pafp CHILDISH WAR 𓆰 prompt

[.Pigeonpaw]

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He'd heard stories, of course, but the thing about stories was you hardly grasped the horror of their truth when all you got was dressed up words and softened descriptions. Neither of his parents participated in the Great Battle, they were both outsides who joined after the clan formed and what Pigeonpaw did know was from elder's and in passing when a few warriors mentioned it. Strangely, not a lot of cats spoke of it outside reverent awe from StarClan descending down upon them. So, his mind filled in the blanks. It was a wild battle, chaotic and bloody and the cats who would form ThunderClan were the heroes of the tale of course - it didn't make sense otherwise! The blue apprentice had managed to convince several of his peers to join into his game, turning it into a mock spar session but a lot more ridiculous by far. Cries of 'take that Pine cat!' and 'FOR THE MARSH COLONY!' ring out through the camp as they tussled around and snarled.
One of his friends is a little too eager and clamps down onto the thick fur of his neck with their teeth - it is not tight, nor does it pierce, but it does surprise him though only for a moment. The false neck bite is emphasized with a playful growl he can feel against his throat and he stifles a laugh before immediately screaming in overexaggerated horror, "Get away from me!" A crackle of a gurgle escapes him and he goes limp before dropping to the ground, released from his 'enemies' grip.
Pigeonpaw gives his head a little kick, tongue lolling out as he lays there making dramatic death groans.

𓆰 —Lullaby, oh something wicked this way come at night 𓆰 —— It's time to let you fly

• PAFP- @RACCOONSTRIPE [x]
• 
  
  
  Pigeonpaw
  —⊰⋅ Apprentice of ThunderClan
  —⊰⋅ He/Him
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ LH Blue smoke w/white & blue eyes.
  

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[RACCOONSTRIPE]

It has been more than a full cycle of seasons since Raccoonstripe had fought beneath a swollen moon amidst Fourtrees, and his sleep has gradually begun to lose its scarlet film. There are still the occasional troubled dreams, but it is rare now for him to awaken with the taste of copper in his throat. He shares a nest now, with the smaller, slimmer Nightbird, and he must be careful not to kick out in the throes of some sticky nightmare.

That does not mean he has forgotten, that he has buried the tortoiseshell or her child in his conscience. He likes to think he has done what Berryheart had suggested so many moons ago—that his mind, long after his body, has begun to heal. The scars there are hidden, but one day he hopes to wear them as mindlessly as he does the ones scored into his chest fur.

When the apprentices begin to scamper in play, Raccoonstripe initially thinks nothing of it. The Great Battle is only a story to the Clan’s youngest now. He is almost amused when Pigeonpaw tears away from his denmate’s teeth, but the cat’s theatrics begin to cool his blood. It’s as though the sun has been snuffed out, as though leafbare has slunk through camp and sank icy teeth into his bones. The little gray cat’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and he stumbles, gurgling as though he’s choking on his blood. Raccoonstripe immediately feels his mouth begin to water, feels the salt coat his tongue, and he has to resist the urge to spit.

He does. As ever, it’s clear, no matter how thick and red it feels in his mouth.

He stares at the glob of spittle on the ground before rising to his paws. He approaches Pigeonpaw, his face an ashen mask—but he only holds his paw out, a gesture of support, to pull him back to his paws. “Very convincing performance.”

, ”​

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[Softsight]

Unlike Pigeonpaw, the Great Battle was a mystery all its own to Softkit. She had been watching Pigeonpaw and his fellows act out their dramatic rendition of the Battle's events, content not to get involved with any sparring practice that was beyond her moons and comfort level, when a face across the crowd had caught her attention. A face with a pinched expression, one that was reminded of the past, a look that Softkit recognized from having seen it in the faces of those who had come back from fighting the rogues that moon ago.
Getting up, Softkit made a wide circle around where the apprentices were at play, casting a somewhat nervous glance towards the dramatically 'dying' Pigeonpaw as she padded her way closer to where Raccoonstripe was now helping the younger cat to his paws.
"You look..." Softkit murmured, looking down at the ground from the older tom as she tried to find the right word to describe what she was trying to get across. "Somber." A first using a word like that, as meticulously descriptive as it was, but Softkit felt that it was the right word to use to describe the look about Raccoonstripe as he'd watched the apprentices' rendition of the Great Battle.​

 

[FALCONHEART]

Falconheart watches Pigeonpaw and the other young ThunderClanners play with a warm smile settled upon his muzzle, bushy tail twitching behind him with amusement. He hadn’t been alive to see the Great Battle, but he’s heard stories of it from his parents and clanmates alike. It was bloody and brutal, according to what he’s been told, and the young warrior is glad that he wasn’t born until after it concluded. He would have been terrified to have been a part of it, and he isn’t certain whether he would have even survived it. Still, he knows of many clanmates who did survive it—his mother and father among those. He’s heard of how the Great Battle affected everyone who took part in it; taking lives and being pitted against enemies in a fight-turned-bloodbath sounds awful.

But of course, the Great Battle is a scenario that appeals to the imaginations of younger cats. Both heroes and villains came out on the other side of the fight, and the younger apprentices of the clan aren’t likely to see how it affected the older warriors—including Raccoonstripe, who for a moment looks as though he may be ill. The tom spits out a glob of something onto the ground before moving to help Pigeonpaw up from his dramatic death posing, and Softkit approaches with a murmured comment about how somber Raccoonstripe looks. "Oh. Uh—are you okay?" Falconheart adds the question with a flicker of concern in his eyes; is the older tom sick? Does he need to go get Berryheart?
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[ find me way out there ]​

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[RACCOONSTRIPE]

A soft voice sounds from behind Raccoonstripe. The tabby pauses and half-turns, dark eyes falling on a tiny white she-kit who is scrutinizing him with round yellow eyes. He absentmindedly smears a dry paw across his mouth, feeling ridiculous now—even the youngest kit can see he was spooked. “You look… somber,” she murmurs, tasting the new word, testing it on the tip of her tongue. He laughs at that. “Now who taught you that word? Somber. Yes, I suppose…” He trails off, gaze flicking to a similarly-concerned looking Falconheart. He’d only just earned his warrior name, and his parents hadn’t fought in the Great Battle, even. For half a heartbeat, Raccoonstripe is envious of unstained claws, teeth that haven’t tasted another cat’s dying breath.

It dissipates. The scars on his chest are obvious, and the way he acts at a mindless apprentice’s game, it seems the one inflicted on his soul is as visible as the others. He’s ashamed of himself again, and gives his pelt a gentle shake, his wan expression transforming with a smile. “No need to worry. I’m fine. I was just… remembering the Great Battle, that’s all. I—” I killed an apprentice-aged cat right in front of the queen who birthed him, and then I killed her too. No. He says, “I fought, and I watched cats die. Pigeonpaw reminded me of that.”

, ”​

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