sensitive topics do you blame yourself? // death; pafp

[✧ Sootspritespark.]

// TW's for death, blood, violence, and emotionally abusive/neglectful thoughts towards littlepaw

'CAUSE I FEEL LIKE I'M THE WORST
SO I ALWAYS ACT LIKE I'M THE BEST​

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sootspritespark & 46 moons & demi-girl & she/they & skyclan daylight warrior ​

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Its a tragic accident - a hunt gone wrong. Or at least, that's what Sootsprite tells herself as she hobbles along, bloodstained curls bouncing as red foam bubbles up past her lips. She'd misjudged her leap - flown a little too high, a little to far. Blackbird in her jaws there had been no time to applaud herself for the clean kill before she'd been sprawling - paws not landing on the branch she'd meant to hit. She slips on rain slick ground and tumbles, prey still in her jaws, right over the border and onto thunderclan land. Right into the paws of a thunderclan warrior.

Tensions are high between the two groups as it is, and theres hardly any time to explain she hadn't hunted on their land. Not even time to offer the bird to them if only to avoid a fight - not that the high-strung molly would have, no she probably would've laughed the situation off with sunshine grin and a flounce of her glossy curls. There is only the sound of greenleaf rain against her ears as claws bear down upon her, and with bird occupying her jaws there's little way for her to defend herself. Paws come up weakly, her chubby body moving slower than the other, the storm clouding her vision - Ravenstrike lands the fatal blow long before she gets even a scratch upon them.

In the end, she flees, prey abandoned as she scrambles to drag herself back to camp. All things considered, she comes away with less wounds than she expected - a couples of scratches here, some bruises there. But it's the one that slices across her throat that burns the worst, lungs struggling to heave as she wheezes and chokes. The lucky blow doesn't kill her right away - no, its a slow thing. Steps wobble as she struggles to breathe through the blood flooding her lungs and mouth, but she presses onwards throigh the pelting rain. Once, perhaps, she would've wished to die alongside her twolegs, in the comfort of their arms.

Now, she thinks only of her kits. When she enters camp, sunshine eyes are wild - barely seeing in her haze. " Th-thistle...paw.... B-barkpaw...., " comes the garbled cry. She wants her kits at her bedside if she is to die today, to join starclans ranks like those who had came before her. Instead of pale fur and bobbed tails, she is met with black fur - dark curls a mockery of her own. She blinks at Littlepaw - at her son - uncomprehendingly. He is - he is not the one she wants. He is not theirs, he is a mistake. Starclan had sought fit to take the rest of them - why not him with them? She shakes her head - flailing in an attempt to push him away. Ignores his words, his presence.

" Thistlepaw..... barkpaw... where are my kits? " she says again, the words hardly more than a breath. Time moves slowly, only the sound if rain reaching her ears as she gasps and sputters. She slumps forwards, her paws no longer bearing the weight of her chubby frame. Vision swims and darkens as the pale figures of her children at last make an appearance, stars dancing before her eyes. She smiles faintly, releived. And then she is still. Dead, gone.

━ actions & " speech, " & 'thoughts/quotes' ━

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TV TAUGHT ME HOW TO FEEL ━ NOW REAL LIFE HAS NO APPEAL

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// please wait for @LITTLEPAW! to post first

TLDR: sootsprite was attacked during a border skirmish over prey after accidentally trespassing midcatch. she hobbled her way back as her wound (bite to the throat) wasn't deep enough to kill her instantly. she aspirated after calling for her kits in her final moment - littlepaw and two npcs. there is little to no scent on her or blood trail to follow. characters are welcome to make guesses but the exact truth will not be clear and there is no real evidence due to the rain and the quickness of the confrontation.
--- Edited by staff request to add it is currently raining

 

[LITTLEMOON]

it's not my fault i have my father's eyes .
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

It’d been a gradual process, learning curves and all to get to where he is now and sometimes Littlepaw wasn’t sure he liked how he turned out, or lack of it. He sighed, breathless against the hot spring air that buzzed beneath sick-ridden skin, nose wrinkling. It hadn’t been long since he recovered from being sick, knocking him down for a while.

Littlepaw had grown far less hot-headed over the moons, bouncing from mentor to mentor and sick periods growing longer. He was naturally tired, soft-spoken, and less likely to lash out but to reminisce in silence, tail tucked around small paws with a weary smile.

Still, that festering anger never went away. Littlepaw just found ways of controlling it.

" Th-thistle...paw.... B-barkpaw...., " Mama? He perked. Why hadn’t he been — Did she forget again? He scrambled onto weak paws, padding toward his ailing mother with visible concern nestled against scared, freckled features. “Mama?” He called, heartbeat picking up at the blood. “Mama? The blood—” He felt like a kit again, panic seizing nimble limbs. So much blood. Why isn’t it stopping? “No. No. No—” His mumbles turned frantic, pushing forward to stop the bleeding anything to stop the bleeding when failing limbs pushed him backward.

“Mama?” He whispered. “I’m — I’m right here, mama.” I’m here. Why can’t you see me? He tried. Hadn’t he tried? His lips trembled, unsure. He wanted her to be proud, but all she got was a sickly son who could barely keep himself from shivering during the new leaf. His thoughts shattered, broken pieces digging into soft, pliable flesh, giving way to muscle and ichor, bleeding for the world to see.

She had called for Thistlepaw and Barkpaw. His siblings. But were they though? He always — Littlepaw whimpered, feeling like a newborn kit all over again, wanting to curl up into himself, tail tucked over his face to hide tear tracks.

