pafp DON'T BURY ME, FACELESS ENEMY ✧ death

[WEASELCLAW]

When StarClan comes to deliver him, Weaselclaw is ready.

“I wanted to… kill you,” he says in a voice like splintering wood. The tone is almost casual, though behind the façade, his heart cracks against the dried-out ribcage in his thin chest, and the fear stark in his eyes would be apparent to any who looked. That shriveled blue gaze is trained on a cat he sees more clearly than any living one who has visited him. Muscular, thick-set, ebony-pelted with flecks of snow. A single searing flame-colored eye rests upon him.

Judgment.

“You’ve been waiting to do the same thing.” It’s not a question. Since the fateful day Weaselclaw had taken the RiverClan cat’s eye, a war, private, personal, has raged between them like an unquenched wildfire. Cicadastar’s consort and Sootstar’s mate, but it has gone beyond that, each battle becoming progressively more brutal.

He had wanted another chance to kill Smokethroat. He wanted to make good on his last promise to the tom who’d kidnapped his daughter. “I will tear every last life from Cicadastar and make you watch,” he’d snarled, and even weak and wasted away in his nest now, that’s what he still wants. He wants the other cat to suffer.

That he must now leave that to the paws of his sons and daughters, of his mate, of his Clanmates, is bitter.

“You’re lucky,” he says, though the apparition never answers him. “I would have killed you slowly.” His cough this time is unyielding, claws raking through his lungs and chest and leaving wounds that bleed like fire. He lays on one flank, spasming until they’ve gone, and then—then he cannot get back up. He’s paralyzed, staring the StarClan warrior in the face, in the eye.

Weaselclaw bares his teeth a final time. “Come and get me, then.”

He cannot fight this battle. He cannot win.

He doesn’t.

By the time they find him, the struggle is over, and Weaselclaw lies still on his flank, eyes half-lidded and glaring at an enemy who is not there and who never was.

✧ INFO.

• please wait for @SOOTSTAR :(
• 
  — weasel . weaselclaw
  — he/him ; lead warrior of windclan
  — heterosexual ; taken by Sootstar
  — short-haired chocolate tabby with white and blue eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — chibi by Oliver

​

 

[SOOTSTAR]

SOOTSTAR​

The rabbit was heavy in her jaws. She had hunted it herself, a catch filled with love. She had gotten Weaselclaw to eat last time after turning away, she would get him to eat again. If she could, she’d get him to eat most of this rabbit, he needed it. It’s life would make him stronger and soon he’d rise from his sickbed as the unstoppable and feared warrior she had fallen in love with. The stentch of sick fills her nose when she enters the badgerset den. The place was stickly warm, the feverish bodies desperately trying to throw heat off. She steps past them all until she nears the back of the den where Weaselclaw nested. He lays there, eyes half lidded in a glare. The rabbit collapses from her maw, its thump in the silence of the den deafening. His blue gaze was dry, it held no shine, not even the weakest of shimmers. Sootstar has stood before enough dead to know, she doesn’t need to murmur a word or shake him frantically. He’s gone. Dead! ”He’s DEAD!” The moorland queen roars… and she roars, and she roars. Her grief poisons her, it turns her blood cold and in turn freezes over her heart. For the first time ever, she felt as if the beating organ might just burst. If she’d not fall over and join him in death six times over then and there. In a desperate act her forepaws are placed on his shoulder, her claws dig into his fur, his skin and she shakes him violently. ”StarClan would not take you! I know you’re still in there somewhere!” Is what she hisses to him. Cats would likely hear the words of a denying widow, a she-cat who could not fathom why her ancestors would take her mate from her. But what Sootstar really means is literal. StarClan would not take Weaselclaw, they would not raise him. Weaselclaw was at war with them, with her he had turned his back on them. Yet he does not come back to her, he gives not even the twitch of a limb. With heavy breaths, she reaches a paw to his face. Gently brushing down she closes his eyes. Sootstar can not take it any longer. She won’t be silent. ”StarClan has turned it’s back on WindClan.”

