- Jun 7, 2022
- 416
- 336
- 63
GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : they’d made out with little more than scratches and aching limbs, stiff and tired in the heavy snowfall. dusk has painted the skies above in shades of brilliant indigo, wintery chill settling a white haze of fog over the riverlands. the man squints through it, ignores the fact that kittypet - warrior scent clings to the coils of his coat and . . it had not bothered him, amidst their camp. though now, as he walks quietly before his two patrols, head lowered and shoulders jutting beneath his coat with each skulking step, he finds imagines the stale scent permeating his nose. imagines it burrowing in his sinuses, imagines a life his mother had crowed for and he stands all taller for it. would she have been a daylight warrior, should she have survived? or would she have retired, fat and lazy in a twoleg nest, the way she’d always wanted? thick claws tap the frosted ground, audible clinks against where the flora has been frozen near solid underpaw. snow dampens his form and he can only hope it soaks the smell, however imaginary the kibble scent might be.
as they draw closer he can see the snow has covered the smaller streams around camp, blotting out the ankle - deep waters in mounds of ice. flurries fall quick enough to lay any pawprints made by recent passerbys, only those placed guard by the bare, brittle reed entrance. he sniffs, winces against the dry ache in his nose, nostrils raw and red from the neverending onslaught of wind. flurries settle upon the hollows of his shoulders, slicks his fur as he shoulders his way through the skeleton of cattail long since rotten with leafbare. skyclan is safe. perhaps a stretch of the word, but he looks towards beesong’s den, towards where greenpaw certainly still lie and he can only hope. the king moves forward, presses fresh prints to the snow, lifts his tail to the warriors about him — permission to disperse, “ you all did well. ”, he's tired, cold, and it shows in the quickness of his tone. skyclan was safe. he tells himself this again, hopes its true. windclan was stealing herbs, catmint. they were weak. dying, festering. anger still simmers low in his chest, but his talk with blazestar has left him . . drained.
but there is a crowd growing about them, cats awaiting their loved ones returns. his chest feels hollow, extremities cold with dread, but he is non - wavering — at least in appearances. to them, he says, “ skyclan is well. “ well enough, at least. the feline stands on edge, like a string drawn taut, muscles tight with stress. he stares over the frosted waters behind river rock but the wind picks up and he lifts his head, curls whipping about the sharp edges of his form. to those behind him, “ go. tend your wounds. ” dismission, curt and simple. a brief growl, bearing long, jutting ivories despite it's generally unaggressive drone. icicle eyes move only then, seeking familiar dark, white - spattered fur finally. finally, despite the furrowed brows and narrow pupils, expression rigid as the ice around them.
as they draw closer he can see the snow has covered the smaller streams around camp, blotting out the ankle - deep waters in mounds of ice. flurries fall quick enough to lay any pawprints made by recent passerbys, only those placed guard by the bare, brittle reed entrance. he sniffs, winces against the dry ache in his nose, nostrils raw and red from the neverending onslaught of wind. flurries settle upon the hollows of his shoulders, slicks his fur as he shoulders his way through the skeleton of cattail long since rotten with leafbare. skyclan is safe. perhaps a stretch of the word, but he looks towards beesong’s den, towards where greenpaw certainly still lie and he can only hope. the king moves forward, presses fresh prints to the snow, lifts his tail to the warriors about him — permission to disperse, “ you all did well. ”, he's tired, cold, and it shows in the quickness of his tone. skyclan was safe. he tells himself this again, hopes its true. windclan was stealing herbs, catmint. they were weak. dying, festering. anger still simmers low in his chest, but his talk with blazestar has left him . . drained.
but there is a crowd growing about them, cats awaiting their loved ones returns. his chest feels hollow, extremities cold with dread, but he is non - wavering — at least in appearances. to them, he says, “ skyclan is well. “ well enough, at least. the feline stands on edge, like a string drawn taut, muscles tight with stress. he stares over the frosted waters behind river rock but the wind picks up and he lifts his head, curls whipping about the sharp edges of his form. to those behind him, “ go. tend your wounds. ” dismission, curt and simple. a brief growl, bearing long, jutting ivories despite it's generally unaggressive drone. icicle eyes move only then, seeking familiar dark, white - spattered fur finally. finally, despite the furrowed brows and narrow pupils, expression rigid as the ice around them.
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˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀
−−−−−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
ᨒ gay, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
penned by antlers
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- none.