He watched, tears gathering against his waterline because it hurt. She called for them. Not Littlepaw. Not her son. Not her sickly child because he was weak. She had seen it. He had tried — doing everything on his own to prove that he didn’t need anyone, that he was strong, but now … now Littlepaw could do nothing but crumble, brittle bones and all.

His mama was dead. She was dead. And he never got to show her. His lips trembled, sucking in a harsh, head-pounding breath, ears ringing because she was dead. His mama was dead.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, breath catching in his throat with a whispered wheeze. She wasn’t who she wanted to see. He backed away, ears flat, staring at her corpse with expressionless hues, tears dripping down freckled cheeks, unaware. “I’m sorry.” ​

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thought speech​

 

[Cherryblossom]

Bloodscent curls in the air. It wraps red, smoky tendrils around each mote of water suspended in the day, crawling across them like a swarm of ghostly arachnids. Cherryblossom's own, still thrumming peaceably in her veins despite the weather, stills at the catch.

From the gap in the brambles staggers a haggard-looking wretch. "Sootsprite—?" Sootsprite's lovely pelt is matted beyond repair, oozing watered-down blood with each quavering pawstep. Blank-faced, the deputy only stares as she begins to gurgle. At first incomprehensible, her watery syllables slowly piece themselves together into the unluckiest names under StarClan's eye today.

Her hesitation costs her. Littlepaw—poor, sickly Littlepaw—becomes the first to greet his forgone mother. His piebald pelt, though slight, is unmistakable through the gauzy curtain of rain as he flutters towards her. Something about it makes her start too, alabaster paws crossing the distance in quick, numb pat-pats against the muddying earth. It's the unambigious conclusion of Sootspritespark's nearing fate, or maybe the monster's weight bearing down on Littlepaw, that hastens her stride. Whatever it is, she's at the children's sides when the raindrops against her eyelids no longer makes her them flutter, and her soul slips away into the wet earth.

"Great StarClan..." Littlepaw may have been an annoying denmate, always getting up in the middle of the night to go bother the medicine cats, or glaring at them all for being "too loud" at perfectly reasonable hours, but she wouldn't wish this on him even if he'd been ten times worse. A torn ear barely catches the apologies dribbling from his maw, almost drowned out in the continuous sizzle of rain. She glances at him out of the corner of her eyes. Maybe she should say something, but maybe it wasn't her place, especially not hers.

Instead, she lingers on the fading remnants of a smile on Sootspritespark's now-drenched face. She'd always been a bit of a fox-heart. Cherryblossom liked that about her. But to use her dying breath on only some of her children... She's sure that was far worse than Ashenclaw not being able to have called anything out at all.

"She's... dead," the calico quietly announces amid the rising cacophony, glancing up with glazed eyes. What do I do now? She blinks at the darkness still seeping from the corpse's ribboned throat, puddling beneath her where the earth lay too soaked for it. "Orangestar," she croaks. "Someone get Orangestar."

Someone get Littlepaw away from here. The outrage she might've felt on the warrior's behalf is dampened by her last actions on earth; was she even someone worth avenging, now? More damningly, she wasn't Applefrost. She had carried her own body to camp, not slung upon the backs of others. Just a few moments ago, she'd been alive, albeit barely.

Sootsprite's loss is still just that though, a loss. Grief does not rock Cherryblossom as acutely as it does the figure frozen besides her, but rather manifests as a small, yawning tear in her chest. "We need... we need to know what did this..." she murmurs, wrestling a few scraps of conviction back into her voice. It's only too easy to coax a spark of anger back into her chest, to burn off the suffocating fumes of grief that weren't rightfully hers.

skyclan deputy | "speech." | tags​

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[SLATE]

〔✦〕The metallic smell is alarming, especially when it is detected within the walls of camp. The lead warrior's initial thoughts scream foxes, rogues. He rises to his paws in alarm, ivory claws and canines bared to defend his home, though when he ducks out from Orangestar's den and into the clearing he sees nothing but a bloodstained body. There are no russet forms raiding the dens, no marred and matted strangers trying to rip into the jugulars of his clanmates. There is no fight to be had — there is only a warrior gurgling her own blood and struggling to stay alive.

The sight of a son attempting to comfort his dying parent was not an easy one to behold. Slate finds himself lost for words, only able to watch as Sootspritespark's wounds prove to be too great. He momentarily averts his gaze from broken whispers and a teary-eyed goodbye; another clanmate had been lost. What was happening to their clan? Would this bloodshed ever cease? No matter what precautions they take, they are still so helpless and Slate is all the more frustrated because of it.

Amber hues draw toward his former apprentice when she suggests that action be taken, though he presses more urgently, "We need to gather a patrol quickly." He isn't asking for permission. Why else would they stand around for any longer while the killer's scent fades from the rain? It's possible that it's washed away already, but who would they be if they didn't at least try to track down a lead? Rolling over and accepting the constant barrage of bloodshed and needless violence was not an option for Slate.

oh no, ive said too much ( i havent said enough ) //

• ooc.
  
• SLATE —— lead warrior of skyclan , mentoring coffeepaw ✦ penned by beatles
  ✦ cismale / he/him pronouns / 39 moons & ages every 1st
  ✦ single / bisexual & monogamous / closed to romance
  ✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
  —— hard combat difficulty & weak to agile, quick fighters / will start fights, will kill if necessary
  
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are ic
  ✦ biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
  
• 
  
  

  a scarred longhaired maine coon with amber eyes. a large, 20lb tom with thick locks of fur. his chest and underbelly is ruddy from sun exposure. notable scars decorate his face and his ears are both torn with one being folded over.

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