sensitive topics I BELIEVE THE WRITINGS ON THE WALL — kuiper's trial

[TWITCHBOLT]

Where fear normally made him flighty, here and now he was rooted to the ground. Every shout that built upon another, every condemnation of the killer- any allusion to Centipedepaw or- Stars forbid- Howlpaw, set his shivers ten times more violent than they had been. He fought to keep his eyes on the killer- fought to keep them both open too, against the wild spasming of his eyelids. He choked his voice down like it was bile- like it'd kill him if he coughed up his words. Weak- he looked weak in the face of this threat, undeserving of his warrior name, trembling like a bee's wing.

His claws kept him anchored through the small swaying, the faltering of his frame. The silver rogue still grinned- looked upon them, his eyes full of taunting, his mouth spilling venom that Twitchbolt could hardly hear over the scream of his rushing blood and the heaving of his quickened breath. Howlpaw, he heard the name- Howlpaw, hopefully not another victim. But he said half-dead, and the scruffy-furred tom lurched, catching his tongue before he yelled out at the image that flashed in his mind. Like her father- backed over by those great rolling paws. Maybe that had been the sign they'd gone to find in Twolegplace those moons ago... a shadowed omen of the future.

They weren't going to let him out of here, were they? Not- not in the way he wanted anyway, healed and christened. No, he'd be... be taken off somewhere, wouldn't he? Shoved under a monster or thrown to some dogs, whatever... just to give the fallen some justice, just to refer him to StarClan's judgement. He'd been half-right.

Thistleback- sudden blur of badger-fur, he moved, teeth gnashing, pallid moonlight in their sun-glow. Leapt toward the captive- and that was when Twitchbolt stopped looking, the crack of the rogue's bone punctuating the squeezing of his eyes shut. In, out, in, out- rivalling the pace of sprinting paws, his breath scraped through his throat, and the rapid beat of his heart made him dizzy. Dissonant melody of flesh ripping, the smell of fresh-spilled blood- it overwhelmed his senses, and in a fit of horror he had to physically turn his face away.

In that moment, he forgot that Quillstrike was beside him, forgot that his Clanmates surrounded him in witness, forgot that his leader stood diligent watch. All he could see were flashing memories of spattered blood, ripped guts- an apprentice never found, and the image of what had happened to him. He saw Blazestar's lifeless eyes, bones cracked by the escape of a monster. A combination of the two with the sprawling shadows of his never-ending nightmares crafted an image of Howlpaw in his mind, slain.

Blood-stench clogged his senses and panic stifled his sense. A wail of distress left him, then- the warrior reminded that even the worst of what his mind conjured up could exist in reality. That any cat, the victims or the rogue himself, could be killed so violently- deserving or not.​

penned by pin ✧​

 

[QUILLSTRIKE]

JUST MOVE WITH ME, DARLIN'​

---

For Quill, it's just another wake-up call, like Windclan or the foxes; proof that no matter how much he wants to pretend the world ends at Skyclans boundaries, it doesn't. Fire crackles alive in his chest the more the outsider runs his mouth, sparks becoming flames which become a wildfire of anger. How many kids had this sick fuck hurt? How many families torn apart by senseless murders- families that had been far happier than his ever had? That, alone, felt like blasphemy to Quill, that some selfish bastard could just come along and steal away another cats happiness like that.

And before he knew it his mind was drifting to the tom beside him, his mind offering up images of a torn and bloody form, mahogany and cream fur pitched red, lifeless eyes. And the sheer wall of dread and panic that slammed full force into him was unexpected as he began to consider how his life would have been affected if Twitchbolt had been one of the cats felled by this strangers claws.

He'd be so fucking lonely.

So fucking miserable.

Cats like Kuiper were dangerous, too dangerous. His clanmates cries for justice were heard, and he felt himself nodding numbly to Johnny statement. This cat, he couldn't be allowed to leave, not after admitting to the kinds of things he just had.

It had been a long time since Quills fangs had sung for the kind of blood that ended a life, but he feels it then, alive and strong and urging him to break every promise he's ever made to never do it again. What Kuiper has is a sickness, something that can never be fixed, and maybe Quill has a bit of that same sickness in him too, because he knows he'd revel in their death and how slow he could make it.

And he knows that some part of him has already decided. If Blazestar and the others don't put this cat to death, Quillstrike will do it himself. Whether he has to follow the rogue out into the loner lands or corner him in whatever prison they hole him off in, this cat won't see another sunrise.

