- Aug 9, 2022
- 689
- 327
- 63
Daylight hit his pelt, collapsed sun rays along his back and with the faint mist gathered from the quick trek through the wooded path here he is coated in a fine dew like morning fields. He appears almost as his namesake for a moment, smoking as the water droplets evaporate at the lightest touch of heat; cloaked him in a misty veil. Sometimes he longs for the long stone corridors of two-leg place, how they were endlessly masked in shadows and cool like damp river rocks at all times; sunlight never breached their orifices and the cats within would blink blearily to any moment out beneath the light. The darkness was comforting, he could not be seen in it and he often times idly mused how he should have gone to ShadowClan to better suit his needs and methods of existing. But, there was no change now he'd permit. He was RiverClan, blood streams and glimmering scales, fish-scent and smooth stones; one would need to remove him by force from the place he had claimed as home and he would fight them tooth and claw the entire way.
As Buckgait had once fought to make her stand here in the river kingdom, he had been only a set of burning eyes watching on the sidelines at her disinterest to the changes and her refusal to submit; a notion he would once consider admirable, to be so proud as to not bow to things you did not believe in but she had certainly made her displeasure known. Her hatred for the mottled phantom was no mystery, she wore her heart exposed on her chest for all to see and dared any to strike it with a gaze like surrender and cracked stone. He had heard the quietly muttered 'thank you' the delay in both their returns that could only signify one thing; though the means of which he did not know…she'd saved Cicadastar. His throat was to be a testament for each time he came close to death only to fight his way back and the dark tom found his own name almost too overwhelming to even think about as a result. Once again he vaguely wondered its meaning.
When the river came into view he wanted to rush to it, but he maintained his gentle loping of a movement along stride the cloud and storm patchwork of a pelt that was his leader. Cicadastar is a limp and formless shape at his side as he single-mindedly focuses on moving forward, one foot before the other. He does not let himself think of the scent ravaging his nostrils, the blood so thick he almost sees red by how much its presence envelops him. Smokethroat is no stranger to this smell but it's almost agonizing here and he wants to sink his teeth into the strange metallic band looping the tom's neck and pull it off in a rage for what it had done; but he knew better, he knew it would take a more delicate paw to be rid of such a thing without further harm.
The thought, however, did not stop the simmer of his own blood as if crying out in solidarity for what was spilled; boiling and frothing. He realized he'd been bristling, hairs rising in solid points as he let his thoughts escape him and with the faintest vision of teeth he grit tight he willed them back settled along his spine.
"...here we are…" The tom said in a low rumble, as if Cicadastar did not have eyes of his own that pierced the soul, as if he did not meet that gaze and feel doused each time, "..how do we get this thing off you…" The comment was less a question or more a quiet muse of uncertainty, he could not stand to see the silver strand and each catch of it in the light was almost achingly unbearable to witness but he remained rigidly in place despite the overwhelming urge to bolt like a newborn deer at the sight of danger. What kept him riveted to the spot was Cicadastar himself, although form slumped with ache and exhaustion and the blood a horrific stain on an otherwise flawless patchwork of nightsky and bright clouds; tinged with the edge of rain; he still held a strange nobility in his posture. Pride was not something cats lost easily, it had to be beaten from them over the long course of moons and stars and he could not help but be relieved to see the taller tom was still holding it close, that life had not ripped it from his claws.