pafp GARDEN OF BONES ╱ MOPING

[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

His throat has begun its terrible aching, as if the tide is still trapped within the stretch within. The cracks upon the shore of his fangs, and settles in the pit of his stomach. He is not sure if it would ever leave him again. Someday he is sure it will, but not today. And tomorrow seems just as unlikely. There is a deep and unkind exhaustion that comes with loss– it is not the river itself that had numbed him to his very bones. When he first pulled the tom from the water, his gaze had been blurred and tired. He'd not seen the stillness of his chest, or the laxness of his eyes and tongue. All he had seen was his friend with the frozen shallows lapping past broken ice. Hound did not know death, not in that moment.

But he did know it later. Maybe it hit him when he woke up, or in the space of seconds in between. Maybe it hadn't been for hours more. He could never tell. All that mattered was now. Now, where he rests in this temporary camp, his fur mostly dried but cold against his skin. Now, with the reality spilling around him. Cicadastar had died. Another off the list. Everyone else only had the one, but with him it is terrifying to be down even two. Their leader's time, ticking away 'fore their eyes. He sighs softly, wrapping a long, fluffy tail across his body. His chin rests upon the tuft of it, one paw draped across– it might be peaceful, were it not for the weight bearing down on his shoulders. Calm and safe as he may seem, Houndsnarl's shaped by a certain kind of misery in this moment.

﹥ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES INFORMATION 〙ˊˎ﹤

• ooc: please wait for @Smokethroat
• ──── houndsnarl. trans male, he/him pronouns.
  ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
  ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.
  
  ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
• "speech"

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

It was about time he got over himself and had some proper conversations with cats, but words were hard. It was difficult. He didn't know how to approach these kind of things. Life was once easier when all he needed to speak was his claws, when his teeth unveiled novels worth of declarations in a single bite; he had no need to worry or fret over being misunderstood in battle because all cats who fought for their lives spoke the same universal tongue. RiverClan he held close to his chest now, pebbles rattled in ribs and the froth of the waters rose up to push his words from his throat when he so struggled; they were a new life, one he chose and one he was content with but he still struggled. It was pathetic really, what a sorry sight he was pacing in place and being brushed away like a kitten underfoot but he didn't know what to do with this new fear welling inside him. Losing a cat was enough of a pain. Sorrow that leeched him of all feelings but the void emptiness of having nothing, he had felt it so strongle when he lost Moss but she had also been so old, fading even before her final moments; his heart had time to prepare. Losing Cicadastar was merciless.
The claws were driven into him without warning, nor hesitation; he was not given his solace to recover and adapt in face of it because the stars blessed the mottled river king with more than one life and it was at first something awe inspiring and amazing but now he knew the true weight of it that would settle over every cat...and over him especially.

He would have to face this horror countless times before it ended, his only saving grace was if he went before the other and even then he imagined watching from above unable to stall nor stop it coming; fading wisps of life rising up until finally the tom was complete in StarClan to rejoin him. He wondered what happened when you died as a leader blessed with nine, did pieces pass onward or were you locked here eternal until it was gone. Smokethroat found he was too afraid to know the truth, so he knew he'd never asked. It was his pacing near the edge of camp that had him finally spot the brown tabby, morose in his healing and miserable; but very much alive. Alive and had spared Cicadastar from further death as well. The black tom paused, spotted white face turning, lone orange eye narrowing in on the other. He had acted so swiftly, unburdened by kittens at his paws he had been forced to urge forward; he wished he could have sacrificed it all in a sweeping moment but he knew as he always had that it was not to be. He could never abandon his clanmates for one cat, one wonderful, cat he was fully and truly devoted to. It hurt. He wished he could think otherwise, to be selfish, but he couldn't.
RiverClan had its grip on him.

A fish was grabbed from the pile as he walked over, steps surefooted despite his unease and he dropped it before the others outstretched paws with a pensive frown, "You....I..." Words-words-he wished he could speak without having to articulate, without having to think, one day perhaps... "Thank you."
​

 

[GLOOMPAW]

To watch the countdown with bated breath, to wonder, to guess. To die more than once. Gloompaw was not a romantic, not in the common sense, but she couldn't help but wonder if leaders' mates died more than once, too. Maybe not through wounds or illness, but inside, just a piece of them going each time their love did. Maybe in Starclan their whittled gashes become one.

Gloompaw wobbled, fawn-like as she came into the dull light of the temporary camp. Transitioning from the shadows of the medicine den to the sunlight always made her eyes burn, a small hiss whistling from behind her teeth before she could help it. In the blindness, she heard Smokethroat's rasp, the outline of the two toms sitting there. Blinking, she noticed the miserable line of Houndsnarl's mouth, the statue pose of his mourning. There were still tufts of him damp from the icewater, from pulling Cicadastar out.