Perhaps for the better, it doesn't come to that though. He isn't the only one whose been affected, and from the crows burst a familiar form of inky spikes and gleaming pale eyes. Thistleback. The chimeras shoulders tense, but it's out of eagerness, anticipation. Quill asn't an idiot, and he'd known even as a kid first stumbling upon the clan that his future mentor was a monster as well. The chimera had stared too many in the face on a regular basis to not recognize that willingness to act, to hurt, to destroy. And as someone who'd been on the other end of that ire before, he hadn't trusted Thistle in the least, hadn't even approved of him being Deers chosen mate.

But time and age had wisened the young warrior, and he understands now that some monsters can be leashed. Thistleback is one of them, and maybe, so is he.

And so he doesn't look away when onslought begins, doesn't flinch at the sight of the blood or the sounds of a violent struggle even though his claws have embedded themselves in the ground. He's not a stranger to the feeling of a cat clawing at him in an attempt to get away, or the way a body jerks and shudders when it can't draw in air. He isn't a stranger to the feeling of blood running down just about every inch of his body, and it's not even the most gruesome thing he's seen after piling the ripped body and entrails of one of Twitches parents onto his back and carrying them back to camp.

He doesn't look away because he knows this is his fate. He's promised his claws and fangs to Skyclan and he knows now that he'll use them, not just to chase out raccoons and foxes or to knock some sense into some idiot Windclanner, but to do as Thistle does now.

Quillstrike will end up a killer, and he thinks he's okay with it.

His macabre fascination is only torn by the sound of Twitchbolts wail coming from beside him. He comes back to himself all at once, a flood of awareness that sends him back into his body as his head snaps toward the warrior beside him. He wants to claw his own ears off for being such an idiot and forgetting they were with him. He'd gotten too caught up for a minute, had been ambushed by the panic that accompanied the false image of his friends mutilated body and now Twitch was suffering because of it.

It'd been a while since Quill had felt that protective surge toward the other, not since they'd been falling apart over the death of their parents, back when Quill was attatched to their hip and ready to pick a fight with any cat that so much as made his friends lip quiver. He felt it now though, the others warriors distress triggering on 'on' switch that had the chimera acting before his brain could catch up.

"It's okay, Twitch. I've got you." he promises as he curls around them, a large paw lifting to gently pull the other against his chest, wanting to block the view of the crowd and trial and drown out the scent of blood with his own fur and the comfort of skyclan. Only when the others face is hidden safely against his chest does he shift his paw to cover their ear to mute the noise, muzzle pressed close to the other as he continued to murmur soft comforts until the sounds of Thistlebacks work finally ended.
​

---

skyclan - male - 13 months - bisexual - homoromantic - single - a very tall, dark chimera tomcat with mismatched eyes and several scars. has bluejay feathers woven like spikes along his spine and neck.

 

[TERMITEHUM]

₊°✩ SOMEONE TELL ME, WHO AM I SUPPOSED TO BE?

---

There is a growing pit within Termitepaw's stomach, stretching wider with each word Kuiper speaks. Murder after murder, spoken with a calm detachment like she's never been able to feel. He's alien to her, a force of evil, a force of nature. She skirts the edge of the crowd, listens to his words through a veil of fearful silence. It's the last victim that has her breath catching.

She'd not known Centipedepaw, had been too young at the time, still a shy little kid unwilling to talk to anyone but her family. But she knows the pain her clanmates have felt over his death. It seems surreal, to state the cause of such suffering in the eyes. Centipedepaw had been a child, young and innocent, no more reason for him to die than any of their fellow apprentices. He didn't deserve it, of course he didn't.

And then -- Howlpaw. He saw her, dying, and he did nothing. He left her there. In the twolegplace -- she'd been there, so close to Termitepaw, and yet --

She barely has time to process this information before Thistleback moves.

His rage is blinding, lightning-strike fast as he strikes Kuiper. There had been calls for bloodshed before, but no action. It seems Thistleback wanted to take things into his own paws. She watches in silence as Thistleback pins him, begins to tear into him. A slow death is his sentence, it seems, a verdict ruled by the lead warrior alone. Does Kuiper deserve it? She can't say. She certainly wouldn't have the stomach to do it herself, but... She doesn't move to stop him either, and she is uncertain if it is merely fear that stills her paws. No one moves to stop him, in fact.

...Could anyone stop him, now?

Some kind of madness has consumed Thistleback; he is no longer a cat, merely a conduit for bloodlust, for some horrible karmic condemnation, all the suffering Kuiper's brought onto the Clans turned back on him, twisted into the shape of Termitepaw's Clanmate. He has become unrecognizable, something beyond the bounds of even her worst fears, a frenzied thing made purely of fury and snapping jaws. And oh, how his teeth sink into the body of the rogue, over and over, tearing into him with a wild and feral relentlessness. To grant him death would be kindness, they realize, and there is no kindness left in that body. Not for Kuiper, at least.

