CRY FOR JUDAS ╱ SMOKETHROAT

[CICADASTAR]

the sky is grey with early dawn. a heavy mist layers the meadowlands hed made his home many moons ago, shading the lands in a sullen haze.

the falls pound in his ears and — when was the last time he'd eaten? his stomach pangs and it only elicits a snarl, a ripping back of gnarled black lips where his mottled body lies crouched, tucked into the undergrowth where the waters pour into the river below. a thicket of tall grass, one smelling of root rot and waterlogged wood, decay. fish bones and scraps of scale, of old moss and something more, stuck far in his nostrils. something mangled, something cinnamon - striped and broken, water lapping lazily at short ends. blue eyes do not blink where they stare across the water, towards where the horizon greys into a bleak, horrible nothingness. colors and sound move amidst the smog and cicadastar winces, thrashes his head back. his brain, his eyes, it all seems to swirl.

his mind ticks.

where is his clan? had they survived? had they escaped the claws of such viscous enemies, ones that has taken him life for life for life — his children, they looked like him, like their father. cicadapaw's horrible howls for him sounded in his ear, ones he caught through glimpses of life, through the taste of copper and warmth that flooded up his throat and through pristine teeth. he'd never been able to take a hit, not really. thin - boned and swimmers muscle, he was lean, stick - like. his strength had been so firmly placed in speed, wit — he'd no chance, not after the one had gotten him down. not when another, another, another rips their teeth into his soft flank and delicate curls. stars path their way across his mottled body and the godless eat them anyway, do not seem to mind the burn of glory in their mouths. his arms raised to swipe and met nothing but thorn - like pain, ribboning up his scorching, oozing shoulder. when he'd awoken his body was discarded, broken, still bleeding from bites unable to heal, bites and tears that had not killed.

yet death, and death again.

he feels small here, in the cove he'd made for himself. rogues swarm in packs through the land, and he knows better, even now, to wander in search. he is small, crouching away from something — from his mother, with wasprattle. white foam and too - big teeth, his ears flattened to his skull and shrinking further with each staggering stride. he'd never been small. she'd told him that herself, before she'd been this dripping, lunging thing before him. he still hears the sound of his loved ones running, of more paws slipping from the water, taking their camp, their food, their meadow. he still hears the sound of his colony scattering, the ones that hadn't succumbed to the white virus leaping over browned tin and rotting wood ( wood rot — his nostrils burn ), never minding the two youth in their own escape. helpless then as he is helpless now. life had taken from him again and again, and not even the heavens, he thinks, could have changed this fate. shapes form in the horizon and he does not blink, feels the strain in his eyes and the fear, rigid in his bones, keeping lids wide.

he blinks, finally, and the world returns to grey.

COLD & CRUEL LIKE WINDS ON THE SEA  ╱ INFORMATION ✟

• i. @Smokethroat
  
• ★ ⋆ CICADASTAR −−−− FOUNDING LEADER OF RIVERCLAN. HOMOSEXUAL, MATED TO SMOKETHROAT. FIFTY MOONS, FATHER TO STARLIGHTPAW, CICADAPAW && BEEPAW. PENNED BY ANTLERS −−−−− ⁺₊✧
  
  
  he / him. tall, elegantly curled smoke tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt blue eyes. his structure sings a feral sort of hymnal, presenting an almost dangerous sort of beauty veiling what monstrosities lie beneath the ivory of his skull. jutting jawline and a squared chin, sunken cheeks drawing a shadow beneath high, sharp cheekbones with tall, angular ears settling high atop the flatter slope of his cranium. he is beautiful ; lucifer in the eyes of an envious god. for all his looks, his expression is lax, void — corpse - eyed and hollow until spoken to, sparking the undead to life. he is tall, lean, cut - glass pretty ; he smiles with too - many teeth, blackened frostbite pulling back his maw to bear canines setn beneath curling whiskers, pantomime skeletal. a predatory gracefulness from the lines that press the image of exhaustion beneath ice water hues to the slow, sure gait in which he walks, nameless strength poorly concealed within the hard lines of his physique. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unnaturally tall amongst his peers, always holding himself with a tragic sort of grace ; poised, prim, and uncannily aware of how he appears.
  
