- Jun 29, 2022
- 10
- 33
- 13
this thread begins starclan's formation and interruption of our great battle! please be aware that this thread will cover themes of death, blood, potential gore, violence, and other potentially difficult topics.
at this point in time, deceased cats are allowed to materialize but not speak or (closely) interact with the living.
Teeth flash red and white between clumps of fur as a battle rages. Emotion does not disguise itself in violence– it is a part of it, as inherently as a living being and its heartbeat. It thumps in the bloodstream of every warrior, reveals itself in desperate strikes of paws and the unceasing pressure of teeth sinking into skin. One cat fights for another's life, one heartbeat continues at the cost of another. Hatred in amber eyes, fear in soft yellow. Gray fur in white teeth, both stained red for the sake of survival. Wounds that weep into neutral ground and eyes that do the same.
The battleground is muddied with the lives of the dead and dying. Between the tufts of fur caught in the strands of grass and the long scars of claws gouged to the earth, or lying silently at the clearing's edge, the still bodies of those who had succumbed to their wounds rest against the fire of a rising sun. The clarity of night has crept further from the battlefield, and under the growing heat, desperation reigns. Above their heads, where few know to look, the stars still cling to the blanketing sky. Another warrior falls to panicked teeth, another cries out as loss rips through them. And against the curtain of blood and the pinkening sky, the outpouring of grief and loss breaks through.
A backdrop of grey sinks over Fourtrees with a ferocity and intensity enough that those below startle and recoil. The violence begins to still, confusion and alarm written across many faces as they disentangle from their opponents and look around with flattened ears and crouched bodies. Others stand in wary anger still, adrenaline racing despite the weight of the changing sky. It is not until the darkness begins to lift that the battle stops entirely. From gray clouds come figures of dewy morning ice. Ghosts of old stories come to life, carrying with them the tang of frost, the sweetness of blossoming new-leaf. In these figures, there is everything and nothing, violence and forgiveness both. And as their paws begin to touch the bloodstained grass, leaving glittering stars in their wake, there is only one thing that is certain:
A future is being forged.
at this point in time, deceased cats are allowed to materialize but not speak or (closely) interact with the living.
Teeth flash red and white between clumps of fur as a battle rages. Emotion does not disguise itself in violence– it is a part of it, as inherently as a living being and its heartbeat. It thumps in the bloodstream of every warrior, reveals itself in desperate strikes of paws and the unceasing pressure of teeth sinking into skin. One cat fights for another's life, one heartbeat continues at the cost of another. Hatred in amber eyes, fear in soft yellow. Gray fur in white teeth, both stained red for the sake of survival. Wounds that weep into neutral ground and eyes that do the same.
The battleground is muddied with the lives of the dead and dying. Between the tufts of fur caught in the strands of grass and the long scars of claws gouged to the earth, or lying silently at the clearing's edge, the still bodies of those who had succumbed to their wounds rest against the fire of a rising sun. The clarity of night has crept further from the battlefield, and under the growing heat, desperation reigns. Above their heads, where few know to look, the stars still cling to the blanketing sky. Another warrior falls to panicked teeth, another cries out as loss rips through them. And against the curtain of blood and the pinkening sky, the outpouring of grief and loss breaks through.
A backdrop of grey sinks over Fourtrees with a ferocity and intensity enough that those below startle and recoil. The violence begins to still, confusion and alarm written across many faces as they disentangle from their opponents and look around with flattened ears and crouched bodies. Others stand in wary anger still, adrenaline racing despite the weight of the changing sky. It is not until the darkness begins to lift that the battle stops entirely. From gray clouds come figures of dewy morning ice. Ghosts of old stories come to life, carrying with them the tang of frost, the sweetness of blossoming new-leaf. In these figures, there is everything and nothing, violence and forgiveness both. And as their paws begin to touch the bloodstained grass, leaving glittering stars in their wake, there is only one thing that is certain:
A future is being forged.