Termitepaw finds herself unable to do anything but watch, mute and shaking, as blood coats the lead warrior, as his prey struggles to escape. They find themself pulling away, trying to distance themself from the scene, scarcely able to believe the scene they are witnessing. It feels unreal, feels like a nightmare.

Thistleback speaks, and she cannot reconcile this hoarse and growling voice as the warrior -- a lead warrior, even, respected and safe -- that she sees every day. His words, spoken through teeth gnashing and blood-reddened, barely register for the molly. They are not for her ears, after all. Merely another punishment for the murderous rogue, spit curses peeling away any dignity the tom had left, making mockery of this righteous cat in front of the Clan cats he so despises. Just as much a show, just as much a tearing away of all that made him, as the brutal ripping of his flesh. On display for everyone to see.

Thistleback is done now, they think. Watching the eyes of the murderer as the life leaves them.

Silversmoke speaks, something about permission. They can hardly bring themself to listen. How is he so calm? Termitepaw's breathing is erratic, standing shell-shocked and still, eyes fixed on the brutalized body in front of her. If Thistleback became something more than a cat to enact his vengeance, then he dragged Kuiper to becoming less, merely a body, no more than a monster-mangled raccoon by the Thunderpath's side.

She backs away, finally, as the moment stretches on. Paws move slowly, clumsily, picking up speed as gets further away. There are other cats gathered near her, she knows. She is not the only witness to this grisly scene. Yet she cannot seem to register them, tunnel-vision focused only on Thistleback and the torn body he now crouches over.

She turns finally, terror wrenching her eyes away from Kuiper's dying form, and runs. Every cat she brushes in her frenzied retreat only heightens her fear, eyes squeezed tightly shut. She doesn't know where she's going, she just needs to get away. It's all too much for her to take.

---

GIVE ME DIRECTION, I NEED AFFECTION ! ₊°✩

⟪ OOC ⟫ ⟪ INFO ⟫ ⟪ REF ⟫

• // out !​
• TERMITEPAW named for their dark and shiny fur.
  — she/her, they/them, or it/its. 10 moons.
  — skyclan apprentice, mentored by ashenclaw.
  — cowardly and superstitious, yet still kind.
  
  primary character, medium-high activity. penned by saturnid.​
• 

​

 

[Honeysplash]

.°☀ But every time I see you cry

---

Horror.

That was this cold feeling that wrapped its way around a small chest, suffocating the vicitim with its vice grip.

It felt almost impossible to breathe- had this cat really commited all these crimes? How could one cat just- do that to others? Was this what Starclan had in mind for them? Killers? Bananapaw didn't want to stick around to find out but she found herself rooted in place as Kuiper gave his statement. Blazestar as ridged as ever ontop of the great rock, and everyone watching them in equal amounts of horror.

The litte she-cat then hoped for the best, that justice would be served, but it as the least of her worries.

Thistleback came from what seemed like no where to her, and suddenly blood stench filled the camp with a force. An audible gasp came from the pale tabby cat as she watched the life leave pale blue eyes and a chill ran up her spine, causing the fur along it to stand up straight. Was this allowed? Did he have the right to do this? Was it desvered? More than likely, but she had wanted to hear what Blazestar had decided; it was his final decision after all.

Feeling her pawst start to trail backwards, she watched as Termitepaw took off and her deeper green hues search out for a tabby form. Though her chest lurches as she spots him with an arm around Twitchbolt and whispering comforts to him. Bananapaw stares into the pair for a long moment before finally moving to follow after Termitepaw. Worry for her friend etching past the distain she felt in her chest.

"SPEECH"

---

With these wings of mine I'll stay awhile .°☀

⟪ OOC ⟫ ⟪ INFO ⟫ ⟪ REF ⟫

• //out​
• BANANAPAW named by her mother Alice
  — she/her, 11 moons. chatty.
  — skyclan daylight apprentice, mentored by Sharpeye.
  — overly friend, likes most
  
  primary character, high activity. penned by wolf_.​
• 

​

 

[BLAZESTAR]

SkyClan spits and clamors for his death, but Blazestar could not pass judgment without knowing for certain if Kuiper's claws were red with his daughter's blood. He begins to tremble when the prisoner swings those pale, cold eyes toward him, and the sneer that crosses his face -- "A pitiful brown tortoiseshell, you say?" His body feels weak, and he has to fasten his claws into the bark to stay upright. He feels warm and chilled at once, as though he's taken with fever. "Perhaps you'll find her in Twolegplace, although I must warn you, she was already half-dead when I left her on the road." His jaws part, but he makes no sound. "I imagine the crows are still picking whatever's left from her bones."

