can't go to hell |Border Skirmish| already there

I won't apologize for being who I am
Within the midst of chaos Coyote registered the audible clack of his own fangs echoing within the crescendo of battle song laden air. However, he was completely unsure if his attack connected with the larger warrior attempting to assault Weaselclaw or not, What he did focus on now was the zipping form of another tom similar to his age. Their body connects with his own, jostling him off course as claws dig into his flesh. The boy's muzzle wrinkles as a hiss breaks loose from his maw, twisting his body to follow up with an attack of his own. Ivory daggers extend as he slashes once then twice at the other apprentice, aiming for his shoulder and chest in retaliation. His side stung where Gillpaw's claws landed, but he stole a glance over at the others, Weaselclaw and Aspenpaw in particular. The long furred molly seemed to be fine, but the brown tabby was looking worse for wear. They needed to get out of here fast before they were too heavily outnumbered.

A furious yowl caught his attention and Coyote watched as Cicadastar came sprinting, shouting words he could not understand. As quick as he appeared the tom dove upon Jasperglare, clutching the new recruit's face in his mouth. Thankfully, the red tom was able to escape and was now retreating. But what of the rest of them? If the massive riverclan leader could do that kind of damage then he didn't want to stick around any longer than he already did not want to. The world seemed to move in slow motion once he turned to look back at the windclan lead warrior. There were two riverclannners swiftly advancing, one at the front and one darting behind. If he were to help he knew that he could only go after one and so he chose to lunge in Redpath's direction, aiming tackle the femme with unsheathed claws to intercept her attack. Fear began to trickle into adrenaline as he began to wonder if they would even make it out of this encounter alive.​
Tryna throw shade on me say a lot 'bout you​
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╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮​

Weaselclaw's nails are deep, puncturing, and he feels Smokethroat's eyelid pierce with sickening satisfaction. The tom's covered in blood spilling from his wounds, but he fights as though he's not injured at all. The tabby feels teeth shred through his ear, and he yowls in fury, in pain. Scarlet pours from the side of his face as he attempts to tear himself away from Smokethroat -- he manages, but with it goes a good chunk of his left ear.

"Not if I kill you first, scumbag," he snarls, but the rest of RiverClan seems to have arrived, and he's met with a flurry of battering claws, piercing teeth. A ginger she-cat grips his neck fur and rakes his right flank furiously with flying claws; he can feel them tear open, blood weeping between the rifts in his flesh. The tiny burned cat, a medicine cat, yanks him backward with a nip of their fangs, and Weaselclaw is tempted to flay the other half of their face --

But he realizes with a panting groan that WindClan is outnumbered. Reinforcements have arrived, and though his warriors and apprentices fought valiantly, they are exhausted, injured. Jasperglare turns tail without the order, running back to safety, and Weaselclaw breaks away from the RiverClan cats with a long, slow hiss.

Backing away, he calls, "WindClan! Retreat!" He's enraged at the futility of it all -- and he's nearly blinded by the agony of his tattered ear, his shredded flank, his scored back. All of this for a rabbit that would go to some fat, shiny-pelted RiverClanner.

He gives Cicadastar, Smokethroat, all of them a vicious glare through flint-blue eyes. "Hope you choke on your stolen prey. Thieves." With that, he takes his leave, bounding a few steps away to make sure Aspenpaw, Coyotepaw, and Goatfoot can get away first. He'll fight all of RiverClan if they try to follow... even if it kills him. And it would.

/ once he sees the other cats are leaving, he's out!

- ,,​
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His clan's scent overpowers that of the moorland grass, smothers the rabbit smell and airy wheat-like aroma of the farmlands near their territory. The WindClan cats are severely outnumbered, his vision is warped and distorted but he sees several familiar cats leap into the fray. Clearsight, Redpath, he's faintly aware Willowroot is there from Beesong's piercing cry and the surge of impatient anger in his chest is drowned out by the ignited fury of watching Weaselclaw call for a retreat.
Bastard. Bastard! He wished he'd killed him, he'd almost been able to, almost managed to sink teeth into neck before the other withdrew.

