heartbreak hotel & . summer storm

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : the sky was coated in shades of swollen orange, citrus - toned and bleeding streaks of ashen cloud across its sunburst expanse. the heavens were brimming with promise of rain ; thick, damp marshland air bringing his curls to a frizzy mess. it was sweltering, and cicada wished nearly for the canpoies overhead to open up and shower him with rainwater, soaking his coat in thick rivulets and soothing over aching muscles.a fitting atmosphere, he thinks, watching a streak of brilliant, golden fire blaze over the sky, followed shortly by a low, rolling growl from above ; the marshlanders had been bustling and spitting at each other with the promise of war since their dear leader's announcement, hearts heavy and blood rushing through nervous veins. most of the group had been in agreeance with briar, although not so enthusiastically as he and a couple of his louder, more stubborn clanmates. bone, soot, even youth -- pumpkin. they'd all called for war. growled and stomped for it, through with starving themselves to fatten up the pets that had taken refuge just beyond the pines. it had been long enough, their time sitting on their tails, gnawing at bones for the sake of civility. memories flash back to the massive tabby and his crew of crooning lackeys, laughing and jesting as if they hadn't been a moment away from losing their jugular. they were pitiful, weak, cowardly twoleg pets and sympathizers who had naught an idea of how to survive in outside their cushy nests. cicada knew they would win, regain the life they'd had before if not with a couple more pelts to hang.

so why was he afraid?

the life he'd made here, he'd dug from the roots itself ; muddied his paws with soil and blood and carved home for himself in what remained. hare whiskers had shown him a kindness beyond what he'd once considered possible ; dwelling amongst the budding flora, where undergrowth buzzed with life and kittens grew strong, healthy. he learned of family, closeness here. legacy lies in their budding generation and the thought of loss guts him like a fish, writhing and heaving. the pine colony's fighting style was sloppy, untrained -- but they still packed a punch, even if just by sheer mass alone. they were weakened, starved . . the only thing saving their sorry pelts from an assault before now was the kittypet's sheer stupidity. they hadn't realized the advantage they'd had over the dwindling marsh colony, and cicada could only thank the sky above that their opponents were slow to pick up on such simple concepts. the mottled tortoiseshell smoke releases a heavy breath from his perch splitting tall wetland reeds, paws resting delicately in a small dip and fidgeting his claws in stagnant water. it was hardly a replacement for the river he'd been finding himself at recently, he'd found. what little time he had between hunting and avoiding pine colony filth that crawled all about their land spent lounging at the banks, watching fish flit nervously just beneath the rippling surface. he'd tried his paw at catching them to no avail, and the embarrassment that burned his ears forced him into ceasing his attempts early, curls drenched in river water. so much for that, right?

cicada pivots his head, icecap luminaries fixating out over the flat marshlands, ears twitching and shoulders poised. alert. even while lounging out in their own land this close to camp, his nerves buzzed, unable to relax himself long enough to hunt properly had there even been enough kill to last them. he'd gotten distracted in his thoughts and the storm had come quicker than expected ; the heavens snarling, rolling thunder over the sky and it would be only moments before the downpour began. the tom's impromptu spot just beneath thick canopies of bramble and flora would hopefully shield him from the damage about to roll in. though, making it back to camp before the wind had picked up would have been great. orbital ears pin back, displeasure writing itself in every facet of his body. how long he'd be stuck here, he'd no clue -- but he would wait the storm out. not like he had anything else to do, really.

out of character information translations

• this takes place the evening before the great battle!
• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

​

​

 

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

• 
  
  
  ── Rose left the pine cats two birds for the two he's taken here to the marsh. A fair exchange, in theory. Maybe one of the birds had an illness and the meat will be poor, or maybe one ate well while the others didn't— but he'd tried. He doesn't know why, exactly; the outcome of this pitched battle will likely be the same for Rose: a continued presence here at best and a rejection at worst. Well. His death should factor in there somewhere, but Roseal hasn't decided where it fits just yet. Remaining as neutral as possible doesn't mean he'll be overlooked during the fight, or that he might receive any shade of mercy from either pine or marsh cats.
  
  He belongs to no one but himself, and it has been a lonely kind of freedom. At least he can say with reasonable certainty that he didn't encourage or provide momentum for bloodshed— which matters because Roseal isn't interested in orphaning any children.
  
  That isn't to say anyone else is enthused by the possibility, but clearly it's something they've likely rationalized as a necessary, unavoidable by-product along the path to...true and total sovereignty, or however they see it.
  