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── smells like wet moss and meadowland thunderstorms.
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── notoriously paranoid and closed off, cicadastar will tend to lie, assume, and jump to conclusions whenever it suits him. any 'suspicious' ic actions he witnesses or hears about will have a strong effect, and will have ic consequences! if you're unsure of an interactions outcome, please feel free to send a dm!
  
  no character opinions represent my own.​
  
  
• " speech "​
  
  
  

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

He comes with no expectations, only the faintest flicker of hope within his chest fluttering like a caged bird against his ribs. Smokethroat had always been a realist, always known better than to lean on anything but logic and the brutality of truths. Sweet nothings and pleasant dreams meant little in the harsh reality of their world, but he finds them more comforting lately than he ever had before. His paws drag through mud, light rain hampering his trek onward by softening the ground but in doing so it lightens his heavy steps. It feels as if things are twisting to assist him though mildly. A gift from StarClan and all the encouragement he needs.

It is a blessing that he manages to go undetected still, a few close calls keep him pressed to the ground low as a spill of ink and he clings to the safety of the river's edge. In an emergency he can dive in; utilize his waterborne skills but the true saving grace was the sound of the water and approaching falls muffling his movements even further. It is too risky to go all the way into their camp, their dens and nests surely inhabited by mangy, flea-bitten vagabonds now, but he hopes they may have simply let the man go. Tossed him aside not knowing the full truth of the lives a leader held. He dreads what he'll find laying across pebbled shores edging into the territory further, the dark tom is terrified of what brittle truth reality will face him with. His tracking skills are pushed to their limit, the faint traces of cat scent barely give him indication until he notes a barely noticeable and soft aroma of storms and salt - Cicadastar. How he'd recognize that scent anywhere, had been enveloped in it enough in his life to find it as close to his memory as his own name and both were given to him by the long-limbed king.

Smokethroat pressed onward, for a moment it seemed as if he had only imagined the trail.

But then he finds him there.

Relief floods his senses so rapidly and with such force he almost feels faint, the scent of rot and decay lingering does little to sway him from his staggering steps forward. He was alive. He was alive and he could get them back safely, retrace his careful steps through the land back to ShadowClan where the medicine cats of the other clans could aid his recovery. The flickering on his chest increases in intensity. He is a lead warrior again admiring petals woven into patchwork fur out of the corner of his eye and looking away embarrassed to be caught staring.

"Cicadastar!" It's a quiet declaration, he's elated but not foolish and he wouldn't dare try to draw any wandering rogue patrols their way if he can help it. The phantom looks a fright, tattered and blood-matted, heartbreakingly frail, when he moves to dip his muzzle down in longing to press it alongside the others more narrowed maw he does so with the care one might give a newborn as though worried too much force would shake the ruined frame of the spotted tom.
"Can you stand, can you move? We need to go…" If he had to carry the man he would, sling him across his back and painstakingly plant his paws with each step back to safety without hesitation.
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[CICADASTAR]

cicadastar tucks back against wet stone, feels his curls slick to his bone - ridden figure. he presses nearly into the roar of the waterfall, the roar of its fury fighting with the blood rushing hot in his ears. ringing. loud, cacophonous ringing. his approach goes unnoticed in the beginning — he appears a wounded animal, perched on the flat grey stone nestled just aside the downpour of falls around him. the ground is slick and his claws have long since extended when a voice sounds ; familiar in its gruffness. there is a vague memory of that voice in his mind. a name bestown with a tongue still uncertain, still finding its way around the birth of a clan. smokethroat, for that rasp of a growl in his voice. he would know it anywhere, would know it from the first breath — knows it like a purr that’s rumbled against his chest.

cicadastar!

his cranium turns with an upward tilt, the white of his eyes peeling from too - intense blues. a hazy black makes shape across the way and cicadastar stares, and stares. a familiar voice does not cut through his skull enough to pull consciousness from the shrink of fear and loathing, of blind, self - preserving hatred. he shakes, whether it’s the cold or how his pelt had long - since saturated with river water. he smells of mildew. his nostrils flare.

suddenly, it’s his daughter, creeping towards him in the haze. his youngest. she resembled her father, in lieu of her birth name — speckled white like they all had been, mismatched eyes neither gleaming with starclan’s fury nor haunted dark. her fur gleams, unlike the haze of grey and mist that shadows them. her dark, spotted fur, ” beekit. mein lieb, go — go find your father. “ kit. it’s wrong, the way he speaks : his haughty cadance in a breathy, absent tone. false calm, a hum against the snarling in his brain. his wedged skull does not turn despite each closening step, though too - blue irises flit to the far corner of his eye, blindingly wide to be as unseeing as he is. the fur along his shoulders bristle despite his calm, the slight sway.

