DEAD FLOWERS // after battle




The battle was over but many had fallen in this fight. Lives had got lost and taken but no victory on any side had got decided today. Jaw was one of those who returned back last as he dragged the dark pelted body back with him because not could he just leave them there on the battlefield. He dropt the body in the middle of the camp as he stared down with his only eye at the black smoke who he shared blood with. It was shooking to say the least that out of all of them that he out of all cats had fallen in this battle. Maybe, they hadn't been as strong as they had always claimed to be. All of this talk about strenght and to always win no matter at what cost. The very tom who had raised him all of this time to become who he was today who never had showed weakness in his present now laid defeated before him just like a prey. Cobra, his very own father was dead and gone from this world. To think this day ever would have come.

Despite this being his very own father no emotions existed upon his features, his eyes cold and unaffected like always. Even if this was his very own father he had followed and obeyed all of this time he didn't show any sort of sorrow for this tom just blank coldness. Jaw had never been known to show emotions but it most be shooking to even see him like this right now. Jaw would soon enough glance away from his deceased father like he already had moved on from this lost and started to look across the camp like he was searching for something or someone. Fang. He had seen them out there on the battlefield back then, fighting his own opponent much to his own suprise. But he hadn't stayed long enough to watch the outcome of that fight. Had he made it back?, or had his coward to little brother put his tail in between his legs and fleed the scene?. He hadn't found his body out there that was for sure so he had to be somewhere around here because there was no way Fang would ever dare leaving this swamp land. The search contunied as Jaw glanced around camp with his eye after the other black smoke wondering how his brother would react to thier fathers death. That seemed to be more of an interest to him then the fact that his father was dead.


Sadness refused to grasp Berry, or perhaps it was the other way around. The only blood he spilled was a spat of it, coppery and thick, enough to evoke nausea. Barely a smudge decorated his claw, and there is not guilt that weighs upon his back, no devil whispering doubts. This battle- it had been nothing more than a petty spat to him, something easily looked past, easily forgiven. Corpses as common as blades of grass now littered the ground, but they lay not at his feet, none of them felled by his claws. This conflict, easily looked past, had named many as killers.

Not him.

To the tom standing by, lopsided eyes flickered, noting his presence. A heavy scar rove his face, erasing it of many features- but this looked an old injury, not gained by recent conflict. Dipping his head in acknowledgement, a dappled tail waved its greeting as the tom ambled his way toward the freshkill pile. Disappointed eyes settled upon a frog, distaste bubbling in his gut- though his fleeting thought changed not his expression. Looking over his shoulder, eyes settled upon Scars, expecting him to want a meal as well. After such exertion, he was surely hungry.

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    ── None of them are infallible. Even the self-proclaimed best can and do fail, and Roseal has wondered what life must have been like for the marsh cats before battling those in the pine trees. What conflicts challenged them? Was there never bloody dissent? There had to have been something. Utopias and bastions of peace don't fucking exist, so he doesn't believe they've only ever faced weather conditions and other obstacles entirely out of their control. Except so many of them seem unprepared for the body count a battle entails.

    He wonders if any of them left believing it wouldn't happen to them, that they would lose people but it wouldn't be the ones closest to them. The first mistake in beckoning death is assuming it discriminates. It doesn't give a shit who is most or least beloved when that didn't give anyone pause long enough to reconsider killing each other— and Roseal isn't pretending he's any different.

    The tremors still linger, his thoughts flitting between stagnant and racing. His pale fur is wet from his bath in the stream, and a dazed look remains in his eyes. He has enough awareness to realize one of the marsh cats has brought back a body, and though they look to be related, the feline is utterly dispassionate.

    Roseal glances at Berry, but he's looking between the freshkill pile and the other feline. He can't tell if he seems disquieted by the detached behavior.

    "Do you...want help burying this person?"

  • n/a​
  • ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
    ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
    ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
    ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​

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