private gentle notoriety

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.

“ 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, “ 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.


GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : sunlight. it seems different in the after of near - death, scorching too hot upon mussed curls through a curtain of weeping willow. fog swirls around the thin knobs of wrist, slipping around his leanly muscled form like treading blazing embers, smoke rising from the beds of his paws. unlike smokethroat, the recesses of his memory extend only barely to the stone - laden corridors of twolegplace. in his mind he sits in the glow of sun through glass panes, stares at the blue sky through smudges and dirt, watches the birds that flit by with a sense of longing so profound he cannot speak of it even today. his nest had been water - logged, always humid and uncomfortable as far as he could remember. admittedly, the bicolored phantom could not remember very far. the darkness had been a prison then, everlasting and quiet, sweltering to sleep beneath the moon that shone in on the splintering wood.

when he had left that sick, desolate colony, hare whiskers had taken him away to lands he’d only imagined, tucked beneath fallen beams within a bed of rot and decay. the nest had been close to the river, bubbling and easy, shallow enough for his little paws but not deep enough to sustain notable prey — his mother had detested any time spent with her children alone, so he knew not how to fish. not until houndsnarl had taken him nearly by the scruff to the waters, drenched them both in river ; that laughter still haunts him, caged within his chest nest to his too - hot heart. he’d followed mindlessly, then. he follows mindlessly, now. the man spares a glance out of his peripheral, catches in what he would later hope was subtle — watches his lead warrior move as they lope towards the riverbank. light pours from the tom’s pelt and cicadastar watches his short, white - dusted coat ripple over time - worn muscles.

i thought of you, he wants to say. while i was running, the warmth around my throat — it made me think of you. he says nothing.

his cheeks burn and for once it is not the sunlight but thoughts of that muscle against his cheek, muzzle tucked within fur course and tangled with scars he wanted to trace with his tongue, soothe into place. inferno blazes beneath his sternum and many nights awake has led him here, to this near - panic, desperation. help me clean up. a pitiful excuse, but his chest aches. his limbs pulse, angry and overworked, exhaustion swimming through the rivers of his veins and he need him near. tinnitus still rings in his skull, ears tilted back against the scream of it but he is here. they are alone now, safe. birds sing overhead and it is a chorus, a greeting. from here he can see the fur along smokethroat’s spine lift, slow and sure along the notches of his spine. cicadastar blinks at it and realizes his head is still swimming, buzzing with nerves and it’s only then that his long, slim legs decide to tangle awkwardly beneath him. he missteps, stumbling forward a pawstep or two — he would blame it on the shock, the way he nearly falls against him. maybe it is, or the way his head swims protectively, blotting out the nights newfound trauma.

was born with two left paws, i’m afraid. “ he meows, a sheepish, demure smile ghosting across his maw — but he does not step away, a bit unsteady against the black tomcat before regaining his footing. he swallows hard against the lump in his throat and he feels nearly sick all of a sudden, as if he needed to pant. he does not do that, either. there was only so much of a fool he could make himself out to be, especially in front of the flame - eyed feline that had so often occupied his thoughts in nights passing. blue eyes flit away and they are approaching the shore, pebbles giving way beneath the press of their paws and then — here we are. low. gravelly, a voice like the stone underfoot and he fights not to close his eyes against it, ignores the fluttering of phantom wings in his stomach, how do we get this thing off of you . . ? despite the unnamed feeling still chewing at the lining of his stomach he rolls his shoulders back and lifts his arched muzzle, feeling the silvery tie pop away from his skin just slightly, “ ah, i don’t . . let me . . “ his tone is quiet, absent. i don’t know is not in his vocabulary, stubbornness and pride mixing to a soft sniff, a paw lifting to paw at where it settles tight against the tops of his shoulders.

a paw lifts, flexing to hide the way sharp knuckles still subtly tremble, and attempt to tuck his claws into the inner side of the metal snare. however, an experimental tug only irritates the sounds at the back of his neck and he makes a sound, gritting and painful and he jerks his paw back. the collar, however, is a bit looser than it had been, “ schiesse, well, not like that. “ muscles relax suddenly and he slumps, lowering his head and flattening orbital ears. tired, always so tired, “ maybe we can find something to wedge in? i’ll see beesong when we get it loose, i just . . i just — “ want time. want to rest. i want to sit here with you. i don’t want to clean the blood from my fur alone,they’ll be busy with buckgait, anyway. “ flippant. a weak argument and he knows it, gaze flitting off to the side as he settles aside the gently rushing waters. he does not look at his reflection, not yet. maybe they could find a small enough stick . .

  • CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
    − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
    − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers

  • felinedad.png
  • none.

  • Crying
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There is a stumble and sudden crash like waves against the shoreline as the leader falters and falls into him and is me with braced shoulders and a careful straightening of his back. He was there for a reason, he'd expected as much, but to spare the other's pride he didn't make much of a comment on the stumble outside the rolling shrug that rippled over his back. Bloodloss and stress was a tenuous affair, even the most hardened of cats had their weakness when drained of one and filled to bursting with the other. He made a mental note to thank Buckgait proper, but he imagined she would not welcome it-instead he'd shove her face in the mud and she'd laugh in his face for trying so hard.

'...let me.' Cicadastar folds, dips his head and fumbles with the obstructing chain of jewels around his throat with the grace of a newborn deer and the sense of one a well.
Smokethroat's eyes flash molten gold, pupils form slits of minor annoyance but he can not call the other on his impulse because he was just as bullheaded at times, just as set in his ways despite the obvious implications he needed to adapt to a new world and a new stature. He supposed it must be harder for a leader, nine lives only meant so much when you felt each, when each peeled a layer off you and in each layer something was lost. Idly he wondered how that worked, surely a cat did not just come back altogether upon revival; did StarClan collect some kind of debt to be repaid upon the last? Things to muse over but not dwell over, if he was so bothered he could ask Beesong but he doubted even the small medicine cat had any knowledge on the matter.
The shining wires tighten briefly like his throat does at the idea the man is choking himself, only to limply spring back outward upon being released; looser now. Twin flame gaze sparks with interest, it might be a little uncomfortable but with an extra set of teeth to help pull it up then they might be able to rid the phantom of his metallic noose. " that again, I think we can get it off if I help pull as well."

If given permission, if the mottled storm colored cat did as asked, he leaned forward and pushed his muzzle into thin white fur near the throat to fumble carefully with sharp teeth; trying to avoid skin as he hooked razor wire canines around the copper-tasting twine that felt too tight even as he held it; he could not imagine what it was like to wear such an adornment. The pale fur lining the tom's throat tickled his nose as he got a proper grip, he felt his own blood pounding in his ears synchronized with the flutter of a pulse under his dark muzzle. When he felt the line draw taught he pulled back and then upward, looking for any kind of bracing to keep himself steady and not realizing when his paws came up to the spotted phantom's shoulders for support to yank him free of his torturous collar. The sudden jerking upward of the wire made him lose balance, obsidian and ivory fur briefly collided before he was able to right himself and when he did it was to step back with a stumble and suddenly sit right into the edge of the water of the river; splashing it and dousing his tail and hindquarters in the biting chill of it.

"It's off!" Smokethroat found himself declaring with the energy of an apprentice catching their first prey before sheepishly rising to stand with a jolt as the cold finally seeped through his fur into his backside. With a few steps forward he leaned down to examine the lines drawn from the contraption, frowning because they overlayed the spike that had once driven through the tom's jugular so long ago but not long enough.
The ink spill of a tom faces the dismissive tone and commentary with a lashing tail, it would make more sense to see Beesong now but he was not inclined to argue. Maybe it was selfish on his part, maybe there was a small thrill at being so depended on that he could not place, maybe he also would rather sit and enjoy the riverside without worry of the world back in camp now that their two-legged nightmare seemed to be coming to a close.
"'re not bleeding from it too badly...if anything I can grab some moss if need be." An acceptance of the terms.