"RUN! Run for your pathetic life, VERMIN! COWARD! I'll FLAY you ALIVE!" Each word punctuated by a crimson spray, a splash of color staining wooden slats and twisting his visage into something demonic and unholy; Smokethroat is standing as the brown tabby and his cats leave, he's standing to shout after them in his now literally blinded rage. The world is dark, blurring, he sees naught but burgundy clouds rising up to suffocate and swill around him and he takes a staggering step forward as if to pursue the WindClanners but instead his paw meets slick blood and loses traction. The fall from a full stand to the bridge's surface was not a long drop, but it carries past it still, he's falling into an abyss, expansive and overwhelming; the sensation of having nothing beneath him is disorienting.
The voices around him are a gentle and reverberating hum, the faint snatches of conversation he hears barely audible as if his head was submerged underwater. The shrill, youthful sound of several apprentices rising in a chorus, despite himself he finds he laments not training Iciclepaw more and wonders where the thought came from. It was the line of thinking one might take when having regrets, knowing they would not be able to correct them.
It briefly occurs to him most the blood his battered head lays in now belongs to him, the side of his neck burns like a fire brand-his white spotting stained.
Smokethroat opens his mouth to speak, blood bubbling up from his throat and filling his maw with a copper taste so overpowering he gags on his words and they die then and there. He wasn't dying, he couldn't be. There was much left to do for leaf-bare, prey to catch, cats to train, he wants to meet Willowroot's kits, he wants to see Iciclepaw become a warrior, he wants to tell...
He should've-he had missed his chance now hadn't he-was he so stupid? Was fate so ruthlessly cruel? What had he done to deserve this? Dying on its own in battle was a glory but he had wanted, ached for the moment to stop wistfully lingering on the sideliness and address the river's phantom more properly. Would he not get that now? The dark tom gives a wheezing, rasping breath, drags it in desperately as if each was his last, as if losing it would be the end. There's a ripple of black, gray and white in his perpipheal, of his lone remaining orange eye and he fixates that sunset ringed pupil onto the blur of cats around him. If he had the strength he might compliment each apprentice. Finchpaw's tenacity despite his lack of training, Koipaw's determination to help her clanmates, Gillpaw's loyalty to his clan that so mimicked his mentors, Leechpaw strange in his own ways but no less a valuable member of RiverClan-their mentors did well. He hoped he'd done well. His life for a rabbit? No. His life for a declaration of their unity and power against those WindClan rats, his life for a soon-to-be queen and her kits. His life for love. Cicadastar is there, long-limbed like forest in his own right, blanketed white. He could be leaf-bare if only not for the warmth.
"I wish I'd..." The words strained, break, he can't force them out and in his forced attempt to do so the pain is sharp, ruthless, he blacks out.


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  • Crying
Reactions: CICADASTAR and tricky

She doesn't even budge as Coyotepaw crashes into her. Well, there's an audible  oof, but she doesn't let go of Weaselclaw. She was on a warpath. She wanted blood. She reared a hind leg and tried to shove Coyotepaw away. She was in a blood craze, but still aware enough to realize he was an apprentice, and she wasn't about to beat the shit out of a kid. So a shove it was.

When Weaselclaw calls for a retreat, she growls angrily. "REAP THE CONSEQUENCES OF YOUR ACTIONS." she shouts at him.

"STEP ON OUR TERRITORY AGAIN AND I'LL KILL YOU, YOU HEAR!!!?? I'LL TAKE YOUR HIDES AS TROPHIES, YOU VILE RATS!!!!" She would roar after the patrol as they retreated.

She wanted to chase. She saw prey getting away. She wanted to kill. To rip flesh from bone. To hear that dying gasp, and revel in it.


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GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : old scars tear open along the soft underside of his stomach and it is enough for his jaws to unclamp in a sudden, aching gasp, the slide of canines out of shallow skin accompanied by a soft pop. the red tom yowls beneath him, kicking and he is thankful for the thick curls of fur that keep his battering claws from gouging too deep. it stings still, like hornets along his sensitive belly. the windclanner struggles to the side, momentarily off putting his too - long limbs and allowing him to scramble from beneath his hold. cicadastar hisses, long and drawn out, regaining his footing to arch his back almost violently, bicolored fur bristling high along the rigid notches of his spine. cowards. cowards! his head thrashes to the side, mouth tasting of bitter blood and what clumps of flesh that came with his jagged rip of teeth away from the windclanner’s face. he wants to keep fighting — feels it bubble beneath his skin, rioting up his paws and pooling through his claw tips.

