houses of the holy — weasel

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : the moon was beginning to shift, now. honeybee had made their departure far before him, begrudging goodbyes made at the stone side as they both come to, regaining their senses and comprehending the reality of the situation they'd found themselves in respectively. they were coming to riverclan. a skyclanner — a pine group member, one who had chosen to stay during the split being brought over by force. he felt sick, despite the starry guidance he received : the dreams had been connected. the river, desperate bee song, waking up in cold, desperate sweat . . honeybee was meant to be at his side, whether either of them liked it or not. the mottled tom couldn’t bring himself to leave the cavern so quickly ; with the sun still nowhere near in sight and the river churning protection around his thriving colony, he remained behind, tucked aside the moonstone with eyes gently closed. he felt safe here. away from the prying eyes of those around him, warrior and lingering river cat, though the latter seemed to have stopped their yammering as of late. raccoon seemed promising, and he could only hope the nagging suspicion biting at his skull was a result of his recent sleep deprivation and not gut instinct.

regardless, the mottled tom now had nine lives total ; bestowed upon him in varying stages of pain and emotion. the effort it would take to extinguish him was beyond what he could measure now, and the feeling was — electric. his limbs still buzzed with adrenaline ; with passion, agony, rage, sadness, a cacophony of stardust in his mind. his fear seemed to wane momentarily with the promise of life beyond death, the pinprick of paranoia no longer biting at his paws. the sun was just beginning to lift over the horizon once the newly named cicadastar finally steps from the yawning cavern mouth, squinting ice blue eyes towards the milky sky. he would still make it back by the time his warriors were waking up for the day, and perhaps snag a fish on the way back in for quiet or pumpkin. his ear twitches, forelimbs stretching out in front of him and back arching with a satisfying pop, maw splitting wide for a moment before he stands tall once more. the early morning breeze carried heavy over the moor, curls wind - whipped and only mussed further once he takes his first step in the direction of the river. there was much to discuss, heart beating rabbit - quick at the thought. he didn’t know how they would react

as the sun slowly begins to rise, the man would begin his trek home, doing his best to stick to the sparse shadows of the open moor.

@WEASEL

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, former marshlander, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[WEASELCLAW]

Dawn blooms pale into the moorland, streaking the open skies with blush petals. The coolest part of the day, where the wind is brisk and cool and fragrant with morning dew, Weasel has taken to becoming an early riser and stalking the heather-flecked hills he calls his home. The quiet solitude of early morning lends itself to some of the best hunting he's done so far. His white maw is parted to taste the air, expecting rabbit and catching something else entirely.

A rogue. That's his first thought. There was something vaguely familiar about the scent, almost like the marshy undertones Sootstar, Hyacinth, and Lavender still carry, but there's something else there, too. A tang of dark water, of fish. He narrows his eyes, striped tail lashing behind him in a display of adrenaline.

It's his chance to defend WindClan.

He catches the spindly shadow of a tom, secrecy in his pawsteps, looking as though he's intent on evading whoever might be stalking the moors.

Weasel rises from his crouch and steps toward the mottled-dark feline, his hackles bristling, blue eyes blazing with challenging fire. "I don't know who you are, but I know you're not a WindClan cat. This is our territory." He grins, showing a bit of fang. "Sootstar doesn't take kindly to intruders."

He does not give any warning; that push to prove himself, to impress Sootstar, to defend what is his -- it culminates in a burst of violent instinct. He unsheathes his claws and with a low hiss, he runs toward the trespasser, aiming for his long legs in an attempt to bowl him over.
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PENNED BY MARQUETTE​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : the brown - coated tom appears from nowhere, lifting himself from the similarly - toned moorgrass and bristling, bringing the mottled felidae to an abrupt halt. he barely has the time to tip his head, an incredulous, " i'm sorr − ? " cut from his dark maw as the tom launches at him. this a windclan cat ; he can smell that for fact, strong amongst the lingering scent of horseplace that clings to his tabby coat, all too powerful as his legs are knocked from under him. the man had never been the best fighter − despite the war, despite the position he took. he was nothing without the veil of strategy ; of shadows, of the water. he was lighter there, quick and evasive. it suited him, unlike the dirt that he can nearly taste one his muzzle makes contact with the soil underfoot. cicadastar hisses at the pain blazing up his narrow skull, teeth singing a chatter of protest where his jaw hits.

this was a windclan cat, he was attacking him.

sootstar doesn't take kindly to intruders. he was speaking for sootstar? the smoke snarls in response, baring porcelain teeth seconds before attempting a swipe at his chest, rolling over onto his side in an attempt to lift himself back up onto shaky legs. had never seen this tom before ; not from their sacred spot under the oaks, certainly not the marsh. he spoke of being a windclan cat, but he had to have been of the pines before. one of rain's lackeys, surely. the stars had spoken against violence, soot would not have called for such against him . . right? his chest flares in icy desperation, panic slitting the pupils of his icy hues, brief moment of reprieve shattering at the claws of this so - called windclanner, "you minnow - brain! " oddly - accented vocals are thick with anger, tongue swollen where he'd bitten the soft tissue on the way down. instead of speaking again, the man would merely attempt to spit in his face, ridding himself of the blood lingering on his tongue.

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, former marshlander, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[WEASELCLAW]

Weasel smirks with satisfaction when his attack hits and the spindly tom goes sprawling in the dust. There's outrage glowing in the other's spectral eyes, and when he manages to stand again, he's quick enough to claw at Weasel's white chest. Claws skim the surface and blood erupts onto the snowy fur, causing the tabby to hiss in pain and anger.

"You minnow-brain!" His growl ceases briefly, and a look of puzzlement creases his feature. The cat's accent is strange, and his insult foreign. But Weasel doesn't have time to mull it over long before the tortoiseshell spits a wad of blood and phlegm into his eyes.

"Argh!" He backs away, pale paw rising to wipe the disgusting slime from his face. The fur along his spine bristles into stiff spikes. "Sorry excuse for a rogue!"

He rushes forward with all the swiftness he can muster, aiming to rake his claws along the taller tomcat's flank. Once he is turned around, he'll attempt to flatten himself and streak forward, teeth aiming to nip at his heels.
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PENNED BY MARQUETTE​