall. She'd been born in bitter moons, she knows that -- when Dewdrop had found her, shivering and crusted with snow, she'd still needed milk to live, and only the warmth of her pregnant flank had thawed her. The leaves in the marsh were always green, had the same stiff needly leaves year-round, but in the riverlands, she's privy to everything leaf-fall has to offer. The earth and skies blaze with auburn, flame-red, even orange leaves that are the color of her tail.

She trails behind Cicadastar and Clayfur, and a crisp yellow-ringed leaf flutters in front of her like a lost butterfly. Foxpaw leaps into the air and brushes it, the black forepaw successfully pinning it down. It's an instinctive act, but it is so innocent and kit-like that it takes her breath away. Where has this whimsy been? For so many moons, she has felt old as the soil, as the river itself, and she's satisfied to know she is still the same Foxy she'd always been, even if she's just tucked away inside a little further.

Cicadastar's been drying flowers, and Foxpaw pads close to the arrangement, eyeing them cautiously. Clayfur questions what they'll be used for. "Will they stay this nice? Don't they... die, when you pick them, and get all brown?" She directs the question to Cicadastar, but it's open enough.

- ,,​

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[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

❝  Hound'd known this, some many moons ago. Golden leaves, Cicada's gentle eyes. To be found amidst these memories now turns his life on its head. He stands with dizzy heat curling up 'round his throat, and a sudden, piercing pain comes throwing itself through his entire body. All he's got in him, brought to the surface. The tabby tom's quick to shove it back down 's'far as it'll go. They look...peaceful. Hound won't let himself be the one to ruin that with his old wounded heart. It's not the worst sort of bleeding anyway. A pain born of soft feelings, love is a baby bird cradled in too-rough paws. Every flutter of its little body fills him with the worst'f fears. I'll break you. I'm afraid of that. But he couldn't put it down. For however foreign it is, the feeling's a good one. Though it's held deep in his chest, Houndsnarl lets it bloom where the others can't see it. Verdant eyes're filled with a distant fondness– it comes without words or direction, though history's following on its aimless heels.

In his faintly limping approach, safely careless paws making all kinds'f noise where he doesn't worry after hunts, the warrior picks up a single leaf with the tips of his claws and sends it towards Foxpaw. His crooked grin says all sorts of things. I won't forget that joy, most importantly. "Most of it'll go," he confirms, "least if you keep 'em out here." He crouches slightly to put himself at eye level with a few of the flowers. Even with the invitation, he's yet to reach out and pick some. Knowing him, his claws'll probably butcher the poor things. Maybe he'll worry about getting them back, an' leave the others with the more delicate work. "There're probably a few tricks to keep the color. Knowin' Cicada, he's got the whole thing figured out." Though eye contact with the taller leader reminds him of that lance shoved through all of 'im, he does it anyway, with that same half-lifted smile.

†  ooc notes information †

• 
  ooc: —
• ──── houndsnarl. trans male, he/him pronouns.
  ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
  ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.
  
  ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
• "speech"

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[Steepsnout]

WE'RE TAKING OVER THE WORLD, A LITTLE VICTIMLESS CRIME ➳​

Weaving had never interested Steeppaw. It looked slow and delicate- two things the apprentice staunchly avoided embodying. Way too boring in her opinion. There was something though, to watch it being done. Adults with their steady paws and even steadier pace, twisting reeds to a steady tempo. So, at their leader's mention of adding flowers, the ink-blotch molly made her way towards the group.

Lots of cats liked flowers. She had even heard of them being given as gifts, a way to catch the eye of one they liked. Slumping on one end of the gathered half circle, Steeppaw tapped her paws in an overcomplicated, irregular beat. Unable to contain herself, the moment a lull in conversation occurred her unapologetic, brash voice sounded out, "Hope there's a way to keep their colours. That's how you get girls right?" There was no subtlety, nor embarrassment in her tone. After a strong inhale, the girl began to fill the air again. "Would be boring all brown too- does leafbare make everything brown?"​