but they’re retreating, now. he lunges in the direction they now run with a violent spat, the arch of his back lowering as they recede into the darkness. it’s watching the windclan lead warrior’s tail disappear between the trees that calms him minutely but rage still rings in his mind, rings in the way he stands proud amidst his flock of riverclanners. apprentices — finchpaw, koipaw, leechpaw, gillpaw, they could’ve gotten killed, but they stood strong, protected their clan as they should, as true warriors would. smokethroat is shouting and surely he’s alright if he’s yelling, moving to step after the patrol as they turn tail. his lips are pulled to bare his wicked teeth, drippings of blood at the corners of his maw a grim slice through the white of his face. thieves, he called them — he would prefer that to starved, “ step paw near riverclan territory and my warriors will tear you to shreds — that goes for the rest of your vermin clanmates! “ he’s screaming, voice electric, thunderous, “ and send sootstar my regards! “

in another moment, he would say it happened in slow motion, the pivot of his skull, lifted, victorious — he stands haughty and snarling against the backdrop of rancorous falls, the thunder - beat of water against stone mimicking the buzz of blood pounding in his ears. but then smokethroat is falling, landing heavy on a red - spattered side and the sound that leaves him is choked, a sort of half - gasp that forms a cloud around rubberblack lips. no. no. the dark tom lands with a heavy thud and a pulse of blood forms in the gash along his throat and his heart is suddenly gone — shot through, a pierce of ice - cold dread like the one that had strung him up those moons ago. he falls and a single sunflare luminary watches them still, blindly, swimming with blood and bits of fur and cicadastar is crouching, slipping around him with a quickness nearly costing him on the slick bridge surface. no, no, no — he is muttering aloud, in a tone either indecipherable or foreign in tongue, too quiet and quick to hear. the falls spray just behind still, turning the thick puddles of blood coagulating around them into a frothy pink - white and he lies in it, feels the fresh scratches sting where it mixes and mats his fur even further. the man lies with his lead warrior as he has lain before, wrapped around him with limbs far too long, close enough to feel his every breath as it brushes against his flank.

only this time it’s rabbit - fast, his sides are heaving and he can feel it, the rapidfire pulsing of his heart against battered ribs — it reverberates, a solid thump - thump - thump against the tortoiseshell’s aching side. the white - speckled shadow is wheezing and the sound enough is enough to force a punched sound from chin again, enough for him to try and use the tip of his nose to move the man’s head, gently, gently — onto his alabaster paws and out of the water, ignores the gore that soaks his face, feels the bile rise up in his throat anyway, “ smokethroat, shh, smokethroat, mein herz, please . . “ soft, painful ; his oddly sloping vocals brittle, just barely forced through clenched teeth. it occurs to him that he doesn’t know what he’s begging for, not really — he couldn’t die. smokethroat couldn’t die, no, it wasn’t in his nature. a thick, billowing tail comes to wrap around him and his curls are damp, matted with leaves and spatters of mud, blood spilling once more through the lines of ivory and this time, would the inkspill tom would not be there to guide him towards the riverside? would he not rest with him again, against this newfound cold?

i wish i’d —

the man shakes his head violently. i wish i’d—, “ don’t— “ it’s harsher than he intends but he tucks his chin in the slope of smokethroat’s neck. there’s no wishing. no wanting, no regrets, because the tom would not die. even when the rapid shaking of his chest calms suddenly, when his head lulls to the side he’s sure of it — “ we did it, you did it. we’re going home. “ he would take him home. but the lead warrior is no longer talking and maybe it’s his mind that makes him feel so cold so quick, his mind that overlaps and knocks the breath from his lungs and he’s nudging him with his nose to nothing and he’s wailing — a sound he doesn’t know is leaving his mouth until he’s gasping for breath again, forcing a mouthful into wasted lungs. the man can only hope the patrol has run far enough, licking their wounds beyond earshot of his agony, “ no, no, you can’t — we have to go home, libeling, open your eyes. you need to stay — wake up! “

i won’t forgive you. furious thoughts towards the heavens, he whips ice - laden eyes upwards and ears pin. desperate. wide - eyed and desperate, fool of a man — i won’t forgive you if you take him, i won’t.

his chest moves, shallow, and it’s the only thing that keeps him stable, keeps him from taking the dark tom by the scruff and dragging his body to camp instead of their blood - spattered bridge. his gaze drops, finding beesong amidst the crowd, stares at him for a second, imploring. he doesn’t know what to say — what to do. it was cold, seeping into his fur and smokethroat seemed to be bleeding still, “ bitte. bitte hilfe. help. “ the apprentices were still around — willowroot, clearsight, redpath, who screams after the windclanners as they run. he doesn’t know what to do. “ can you — please. “ help him. help the man with inferno for a voice, crackling and deep and all - encompassing. help the man that envelops him like flame all on its own, chokes him in softness, fills his lungs with smoke. help him come home. grief is a black dog and it watches him from the shadows, head low and teeth bared and he cannot fight it, can do nothing but beg. could he ever? if smokethroat died a warriors death, he be forced to live eight more times over without him and the unfairness of it unsheathed his claws, clenches his jaw and tips his head upward — windclan has burned him for the last time.