☾ INFO BATTLE

• 
  » Soot ․ Sootstar
  » WindClan Leader
  » She/her ․ Mate to Weaselclaw
  » Tiny blue smoke she-cat with green eyes.
  » "Speech" ․ thoughts ․ attack
  
• 
  » A high-stamina foe who can be difficult to hit.
  » Excels in quick, short moves.
  » Fights to kill and maim
  » Fatal attack of choice is an underbelly dive.
  » May powerplay minor harm. Can powerplay healing

​

 

[Mintshade]

She still feels mostly alright, but there's no denying she has whatever has overtaken Weaselclaw and it is a bitter realization to have. Mintshade keeps her limbs tucked under her and more focused on the sky than the tom muttering in his delirium, she has stopped trying to have a conversation with him for several days now because he's only fallen further and further from rational and focus. There's nothing she can do, so she just keeps her distance and watches with acid green eyes narrowed to the horizon. He sputters about killing someone, she has no idea who he's speaking to but he is adamant there is someone there deserving of the threat. Her ears flatten to tune him out, but after a moment she notes the silence is almost deafening and turns with a jerk of her head in his direction.
He's not moving and Mintshade's fuzzy and fever addled mind takes a moment to comprehend it. Weaselclaw had been spitting and hissing to the last moments, to go so still so suddenly meant an end to his battle and a continuation of hers. The black she-cat, somehow even more wiry and scrawny than usual, struggles to stand and approach on cautious steps before Soostar arrives as though summoned and she pauses in her movement to greet her sister with a frown, watching the ashen queen take in what had taken her an alarmingly long time to realize.
He's dead. He's not coming back. She leans back, sits back down hard on the ground and watches in silence at the display. Sootstar shakes him, screams, cries, and curses the stars and it is that last remark that pricks her fur upward in an uneasy bristle along her spine. Mintshade might as well have not been there for how her sister speaks, how she cries out in her grief condemning the heavens. She says nothing, there is nothing to say, but surely it was only her pain that made her speak so, surely she would heal in time. Afterall, in this pit of sickness and despair all they had left was StarClan and the hope they'd brought with their visions to the medicine cats.
​

 

[WOLFSONG]

──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── Weaselclaw's condition has not improved, and his delirious paranoia is the culprit. Of course, Wolfsong cannot say for certain whether a willingness to take herbs would drastically improve his health, but it would certainly help. Short of pinning him down and forcing the herbs down his throat, he does not have much hope of convincing the warrior to stop seeing what isn't there. Weaselclaw is only doing what any good warrior would, even if it is detrimental to his own well-being.

Perhaps he can leverage his daughter. Moorpaw, not Cottonpaw, though they could both be helpful. Sootstar would be a last resort before force-feeding him, even if some might argue she should be the first alternative. He simply does not trust her presence not to incite even worse delusions if Weaselclaw thinks he must fight for her. I do not believe his children would elicit the same response. Now that I have kits of my own, I wonder at Sootstar and Weaselclaw's...parental urges. Perhaps I am mistaken, but I do not think I am.

Herbs held secure in his mouth, Wolfsong draws closer to the badger set— close enough that Sootstar's howl is not a distant roll of thunder but a lashing whip in his ear. His trot turns into a sprint, dirt flying behind him, and he finds her bent over a motionless body. He smells the rabbit's blood over the herbs, and he does not move except to glance at Mintshade by the wall, who watches her sister rage against death.

It is a grave claim to make, but one made at the side of her dead mate. And yet— well. Perhaps it speaks to something darker than grief. "Sootstar," he murmurs, herbs lowered to his paws. "Shall I...help you move him under the sky?" This could have been Sunstride. It would have been, if Weaselclaw were sick sooner and Wolfsong gave him the last lungwort.

He does not know that there is anything he would not curse if he lost him as Sootstar has Weaselclaw. ​

WOLFSONG of WINDCLAN FORMER ROGUE TURNED MEDICINE CAT. 38 MOONS, HE/HIM, NPC X NPC. MATES WITH SUNSTRIDE (07/05/2023). BIOGRAPHY, PINTEREST, & PLAYLIST.

medicinal expertise med. part ii med. part iii med. part iv

• — ★★★☆☆ WOUNDS: You're (mostly) in safe paws. You'll know if he's less experienced if he asks for your permission to try a treatment. No wound can scare him away from knowledge.
  — ★★★☆☆ INFECTION: He can prevent most infections. If you feel feverish, let him know; he'll hum thoughtfully over herbs and sniff your wound before saying, "With your blessing..."
• — ★☆☆☆☆ ACHES & PAINS: If you complain to him of pain, he'll ask where. If it's a headache, you'll likely feel a bit better. For anything else, "Try this, if you'd like, and tell me how you feel."
  — ★☆☆☆☆ BROKEN BONES: At best. he can ask you to remain lying down in the den. He may try to distract you with conversation while he considers what herb to feed you.
• — ★★★★★ TRAVELING HERBS: Going somewhere? No worries; Wolfsong knows just what you need to stay hale and healthy during your journey. The rest is up to you.
  — ★★☆☆☆ KITTING: Thanks to Starlingheart, he's better prepared for the arrival of kits, but any complications will need a little faith and a lot of luck.
• — ★☆☆☆☆ POISONS: It's best if you avoid eating anything unfamiliar to you— it's probably just as unfamiliar to Wolfsong. The best he can do is offer you yarrow and sit with you.
  — ★★☆☆☆ ILLNESS: If it's white or greencough, you'll likely recover. Otherwise, prepare for odd concoctions and the usual request that you consent to a little trial-and-error.

