Jun 8, 2022
She crouches at the river's edge, attempting to stifle the impatient urge to skim the surface of the rippling water. Amber eyes round as coins study the green-gray ripples, peering into the depths for the first flash of movement.

Cicadastar is teaching her to fish, and though she's caught two before - small, silver, one almost dangerously dancing back into the water before she could kill it - her skills leave much to be desired. Patience is key, and yet she finds herself growing terribly anxious while waiting for the signs she needs to pay attention to. What if she misses it? What if it comes and goes too fast, and she looks foolish, flailing in deep water for nothing?

The fur at the back of her neck prickles, knowing Cicadastar is watching her. Distracted, the ripples clear and she finds herself staring at her reflection instead. She's startled at the mirrored image. Eight and a half moons now, and stars, is she even the same cat? Grief and hardship have taken the youth from her face, but she's well-fed in RiverClan, much more so than she'd been in ShadowClan territory before the war. Her long fur is glossy under the sun's rays. She might consider herself pretty, if not for the weary look to her, the anxious shadow drawing her features to the earth.

She speaks, though she does not remove her eyes from her image in the water. "Cicadastar?" The russet tip of her tail begins to twitch. "Am I... different?" She thinks of the moons she's spent in the riverlands. The day she'd left her siblings in the marsh to follow the lanky tom with the frozen eyes into the unknown.

She sighs. Her breath just barely disturbs the water. "Do you miss the marsh at all? The... the cats who still live there?" She's almost afraid to ask, knowing how her mentor preaches loyalty to RiverClan. How they've become separate begins from ShadowClan. But severing ties is easier said then done. Burning memories, even less so.



− ♱ ABOUT : cicadastar was not the man he was only a few short moons ago. it was in his name — star. he’d been dusted with grace, had seen moonlight lift with his paws and fall in scatterings of shining fog to the ground below. he’d walked with cats of stars, lived amongst their lands for a short time, experienced the hell of death and loss and life all anew. he’d seen the pity in shining eyes that know too much, experienced the agony of ripping back into a body that had already cooled in rigor mortis. the mottled man he’d been moons ago had never once toyed with the idea of life after death. he known as distant cicada had once viewed death as a finality — an end to all. once witnessed his colony decimated by a horrible sickness, all frothing mouths and bloodshot eyes, and knew death would one day come to him. how he’d hoped for a lesser fate . . something peaceful and dark. cicada was comfortable with the thought of death. he’d had a lot of time to think about it, since the colony — struggled to come to terms with it, and finally did in the peace of after.

he wondered how many had ever experienced death interrupted.

he still finds himself staring off into the horizon, frozen eyes reflecting the tempestuous waters he gazes out over, watches the sun fall beneath gleaming waves until his limbs ring numb. to be alone with his thoughts is more frightening than the idea of being near others, his violent worry giving way to the overwhelming need for comfort. for company. perhaps it was selfish of him to take foxpaw out so often — fishing, he says, and he certainly means. though he’d be lying if he said his interest lie only in the name of the calico’s training. foxpaw was an old comfort, despite them knowing little of eachother before the war ( the girl had been young, he remembers — she’d experienced loss so young, bore it in the shadows beneath sloping cheekbones and coppertone eyes ). she was familiar, even more so now that he wakes her at dawn, the pink - blue rays of morning just beginning to peek over drifting willows, rearing for morning patrol. a good habit, he’ll say, it’s healthy to wake early, with the sun — as if he’d slept at all.

they’re alone, now. a private lesson, quiet amongst the rustling cattail and river reed. she’s watching the moving waters, he’s watching her, the lines of muscle beneath thick autumnal pelt as they move in preparation to strike. she’s learning, slowly but surely ; burnished luminaries track the shadows undersurface, tracking the little minnow as they do very much the same from underneath. the mottled tom glances up, towards the willow and the blazing sun overhead, the scattered dapples of shadow - light blazing golden upon rippling riverwater. she’s paused, waiting for them to come towards the surface where they lie in careful wait.

cicadastar, am i . . different?

the inquiry makes his stomach drop before he’s the chance to catch it, the ‘ did someone tell you that? ‘ hanging at the edge of his tongue. was someone bullying her? he wouldn’t have it. the edges of his maw are set in a grim line and he is momentarily thankful her attention is set on the water, the shadow that passes over glacial eyes only waning as she continues. thoughtfully, her tone soft. do you miss the marshlands? the cats who still live there? oh, he did. the question burns a hole through his chest, singing through to where his heart lie burning beneath a bird-bone ribcage. of course he did. while the tall felidae had no blood relation in the now - shadowclan, the pain of losing his friends, the cats he’d grown up with . . it had been devastating. still was, as he lie alone in his willow tree den at night, gazing upward at the jagged rings of age overhead ; he’d once slept amongst his clan, amongst a group. tucked into bone’s side, listening to salamander snore a couple lengths away. the now leader still has phantom memories of moving sides, a breath against his shoulder, rousing awake at the first signs of dawn patrol because starclan knew they were never quiet.

always. “ he’s honest, the way his accented vocals ride just high enough to be heard over the sound of the distant falls. icy luminaries drift upward, gazing out over the water as he does so often now, “ i’ve found myself wondering what they’re doing over there. how things are. ” he chuckles a bit, though the sound is distant, it’s warm. reminiscent,the marshlands were kind to me, growing up. before . . “ the kittypets. he thinks of beesong. a burn of shame rips through him, “ . . the war. the starvation. i’ll never regret my time with hare whiskers, or briar . . star. but the past is in the past, now. “ a soft smile. the man finally looks back towards foxpaw, the bushy - tailed apprentice who’d followed him from the swamplands, thriving now amongst the waters. she was sleek, healthy with fish and despite the darkness beneath her eyes, she was learning. living. slowly peeking from the apprentices den and testing her paws at the riverlands they now lived in, “ we can only move on, here. we grow here, changing like the tide.

slowly, the man dips his paws into the shallow shore, letting the late greenleaf - warmed water slip over sharp knuckles. now, he lets out a sigh of his own, “ that’s not to say it isn’t hard. “ he admits, quietly, to the waves below. the man moves his paws and looks up once more, settling on his apprentice, “ but what’s got you thinking about that?

  • 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.

  • Love
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