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −
  • − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
    − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
    − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers

  • felinedad.png
  • none.

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  • Crying
  • Sad
Reactions: tricky, Floppie, koispots and 2 others

Koi stands her ground as she lands, thank the Stars for Lightnings training, but theres a large paw, much larger than she had expected, coming straight for her and it clobbers her over the head as she scrambles in place to get out of the way. Shes knocked to the ground but the sting of claws don't follow because while her head is reeling from the blow, the paws sheathed, and Cicada comes out of nowhere. Her tongue tastes bitter copper and she nearly gags before she realizes she had only slightly bit her tongue and she rises to her paws albeit being shaky. She didn't want another cats blood in her mouth, not at all. "I'm fine, I could have had him-" her voice is near pleading, fear sparking in her chest. She could have proved herself-

And just like that Jasper is running off, leaving Koi to breathe a sigh of relief. Shes not sure how long shes standing there with blood dribbling down her chin but theres a call for retreat. Her head jerks up just in time to watch Smokethroat topple to the ground, unconscious or dead. She had no clue and theres bile rising in her throat as she sways on her paws, forcing the thoughts out, he's fine, the lead warrior was fine, he's fine hes fine hes fine hes fine, Cicadastar wails, broken and guttural and-

She fights back tears and a panic attack, her teeth meet her lips and they bite down and theres more blood running down her chin now but the whole thing is so, so stressful. "He'll be fine! Right, right Beesong?" wide eyes turn to the medicine cat. She resists the urge to start laughing, why does she want to laugh, the fear never once ebbs from her chest. "Actually, um, i'm gonna... Gonna go get moss for him... right.... And cobwebs. If you need them." and with that she stumbles off with wide eyes, her gaze never once leaving the ground.

// out!
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"speech"​
 
the windclan bastard's blood mingles with beesong's own within his mouth as the healer's teeth find purchase in a hind leg. a cocktail of carnage that would have him spitting in disgust, if he were not focused on getting weaselclaw away, away, away from smokethroat. away from the dark-furred tom, so that beesong could try to save him before that gaping hole in his neck spills too much of his life force.

the windclan patrol is now outnumbered by the furious riverclanners, and thank the stars, weaselclaw has enough sense rattling around in that thick skull of his that he calls for a retreat. beesong removes themself from the scum, quick enough to see smokethroat collapse in a pool of his own blood. no- not a pool. a river. it is coming out too fast. time is ticking, and soon, it would reach the end. and, stupid as smokethroat is, he's still trying to speak. to curse the windclan patrol more, beesong would assume, if they had the chance to think of anything other than smokethroat's imminent demise.

the cinnamon tabby rushes to the lead warrior's side, stumbling through the river of crimson. it bubbles from smokethroat's mouth, a never-ending stream of ichor.

they're pleading beesong to perform a miracle. they're screaming, a horrid wailing that sounds too similar to a funeral. too much blood, he thinks. yet his paws, with their traitorous shaking, still press hard into the deep gash in the white-flecked warrior's throat. as if he is capable of such a miracle. "i'm trying, i'm trying. but i need- i need cobwebs, now." his paws wouldn't be enough, but it's all that he has right now. he doesn't even care if it's an unsanitary practice; he just needs this blood to stop pouring. he needs his friend to live, he needs this miracle.

beesong does not pray often. but, in that moment, he finds himself begging starclan to spare smokethroat.