​

 

[heathermoon !!]

The caterwaul of grief is only eerily familiar to rust-furred ears only because he had made them himself just moons before. Heatherpaw had always thought in death, there was quiet, there was peace. He had come to find the truth himself just how loud it could be. The wailing of grieving cries, the sobs of heartbroken masses, the hiccups and whimpers that followed in the days as one learned to live through it. He had thought it would be impossible to keep going after his mothers death, but he had. It was her final wish in their last night together.

Heatherpaw wondered if losing a mate was like losing a mother. He wondered if Sootstar had endured that as well, if it only made Weaselclaw's death even worse to see. The Lead had slowly begun to deteriorate before their eyes with the fragile weight of hope and wishful thinking he would survive.

StarClan would not have you.

A punishing God, were the stars. They had taken his father to warn his mother of her wrongdoing, then claimed her in his own. Heatherpaw wondered what Sootstar had done to anger the stars enough to take away her mate, what lesson this was supposed to be for her. But what could a leader do to deserve their scorn? What has she done? WindClan was strong, StarClan protected them and their home as long as they remained faithful. Certainly Sootstar had not begun to feel shaken in her faith?

Heatherpaw remained silent in the wake of his leaders woes, ears down as he searched for Cottonpaw in the darkness of Wolfsong's den. ​

WINDCLAN APPRENTICE ✦ RED MACKEREL TABBY ✦ 10 MOONS ✦ TAGS​

 

[MOORBLOSSOM]

Some destiny this was: cut off from the wider world in this prison of filth and sickness, cradled by infirmity until she shuts her green eyes for the final time. Should her siblings remain in good health, Moorpaw probably won't get a chance to see them again. Not ever. Save for Cottonpaw, of course, but the bitterness associated with her promotion shall not wane for moons to come. Moons she may not live to see, but perhaps she'll give her forgiveness in one of those 'dream messages' that StarClan is so good at.

Bit of a let-down, isn't it? So much for growing into the fastest runner the moors have ever seen. And there goes her chances of seeing the other clans grovel before WindClan's paws, like her mother had promised.

It is disappointment, much more than sadness, which Moorpaw feels. Stolen right from under her paws is a future that Adderpaw, Bluepaw, Harrierpaw, and Cottonpaw will get to experience themselves. Not her, though. But, what can she possibly do about it? Getting all worked up about something she cannot change, it's a giant waste of time. Better to just suck it up and fade away with what little dignity a warrior-aged apprentice can have in such shitty circumstances.

And she still has Weaselclaw. Her father. The sole source of her morale in this stars'-forsaken den, and the only reason why she still had her wits about her. In-between his coughing fits are weak-spoken words of consolation, encouragement—his means of showing her love. It's the final gift he can offer her in his current condition. One she cherishes with all her heart, and one she tries her hardest to return. Even in the teeth of her frustrations about his refusal to eat anything at all, she hopes he knows that she loves him too, and beyond all comparison.

"Weaselclaw?"

Her voice, strained by sickness, comes in the wake of a spontaneous uproar. Emerald eyes bob up among the den's shadows, and her head, held atilt, emerges from the murk. Mintshade's presence does not perturb her in the least. Sootstar and Wolfsong's, however, stokes the unease smouldering deep within her gut. Neither are sick. Neither should be here. Why are they, and why are they yelling? "W-Weaselclaw?" she echoes, nerves set ablaze by the initial lack of response. "Dad? You alive over there?"

Moorpaw's heart is a thunderstorm trapped in her chest. She keeps her glassy gaze fixed on the heap sprawled at Sootstar's ankles, and ushered closer to whatever it was on leery footfalls. Umber strands catch her focus, before she glimpses hints of fawn scattered amongst them. The scenery around her slows to a crawl. She stops dead in her tracks. "No! No, no, no!" Her protests float from her tongue on a cloud of fear, which evaporates into panic in a matter of moments. Weaselclaw lies lifeless in the soil. "He's gotta get up! He's gotta! Weaselclaw!"

Unshed grief wells up in her eyes as Moorpaw buckles onto her stomach. It's too much. This sickness, the isolation, her poor, poor dad. The sobs that come are muffled by a snowy paw, but they soon evolve into unrestrained wheezes. She coughs, next, and then a hacking fit seizes her lungs. Too much. She's suffocating in everything. ​