private eulogy of emptiness

He was the last cat you'd call a hopeless romantic, but perhaps he dabbled in the nonsensical daydreaming that came with the title at times; what he romantisized was hardly the normal sort of tails twined and muzzles brushed, but the heat of a battle where claws unsheathed and fangs dug deep. To die in combat against an honorable and powerful opponent was the fate he hoped would claim him later in his years, the idea of retiring as an elder felt like an insult for a cat forged in fire and blood like himself. If he could not fall with claws out, blood staining his teeth, then he didn't want it. Passing peacefully was fine for other cats, Corvidtongue had gone like a swift breeze and not a single indicator he was not just dozing away in idleness. Smokethroat could not imagine himself with such a finality, to simply close his eyes and be done with it all. The dark tom found himself fretting over the new responsibilities he held within the clan as he moved alongside the river, his form swaying like the water in a lazy trot out across the pebbleshore to the log that turned upward into what seemed a great claw rising from the waters. At night he liked to sit there, enjoy the quiet for a time before returning to where he built his nest. Now his nest was closer to the river itself, built alongside others so he was constantly feeling suffocated by the bodies now ever present around him. A small part of him longed for the days of solitude, another part of him was achingly aware his loneliness was like a disease that would spread and snuff him out if left unattended. He liked his clan, the cats he familiarized himself with were good and noble warriors but that still didn't stop him needing his space. He now reserved such misgivings and idleness to the nights where none would watch, his black pelt a shadow against the water and nearly invisible from a distance; during the day he would push the mask he wished to mold his face into up once more upon his maw; with practice one day he would be as comfortable and social as he strove to pretend but for now he could only do so much.

The inkspill of a tom ambled along the log to the end before slowly dipping his paws into the water and gradually sliding in until all but the top of his head was submerged, swimming alone was not really something he'd recommend to anyone not used to the water but he'd done this often enough times before it came natural; like a second pelt being pulled over his first. Lifting his legs up into a neat tuck into his sides he floated, fur pooling up around him and tail listlessly drifting behind. Sometimes, he thought to himself, that if he could have anything he desired in the entire world he would wish for the gills of a fish and live beneath the pulsing river surface for the rest of his life; fully submerged and sleeping among the reeds and gentle current. Perhaps it was silly, but he felt more comfortable in the water than on land, felt he could handle socializing more if he could just be in the river to talk to others as if its cold and wet presence was an encouraging embrace. If only life were so simple. He rolled with a twist to his back, let himself float and drift from the shore like a lazy otter.


riverclan --- warrior--- tags

− ♱ ABOUT : cicadastar had once been very similar ; while not instilled in him brutally, hare whiskers had made it a priority to ensure his cats were fit and trained for battle. the mottled tom was never adept at combat, limbs too - long, graceful in everything but fighting. it felt clumsy, terrifying − snow - tipped paws always seemed to nearly slip from beneath him in the face of death. blinded by battle he runs on anger and fear alone, as sad as the truth was. he knew his moves, but staring his end in the face, he forget all but a killing blow. rain's end had come fast, before either of the toms knew it ; the silver tabby's throat dripped only seconds before his lumbering figure crashes to the ground, his followers gathering in cold shock as his paws take instinctively to the gaping mouth of a wound. the tortoiseshell could still feel the hot bursts of blood beneath pale pawpads, pulses of too - hot crimson from a body already cooling underfoot. all the panic, the regret, the triumph coiling together into a thundering nausea. he'd been sick in the bushes shortly after, hunched and gagging before the blinding eyes of starclan ; a mess of black and red, the mottled silver - white of his coat a seeping crimson layer of matting. death. war. he'd worn it like a shroud, wore it still in the exhaustion beneath his eyes, in the heaviness on his shoulders.