  Naturally, as he's attempting to offer the birds to the cats here, some higher power parts the sky and spits on him. The rain's unforgiving and the mud doubly so, and Roseal flees for the closest semblance of shelter. Turns out someone had the same idea. Dropping the bird carcasses with a grimace, he doesn't initially speak for several moments, hunkering down to get comfortable instead. "Not the best time for a bellyful of mud," he mutters, sighing heavily before glancing at the darker cat. "Hungry? Brought these back with me, but I'm not about to drown carrying them to your camp. Something tells me this won't clear up as soon as I'd like."
  

  ---

  ​
•  
• n/a​
•  
• ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
  ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
  ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
  ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​
•  
• 
  
  

 

[Foxpaw—]

---

╰☆☆ She knew setting out from the camp would end up being an awful idea, just as it always has. Her last little excursion, she had found herself startling a lizard away from Azalea; now, she's caught herself in a nasty storm. She doesn't mind the soaked fur as much as she does the chill that accompanies it--that, and it's much harder for her to figure out where she is when everything smells the same, mud and rain and wind.

The small calico blunders into the makeshift bramble protection Roseal and Cicada share, and her eyes glow with relief as she does. Relative safety. Dryness. She gives both of the toms an anxious nod before twisting to lick the fur on her back. She grimaces at the texture. "Sorry," she murmurs to the two of them, giving Roseal a lingering look before shuffling her gaze to the earth. "I didn't mean to stay out so long. I'll go once it eases up, I promise." She feels strange, as though she's intruded on something.

There's tension here as there is in their camp this evening. Fox knows some are more eager for the battle to come than others, but she had thought Cicada had been one of the more zealous ones. She regards the pale-eyed tom curiously, but then finds herself focusing on the bird Roseal has offered him. "Who did you catch those for?" She asks, voice soft with the rush of rain and growl of thunder behind it. She wonders if he's saving it for someone. Her stomach gurgles at the thought of the meat beneath the feathers, and she forces herself to look away, aware she is being rude. Dewdrop raised her better than that, raised her better than to leave camp before a pending storm, a pending battle with an enemy colony, but Foxy has needed space.
​

—PENNED BY MARQUETTE.​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : he enjoys a semblance of peace ; a brief moment of silence in which the songbirds overhead sense the impending storm, the heat of rain a solid line of tension overhead. in the seconds before the heavens break the reeds around him move, rustling violently and cicada feels his heart nearly lurch from his chest ; his back arches suddenly, side stepping just a bit while orbital ears swivel back violently towards his narrow skull, alarm written on his bicolor features. it takes only seconds for him to recognize the porcelain visage, roseal’s ghostly countenance slipping it's way alongside him. he was tall — taller than him, by just a bit. with tufted, looming ears and mottled scars that twist blushing pink ropes over ivory shoulders. the tom was a wanderer ; the scent of pine still clinging gently to the wispy strands of alabaster despite being coated in a thick layer of grime and muck. cicada forces his muscles to release, chest twitching and lungs aching with the sudden release of adrenaline. his maw twitches in amusement despite himself, icy eyes lingering on his dirt - mottled forepaws,” skies above — nearly scared my pelt off. “ he trills, odd vocals lingering on a gentle chuckle. with that, the chimera would settle back onto his hindquarters, curly tail wrapping tight over snowy paws. it’s alright. there’s no threat. right? roseal was an enigma, still. they’d not had too many conversations, although he’d shared tongues with the tom upon his initial arrival — clod with mud and matted beyond recognition, pale fur brimming with swamp soil and pieces of reed.

“ so there is a cat somewhere under all that muck, “ cicada murmurs, leaning forward and speaking closer to the male’s ear to be heard over the sudden downpour. he wasn’t faring too well still, but he was managing to avoid a mud bath with each outing, he will give him that. a smile dances along his dark lips, the hint of teeth peeking just through ; he’d been seeing him more often, he thought. he wouldn’t say he was disappointed. icewater luminaries linger on the white felidae, trailing on the notch of his jaw as to try and avoid burning holes into him. his fur was alight, orange - hued in the rioting summer storm air, imposing form brimming with a sunburst halo light. he seemed nearly to remind him of the lights in the sky at night ; intriguing, beautiful, and pooling over with radiant, white - yellow energy. there is a part of him that recognizes he is romanticizing what could be his final evening ; the lingering fear of death hanging idle over their heads felt as if it could consume him whole, swallowing him down into its belly and boiling him alive. a brief, fleeting desperation for life that brims inside him raging at the wires of his ribcage. he wonders what all the albino had seen — all he’d done. he didn’t think he would have the time to ask. instead, the bicolor swallows hard, breath trembling minutely and gaze dropping back pointedly to the dirt still marring roseal’s lower limbs,“ though i admit, i fear you’re starting to use me for a bath. “ a laugh, voice trailing on a teasing purr.