She didn't approach them for the fish, surprisingly enough. It was a screenshot, Houndsnarl's stillness so impossibly grieving that she didn't see the fluttering rise of his flanks until she was close. There was nothing helpful for her to say: Gloompaw was not a masterful talker, and Smokethroat had already broken the silence with his words. She settled near his side, tucking her paws in, hoping to warm him still, even if it was just a little. A stare fixed him, though not an intense one, hoping everything she could've said was on the surface of her eyes.​

 

[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

Hound would never've called himself a selfish soul, before another was on the line. What did a stranger matter to blood? That's all that RiverClan was to him– an open wound across his heart, as entwined with his very being as his veins. But some of 'em held a closer spot than others. Some mattered more, meant everything. He was loathe to say's much. Truth be told, there are only a few of them. Fewer with every passing moon. Seemed that those he was familiar with faded away, or maybe his own heart grew a fair bit heavier. A little more unkind. Were it anyone else out there, maybe he'd've turned to the others. If it were Smokethroat, he might've been less ready to leap to his rescue.

Cold of him, maybe, but it seems they're bound by affection for the leader. His wasn't a wholly different sort, but there's no way for 'im to parse where it slides away. Love took on a dozen forms, and his is one'f history. Missing pieces. All sorts of thought as to what could have been. Not to where Smokethroat now stood. He realizes now that what he feels is different, if no less full. But maybe they'd have still been friends. Maybe it'd still be his word the river king sought. Not strangers. Not fresh-pawed warriors. Jealous. Stars above, he knows now that he is jealous, and nothing he can do will assuage it. Maybe that's all that he misses. Cicadastar died again, and so too did any illusion of trust he'd had lingering. He wants tobe something to someone, no matter the cost.

Pathetic of him, he knows. Head lifted up and dull expression bared, that's all that rings in Hound's face when he meets the dark tom's gaze. "Didn't do it for you," he says, words flat and coming out all wrong. Quickly, he pulls himself to try again. "But 'm glad to spare you the pain." The fish looks like it'll turn to ash as soon as he touches it, tantalizing and teasing. Some forbidden fruit. Gloompaw breaks the illusion, and he unfurls his tucked paw to pull it closer. Not to his own face, but towards the apprentice. "Stars know we've had enough'f that. Eat with me. Maybe we'll all forget it."

﹥ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES INFORMATION 〙ˊˎ﹤

• ooc: —
• ──── houndsnarl. trans male, he/him pronouns.
  ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
  ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.
  
  ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
• "speech"

​

 

[Petalstep .]

( ｡ﾟ❁ུ۪ °ₒ ) Adults were a curious thing, fickle and hypocritical by nature the alabaster apprentice could only conclude. Especially as she watched Houndstride from where she finished her own meal nearby, her bites even smaller than normal to stay close, wanting to see how the situation would unfold with the mopey tom, as Petalpaw was as ignorant to his pain as one could be. To her, he simply needed to push it down, and after that? Further down.
Loss was not something the ivory tabby could truly grasp, she had been too young to remember her parents untimely deaths, and her peers were kept at an arms length, she had no one and nothing to really lose. She pauses on that thought for a moment with a furrow of her brow bones.
Yeah.. she liked it that way.
Champagne and ivy eyes are careful to watch when Smokethroat appears, her ears twitching slightly at the stutter in his tone despite his rather self-assured approach.
It’s only when Gloompaw arrives does Petalpaw shift, finishing her last bite and flicking her tail in greeting to the other apprentice, who seemed just on edge as the other two warriors here.
Houndstride grumbles something, his words a bit too blunt than what the situation called for, but he quickly corrects himself and slides the fish over to Gloompaw.
That’s when Petalpaw eases herself into the interaction, settling with ease beside Gloompaw, who was not someone she was particularly close with, but would serve well enough to make her presence seem at least remotely natural. ”How are you guys feeling?” She asks, her head partially in the direction of the other apprentice. Her tone is gentle and concise, but lacks the natural sympathetic uplift that the question usually comes with.
”Speech.”​

( KEEP ABOUT YOUR WITS ; KNOW YOURSELF AND WHO YOU CAME IN WITH )

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Didn't do it for you.
Smokethroat nods once, as the other attempts to speak further and perhaps correct his tone he has already turned to walk away without pause; the tabby's comments to spare him pain a faint echo behind him as he continues to trek away to let the warrior share his meal with the apprentices who had flocked over curiously. Nothing had spared him pain, there was no taking back the claws once they dug in, the teeth once they sunk past flesh, the life once it had been stripped away. Two less now, out of nine. He thinks about it often and wishes he could go back to a time when he was blissfully unaware that their leader had a limit to his immortality. StarClan blessed cats by letting them taste death nine times over before being freed and he can't help but wonder if it was a curse instead; something that came to mind everytime he had to witness the mottled tom gasp back into the world of the living after seeing stars only know what in the next life. The dark tom lowers his head as he saunters past the camp border to go hunting, realizing now why the tabby's words had pressed his nerves so sharply. He had detected something, something he was all too familiar with because he had once felt the same knot twisting into his chest with every fleeting interaction between him and the leader before; jealousy. Teeth set into a snarl as he raised his head, scented, set about to sink his teeth into something that wasn't his clanmate because it was such an ugly feeling. He hated having it resonate in his skull, ringing shrilly to demand his full attention. No, he wasn't interested in letting it fester. Besides, he had nothing to be jealous of.

//Out
​