since his attack and healing process, the man had taken to bedrest as instructed, letting his muscles relax and grow strong once more, combating moons of starvation with a steady supply of plump fish. as the man peers at his reflection ripping in the waters before him, he can tell that his features have filled out − no longer too - gaunt and sunken, accenting his mother's unique features to a near skeletal point. the water's supply of prey had lengthen his pelt, brought his curls to a healthy, full shine . . he was beginning to feel like himself, as tremulous as that was. the scar just over his left eye is hardly noticeable unless looking close, his thick coat coiling too dark for any others to be seen, given to him by windclan's now medicine cat ; the strangely - accented cinnamon molly he'd nearly ended over a skirmish when the kittypets had been nothing more than an amusing inconvenience. an alabaster paw taps at the surface, disturbing the reflection of his features until the only thing he could see were his eyes ; piercing blue, brimming with an icy life that had been fretfully absent since his control of the river. it was hot, and he was achieving nothing by sitting on his tail. the man could use a quick dunk in the water before returning to camp.

the man leaps up onto a nearby stone, feeling the late greenleaf breeze whip through bicolored curls seconds before he leaps from the edge, lithe limbs stretching out into the heavens before water envelops him. blissful darkness, flowing through his thick pelt and slickening dark coils, webbed paws bringing him to the surface − and directly into a small, floating log. an oddly furry log. in the brief panic that is was an atter, the the dark tom popped from the surface millimeters away from the smokethroat's face, blinking river water from frigid eyes and gripping on the other male's shoulders in surprise, " oh − " he shakes his skull, slinging excess water from sodden curls before allowing a smile to traverse the length of his maw. whoops! out of all the cats he could have nearly leaped on, he guessed it could be worse . . maybe he wouldn't mind the splash, " sorry about that! you looked like you could use some company, i suppose." cicadastar jokes, finally taking the opportunity to release the lead warrior's shoulders and paddle lightly himself.

  • CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
    − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and icy blue eyes
    − gay. speaks with a thick german accent, former marsh cat, penned by antlers

  • none.


His idle daydreaming, closed eyes, were disturbed by the sound of a splash and the sensation of water rippling and pulsing around him like a heartbeat. Something had fallen into the river.
Smokethroat’s immediate response was not caution, he had seen enough bent and ancient trees succumb to the weight of their own limbs and discarding them within the water that he merely dismissed it as another rotted log to sink to the channel’s floor.

His surprise at a dark shape bursting from the surface just near him and the sudden weight of heavy paws on his shoulders had him recoil and tense in response but for his part he did not lash out. It was thankful he hadn’t, the immediate impulse to strike at what was ‘attacking’ him had been smothered down by the realization that there was no danger in the river that had a mottled pelt and icy blue eyes like what he quickly processed. Cicadastar.

Rather than the countless curses that had begun to build up and seize control in his throat at having been startled so badly, the dark tom instead blurted out, “Company?” As if that was an unheard of possibility.
Both orange eyes squeezed shut tight, paws still lightly treading water and heart no longer racing at the surge of adrenaline that had started the moment he fell under ‘attack’. When the tom opened his eyes once more he felt calmer, fiery hues locking onto the patch-coated leader with an almost skeptical expression.
“...I suppose company is fine.” If he looked like he could use it then who was he to argue, he hardly knew how to go about much else as it were.
He didn’t know much about the other, his time spent here in the soft marshes and riverside was one of solitude and disinterest; only when forced otherwise did he begin to integrate with the group and with nothing left he sought comfort in the tedium of duty and structure. RiverClan was now all he had, Moss was gone. He never wanted to go back to the city either, it had grown into a long distant memory he had no desire to relive.
Smokethroat still found the entire affair a little hard to swallow, wished desperately he had been at the battle to see the cats of StarClan descend down; to be able to understand what it was guiding them. There was a place the leaders had gone to receive their lives, where the medicine cats went with and could trek among the celestial body overheard like they were simply visiting a neighboring clan. “Perhaps this isn’t a…topic you care to talk of…” His gaze shifted upward, the blanket of night and the pale pinpricks of stars was easy to see out from under the cover of the tree; the sky reflected in the river below as if stars had fallen in to be swept away by the current.
“What’s it like? StarClan I mean…”