"you dumbass," beesong murmurs to smokethroat, their head hung low enough that their muzzle nearly grazes the other's ear. "you never know when to stop, do you?" the words shake too much to be cutting. they're losing composure nearly as quick as smokethroat is blood.

when cobwebs are delivered to him by another clanmate, beesong snatches them with a fervid desperation. he replaces his bare paws with the silk, pressing harder into the wound, if such a feat was even possible. "don't close your eyes, smokethroat. don't you dare leave us, or i'll climb to starclan and kick your ass myself." but, stubborn as the lead warrior is, he does not listen. his eyes- no, eye, beesong realizes suddenly- rolls back into his skull. the medicine cat hisses, teeth gritting so tight he's surprised they do not splinter underneath the pressure. they're losing him.​
 

Her wrath was subsiding. The battle high was vanishing and she was coming back to her senses. Her hatred and anger quickly turned to worry and gutwrenching terror as she turned around to face Smokethroat.

He was bleeding out. He was bleeding out the same way her dearest friend had. Trembling she approached and crouched beside him and pressed her head against his.

"Smokey, you can't die yet. You just can't...." Her voice quivered as she spoke, tears finally falling from her eyes as she squeezed them shut.

"You have to live...!"

She was glad Beesong was here. When he said he needed cobwebs, she hesitated to leave, but she managed to pull herself away and bolted back to camp. The cold air made her tears sting, but she wouldn't slow down.

She never ran so fast and hard in her life.
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He collides with the WindClan apprentice, claws managing to sink into cream fur. But it isn't long before pain seeps into his shoulder, warmth filling the area as inky fur turns crimson-tinged. Gillpaw lets out a cry in surprise. It hurts, the most physical pain the apprentice has ever felt.

Was he going to die? Die at the claws of someone younger than him, more skilled than him? Over a rabbit?

The moor-dweller breaks away from their scuffle, distances himself from Gillpaw and Clearsight, nears another instead. Scared eyes glance down at his shoulder, at the blood that wells up where claws had struck. He would be fine. He had to be fine, had to fight to keep Clearsight and Smokethroat safe, to keep RiverClan safe.

The fight is over before his claws can find their way to striking another, a brown tabby from the other side calling for WindClan to retreat. Gillpaw turns to look at Clearsight, to make sure his mentor is okay.

"Did... D-Did we do it? Did... D-Did we win..?" He asks, uncertainty and fear heavy in his shaken-up voice. Such a blur, the battle was. Gillpaw wasn't too sure if anyone truly won.

As yellow eyes catch sight of Smokethroat, Gillpaw's question answers itself. No. No, they didn't win. The lead warrior drops to the ground, and Gillpaw's heart drops to his stomach. Is he going to die? He wants to ask Clearsight, but only bounds over to join the rest of the crowd, pushing past the pain in his own shoulder.

Blood. There's so much blood.

"H-Help him!" he squeaks to Beesong. He's trying, the medicine cat says. They need cobwebs. Koipaw runs off before he can, and Gillpaw can only hope she finds enough for him. He fears he won't be fast enough - fears that if he goes, he'll return to Smokethroat's lifeless form, assurance that he's in the stars.

He's thankful Redpath follows after Koipaw.

Yet, Gillpaw doesn't know if the two of them will be fast enough. So much blood, so fast.

"Y-you can't... Y-you can't l-leave us!" he cries to Smokethroat, trying to urge the warrior to stay with them - to stay strong like lead warriors were meant to be. He doesn't want Smokethroat to die. Gillpaw looks back at Clearsight - as if his mentor could help save Smokethroat, as if he could fix everything and make it all better.
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( ☾ ) she's made a lot of mistakes in her life. she can remember pretty much every one of them and she has a bad habit of reminiscing on them. this, right here, right now, is perhaps the worst one. black tufted ears tremble as she lifts a paw, still torn, still watching in horror, very aware of the fact that her voice will do her no good in this situation. beesong's arrival harolds some comfort until the furious scarred medicine cat charges towards the fight. "bee!" she screams, but there's no use. nothing she can do will stop the blur of earthen hue as he seeks revenge on those who endanger his clanmates. reinforcements arrive on both sides, and cicadastar thunders past, ordering her to go home, before he barrels into the fight. hypocrite, she wants to say, but he's right and she hates it. she hates that she's standing here, chest heaving from exertion, belly rounded with obvious life, claws out and nothing to do. there's no way she can rush in, no way any of her clanmates will let her risk her kits. fuck. she hates herself.