many times, he’d craned his neck over his mate, pressed his nose to dark fur only for him to snap around with teeth bared, exaggerated and flustered as it had been. many times he’d not shrunk back for even a second, forthright, confident — his love lies in ivory - kissed fur, imagines he presses starlight where alabaster spreads each day.

when the tom approaches to assist him, there is no time to comprehend, and even less to move ; viperous, water snake that he’d always been, his long neck arches back and he aims a hard, sharp - toothed snap towards the feline’s neck, awkwardly placed as he was, likely landing somewhere along the shoulder. whether it lands or not the mottled tom would unhook his teeth in mere seconds, curls his tongue against any outlet of blood seeping onto his barbed tongue. when he breathes it is on a ragged inhale, a hissing exhale with each collapse of his curled chest. hiss. breathe. hiss. breathe. his lips stay retracted, exposing pink, wet gums where his lip had long - since scarred. in his mind he is small — he is tucked, all edges and awkward, jutting sides, in the slat of old wood he’d grown within. in his mind, he is pressed against his brother, he is shaking, he is a mess of curls and bugging eyes ; a mirror of his son now, shaking and too - thin.

what was he, when his grace is stripped away?

in his mind, he is small. then, he is grown. he is a follower of hares whisker. he is a warrior, a leader, starclan bursting at the seems of wilting limbs. he is confident, he is frightened. he is a kitten, learning to fix the hunch in his shoulders at the scalding sound of his mothers tongue. he is an adult, learning, learning. he is a mate, a loving one, despite himself. despite the way he eyes him at the side, how easy it had come to bare his teeth that day at the river, despite each night curled into the warmth of his arms with eyes blown wide awake. he is watching the stars, never far enough from holy to deny how close he’d wanted to get. then, he is a father. wasn’t that right? he longs for a home he’s no idea still remains, a home he believes torn apart by the same savages that had ripped life after life from him. his eyes are bleary, tired. the air is a mixture of scents he cannot pinpoint, a muddle of rogue and marsh. his ears stay pinned even as he blinks, eyes wide enough to reveal the circle of his iris.

fear. terror. he’d always responded to fear with anger, hadn’t he? feral rage courses through thin limbs, bottlebrush tail, beats through a rapidfire heart. in the haze he cannot make out the fur color, not with the rain of the falls above dotting his eyes. cinnamon — a mousy brown tabby. scarred? he can see even as he backs up the lack of an eye, and his breath comes to quick to hesitate, to hear his call over the roar of the falls. long forefangs bear, ” you. “ a mutter, a half - crazed caw that has him thrashing his head aside. the figure approaches still. a step, a step. his breath comes quicker. his tail lifts, bristles ; step, step, step. what was this? ” you died. id watched you die — traitor, tier! wretch! what did you do? “ spittle flies, his mind ticks. a dove crows in the distance and his jaw only tightens. they would not be allowed back. ” riverclan is gone, beesong — rogues. rogues! from nowhere, i — i know you had something to do with this. i was right. i’ve always been right! with no warning, the mottled tom would launch off of his hind legs with paws stretched forward. he aims claws towards wherever he can latch, trying to sink his teeth in this time for good — to rip, just as he had weaselclaw before. standing over his fallen mate, blood oozing from his muzzle just as much the wound it made. fear courses through him now just as it had then ; hadn’t that always been his true motivation?

COLD & CRUEL LIKE WINDS ON THE SEA  ╱ INFORMATION ✟

• i.
  
• ★ ⋆ CICADASTAR −−−− FOUNDING LEADER OF RIVERCLAN. HOMOSEXUAL, MATED TO SMOKETHROAT. FIFTY MOONS, FATHER TO STARLIGHTPAW, CICADAPAW && BEEPAW. PENNED BY ANTLERS −−−−− ⁺₊✧
  
  
  he / him. tall, elegantly curled smoke tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt blue eyes. his structure sings a feral sort of hymnal, presenting an almost dangerous sort of beauty veiling what monstrosities lie beneath the ivory of his skull. jutting jawline and a squared chin, sunken cheeks drawing a shadow beneath high, sharp cheekbones with tall, angular ears settling high atop the flatter slope of his cranium. he is beautiful ; lucifer in the eyes of an envious god. for all his looks, his expression is lax, void — corpse - eyed and hollow until spoken to, sparking the undead to life. he is tall, lean, cut - glass pretty ; he smiles with too - many teeth, blackened frostbite pulling back his maw to bear canines setn beneath curling whiskers, pantomime skeletal. a predatory gracefulness from the lines that press the image of exhaustion beneath ice water hues to the slow, sure gait in which he walks, nameless strength poorly concealed within the hard lines of his physique. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unnaturally tall amongst his peers, always holding himself with a tragic sort of grace ; poised, prim, and uncannily aware of how he appears.
  