he couldn’t say much, however. his own pelt was matted and bunched with hard patches of dried mud himself, curls most of his colony dared not touch. it was a time consuming task, and cicada found himself forcing through it alone. the exhaustion and hunger that had overtaken him in the most recent days was enough to prevent him from cleaning up too nicely either way. the oriental shorthair mix flicks an ear, looking away from the white tom as he speaks again, fire brimming at the apples of his cheeks. hungry? the male allows a soft chuckle to fall from his maw, dipping his head to lick at a curl on his slim chest, “ aren’t we all? “ cicada admits quietly, eyes lowering towards the birds his colonymate had captured. they did look mighty tasty, “but ah . . it’s been so long since i’ve had a bite of anything without a layer of slime over it. if you’ll have a bite, i just may. “ he speaks ; admittedly, as he’d found sharing would help to alleviate the bitter guilt that eats at him for daring indulge. eating was a privilege at this point, and despite the rumble in his stomach, quiet could be coiled up in camp awaiting his return. had they eaten? could they use a bird more? especially a fresh kill, still warm to the touch. the chimera releases a breath, body suddenly feeling far too heavy. the stress of recent events weighed heavy on his throbbing temples, stress jackhammering the notch of his skull ; he could only hope for a positive change after sunrise tomorrow.

the arrival of another has a very similar effect as the first ; a femme he’d seen briefly about camp nothing but a burst of calico through the thick reeds, darting under the canopy for shelter and he jerks in surprise. he forces the fur that bristles along his spine to flatten despite the tension flooding his limbs once again, wild blue luminaries turning towards the small molly. he imagines her perspective and is suddenly acutely aware of the way he’d naturally inclined towards roseal to speak, straightening his spine abruptly and pivoting his head to greet foxy with a tired, slightly manic beam, “ i won’t refuse company. “ the tom says, following the tricolor’s eyes down towards the avian corpses. he would extend a bite, but it wasn’t his prey to offer — for now he simply sits, that same flustered burn lying fresh over his cheeks.

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

​

​

 

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

• 
  
  
  ── Cicada startling very nearly startles Roseal, but he recovers quickly enough it doesn't manifest in his posture. He tilts his head and the muscles above his eyes raise, and he watches the curly feline experience what looks to be staccato, hastened stages of grief, skipping around a few and landing on an amused acceptance. Better than throwing a paw at Rose's face, at least; he's kept it scar-free thus far and he'd hate to ruin a streak of good luck this long in the running. He'd prefer his freckles be the only blemish on his dreadfully pale cheeks.
  
  Theatrically, Roseal leans in, looking Cicada over from toes to ear-tips. "Well, your pelt looks intact— but you did say 'nearly,' didn't you?" It occurs to him that neither of them would have a particularly thrilling time lounging in the sun, would they? Funny how that works. Cicada would bake with all those deeper colors while Roseal would simultaneously combust and melt. At least Cicada's patterning is far more interesting to look at than his own pasty, virgin snow. Hides some of the muck a little better, too.
  
  But the way he's eyeing Roseal has him wondering if tall, pale, and pointy might be a realm of interest. Could be he's just feeling the nerves for the coming battle and the inevitable realization of wants gone unanswered and needs unmet— but that isn't as kind to Roseal's ego.
  
  Those teeth glint, stark against his pelt, and he can't decide whether it's admiration or envy that he is a balance of cool and warm tones, even chaotically. "Should I use you for other things?" He suggests, his voice curling with the shadow of something wicked. "I don't think you could be portable shade— you'd have to be taller."
  
  He seems hesitant to eat from Roseal's catch, and he nudges one of the birds closer in his direction. If there's anything he's learned, it's the ever-present selfless fear of taking too much before others have had their fill. Sighing, he shrugs and glances at the leaves dark with moisture. "A bite, sure. A wanderer like me's eaten enough already, though, and no one's looking to me to save the day."
  
  He inhales sharply as their little, brief haven of two expands into three. She's apologetic, far more than Roseal was, and he watches the fur on Cicada's spine even out. "If anyone's the intruder here, it's me. Stay as long as you want." A muddied paw briefly pokes the second bird toward the younger feline. "I caught them for you. Well, not you specifically, but you marsh cats. Figured I'd do what I can." Pale eyes drift, and he supposes it would only be fair to return the favor Cicada had offered all those days ago, so he leans over to pluck debris from damp curls.
  
  "The storm will probably be long gone by the time I get even halfway through all this," he comments lightly, even as his nose scrunches at the taste of mud.
  

  ---

  ​
•  
• n/a​
•  
• ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
  ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
  ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
  ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​
•  
•