things take a turn for the worse. redpath arrives to help smokethroat, and then koipaw, and then leachpaw, and finchpaw of all cats. apprentices, every one of them, and none fit for battle against these foes. willowroot steps forward, despair in her whine, whites flashing in her eyes. there's fear scent on her- the skirmish is not merely that anymore. cats are fighting to kill. when it happens, she starts shaking. thornlike claws, piercing, tearing, slavering jaws yowling words of hate and murder. the eye, brilliantly golden, is obscured by a rush of crimson and pain. smokethroat goes down and weaselclaw falls with him, torn apart by cicadastar. there is a sound of horror that willowroot doesn't recognize from her own maw. she should run and get beesong... no, beesong is fighting. they're all fighting!

cicada is thunderous and frightening, every much the storm he so claims to be. king of waves and hurricanes, he howls after the windclanners as they turn tail. willowroot hardly notices. she has already dashed to smokethroat's side, belly swinging under her, no regard for what life stirs there because if her friend isn't alive, what point is there in bringing more? beesong tears through the crowd that now surrounds the fallen warrior and snaps orders. dimly, the smoke is concious of apprentices running off, of heartbroken murmurs from cicadastar, of bee's furious, caring tone. she can't process any of them. all she can see is one of her best friends, unmoving, breathing shallow, eye gone.

"smoke, you idiot, if you don't live to see my kits, i'll hunt you down myself." slender paws grasp upon his drying fur, pulling at the now dark brown that stains it. beesong works desperately and the molly tries to stay out of the way. "stay awake, love. stay here with us. think about iciclepaw. she needs you! cicada needs you... we all need you." i need you, is what she can't say, because he knows. he's always known. she's planned for him to be in her life for as long as she's on the mortal plane. it wouldn't be fair for him to leave sooner. "stay here. stay, please." fuck this pregnancy, fuck the stars for damning smokethroat. she hates herself for not doing more. how could she not have done more?​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )
 


//procrastinated replying so it's long post time



➵ He struggles to focus.

And granted, Clearsight's baseline is far more focused than most, so he still does well—stays sharp, stays on top of the battle. Smokethroat still buried beneath WindClanners—three of them? Four? And with his own Gillpaw in this tangle, he finds his attention dangerously split. Coyotepaw is young but hefty; the sudden weight throws him off-balance, and the vicious bite drags him away from Weaselclaw, whose own claws have found purchase in his stomach and shoulder by now.

His attempts to shake the apprentice off are aided by Gillpaw, screaming "no!" and lunging—behind me, Clearsight thinks. Well, he took that quite literally. Clear can't blame the kid, not when his back and neck are now free.

He shakes blue tabby fur, spraying blood on the stone, and flaxen-gold eyes dart across the scene as he leaps back into the fray—not that it lasts much longer. The WindClanners are already retreating, it seems, back to their own land. As cowardly as they are bloodthirsty.

Clearsight spits something red and metallic, and it joins the bloody puddle on the ground. The puddle that is... so wide. How much of that is Smokethroat's, he wonders, gut churning. How much of that is—

Gillpaw, there at his side. A relieved breath shudders out of him—not bleeding on the ground, not off to StarClan. Safe, standing right here, and checking Clearsight over—the irony—the warrior has a few scratches, but nothing that'll kill him. The little black-and-white tom has his own wounds that are of far more concern to Clearsight.

"Gillpaw," he breathes, sharp eyes flicking over the boy's form. "You're hurt—"

He hears Beesong snapping orders and stars, Cicadastar crying and fear courses unbridled through his veins, that these might really be Smokethroat's last moments. But the lead warrior has plenty of eyes and paws on him now; they cannot interrupt Beesong's work.

"Gillpaw, come on, little one, come here—" the endearment slips out unasked for and he nearly curses himself for it. He can't patronize the boy. Not after a battle like that, stars' sake. Not after he did so well. No matter how much it makes Clearsight want to pull him in close and keep danger away.

"Beesong is helping. We have to trust him, and we have to let him work," he murmurs, kind but firm, intending to lead Gillpaw away with his tail, blue tabby fur curling around the apprentice. "You're injured—let me see."

He checks him over. Searches for injuries, for anything serious, anything that'll need attention later, once Smokethroat is... once Beesong has finished.

His golden gaze softens as he takes in the boy's state, growing muscles beneath black-and-white fur, standing strong despite the wounds he's come away with.

"You fought well back there," he says, and bends forward, aiming to touch noses with the apprentice.

"My little warrior."

Pride shines through the background terror, warmth in his eyes though his heart is pounding, as their clanmates beg for Smokethroat's life.

Lifting his gaze to StarClan, Clearsight prays.
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& we've all got battle scars ✗ ​
 
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