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── smells like wet moss and meadowland thunderstorms.
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── notoriously paranoid and closed off, cicadastar will tend to lie, assume, and jump to conclusions whenever it suits him. any 'suspicious' ic actions he witnesses or hears about will have a strong effect, and will have ic consequences! if you're unsure of an interactions outcome, please feel free to send a dm!
  
  no character opinions represent my own.​
  
  
• " speech "​
  
  
  

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

—————————————————————⊰★⊱————————————————————

Cicadastar attacked him.
It registers slowly, shoulder barred and blooming crimson, fur darkening with blood. Smokethroat inhales, exhales, single orange eye wide in horror, confusion. There is an almost prey-like way his mate now stands, shoulders hunched defensively as though backed into a corner; salvation had come and he denied it with the curve of a fang. The dark tom's head is light, the pain along his new wound the only think keeping him sharp and focused.
What was wrong? The mud coated him up to his chest from his swim and stalking here. Maybe he hadn't realized it was him. Surely now he could see, but his eyes are blown out wide, gasoline blue and threatening to catch them both ablaze at the faintest spark. Even if he was a little aware, even if he saw it coming, he was too stunned to react. Bodies slammed together, crashed to the ground in violent courtship; his paws raise up still sheathed in a desperate bid to shove the mottled phantom off of him, the stones under his back feel like the ridge of a winding spine.
"CADA!" There are no more words to say, no more swearing, only spitting a furious hissing, its all he can do to try and keep the other away from his neck where teeth snap dangerously close with each wild lunge; slender neck craned like a swan with just as many teeth, "STOP!"
Oh stars....are you gone..? Where are you? Why? A thousand questions pour from him one after the other, words weeping from a throat too tight for anything more than hoarse whispers, 'Will I ever see you again?' He had asked himself in the quiet; lost to the tide of the clan's struggles as they adapted to ShadowClan's foreign marshlands. Did he want to see him again? Crazed teeth are descending on him, insanity riddled mutterings and declarations of betrayal - the words were meaningless at the time, horrifying curses spat in his direction and a name that should not have been uttered as though it was sinful. He thinks of waking in the night to find him gone, finds himself still stirring from slumber to see an empty nest at his side and for a brief moment he can pretend he was on one of his moonlit walks, would return to him soon. A cinnamon body is crumpled at the bottom of the falls, the clan mourns, no one saw him leave, no one saw him. Cicadastar was not in the den that night, he does not know for how long.
He knows the look in a cats eye when they are going for the kill, he has seen it time and time again and he has even worn it himself with defiance and defense of his clan; there is no mercy in that cracked ice gaze, there is no understanding. He faces a wild animal, uncultured, unrefined, not the regal and poised form of his mate but a shallow and brittle mimicry of him.
'He's going to kill me.' The thought drifts through him aimlessly, almost nonchalantly as he pushes his paws upward to keep from being shredded more than he had already been cut, claws and teeth gnashing in a frenzy. Smokethroat briefly, for a second, considers letting him. What purpose did he have any longer? Betrayed by who he once loved most, once dedicated his life to, followed dutifully only to be cast away with such vitriol. Was this insanity or the intention all along? Was this the paranoid delusions of cat broken or Cicadastar's true feelings? Was he now Beesong, unworthy and unwanted-to be sent tumbling into the gorge. The self-loathing is there for only a moment, it feels as if he drifts in his despair for a lifetime longer.
He can't die here. He has to defend himself. Even if it means...
There is force now in the kick he thrusts upward, a surge of adrenaline allowing him to right himself back onto his paws and he is on the other just as quickly - one last embrace, one last curl of dark limbs around a patchwork of fur and he shoves his face into a neck that is too long but curls around him perfectly as if made to fit his own uneven puzzle. His kiss is sharp, deadly, he can't hesitate and he doesn't. Time slows, he can feel his mouth swill with copper, salt, was it blood or his tears. The clan needed him, he could not allow this madness back in, he would have to smash his heart into a thousand little shards to not feel any longer but he would protect them. Even from him. Live and breath for RiverClan.

——✘ when does ripple become a tidal wave ———✘ when does a candle become a flame

• OOC can go here.
• 
  
  
  Smokestar
  —⊰⋅ Leader of RiverClan
  —⊰⋅ He/Him
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
  

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