The imagery sends him reeling. Imagined images of Morningpaw morph into a darker, dappled coat, leaner, older, and the snow turns to asphalt, to grit. Blazestar's stomach begins to bubble. "You're lying," he rasps, but it's a wonder if anyone can hear him say it.

He has lost the ability to pass judgment fairly, but Thistleback robs him of the opportunity. Blazestar watches the hard-muscled lead warrior fly at the rogue, effectively pinning each limb to the earth. Blazestar's tongue feels stuck to the roof of his tongue, as though it's been coated with honey or sap. He cannot move, cannot stop the black and white warrior as he tears into Kuiper's body with claw and fang. He dismantles him. The scent of blood permeates the air, and scarlet splashes freely onto the earth beneath him. Blazestar's eyes widen with each movement, and yet he cannot look away -- he cannot bear to.

Nor does he move to stop it.

It isn't until Thistleback has finished his brutal murder of the Clan killer that the camp is urged back to life. Silversmoke is the first to speak out against Thistleback, and he says, effectively, Blazestar did not command you to do that.

He hadn't.

But he hadn't stopped it.

The Ragdoll begins to tremble, the branch beneath him shaking under his weight. He climbs down clumsily for fear of otherwise breaking his neck. Every hair on his pelt is electrified, stiff, and he can't look anywhere but at the gory mess that remains of his daughter's murderer.

Cats are retching. Cats are appalled. Cats are staring, hypnotized. None besides Silversmoke speak out. Blazestar looks from one lead warrior to another, finally settling his haunted blue gaze on Thistleback.

"Dispose of this now. I want no evidence he was ever here by sunrise."

His mouth is dry. He cannot cry, he cannot wail his grief to the heavens, he cannot do anything but stare.

He has to break his gaze again.

"Do not bother me for the rest of the day. Orangeblossom, you are in charge." There are no punishments doled out, no raging, nothing. Blazestar is stunned into relative speechlessness, and the weight of his daughter's death -- potential death, all the same -- drives him into his den, away from the searching, expectant eyes of his Clan.

// out :,)​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

​

 

[SLATE]

❪ TAGS ❫ — It doesn't surprise him that this lowly, sick fuck of a cat doesn't display any sentiment of remorse, not even in the slightest. His soul is beyond saving at this point, and Slate sees no other option — this murderer must be disposed of before he has the chance to kill anybody else. SkyClan would be doing the rest of the clans a favor.

Orangey hues typically dulled and shaded with apathy, widen as a confession spills out of the killer's ashen maw — he knows the whereabouts of Howlpaw, in the Twolegplace and left to perish on the side of the road. Slate is instantly taken back to when he, freshly escaped from the clutches of his twolegs with a green collar still dangling from his tiny neck, first stepped foot into the outside world. Naive and oblivious to the dangers of the city, he had nearly been trampled under a raging monster himself. Had Howlpaw suffered that cruel fate?

Slate begins to turn his head toward Blazestar to gauge a reaction from the Ragdoll, but instead snaps his attention toward a spiny-haired blur of black and white lurching from the crowd and belting out a war cry. Thistleback. Has the lead warrior gone mad? He has never known the scarred tom, loyal to SkyClan and dutiful to his leader, to step out of line before.

He, along with everybody else, could only watch through widened sights and dropped jaws as Thistleback tore into Kuiper limb-by-limb. Every inch on that tom was marred and bloodied by the time the piebald feline was through with him. Scores and lacerations cover the criminal's form, as if he had literally been pulled from a den of thistles.

As the warrior watches Kuiper's throat being ripped apart, he finds himself unable to tear away from the bloodbath. He was enthralled, even.

Thistleback is a killer, through and through, and this has been made clear to all of his clanmates. This does not bother the rough-and-tumble ex-rogue in the slightest; if anything, he has gained a new level of respect for the lead warrior. It seems that the same couldn't be said for some of the other SkyClanners, though, particularly the ever-vocal Silversmoke. A critical stare snaps toward the other lead warrior, a sneer crawling onto his rugged features before grunting, "What does it matter? The fucker's dead. Deserved to die. You heard what he said about Howlpaw." Even if Blazestar had yet to say anything, would he really have let this man breathe for one more second while his daughter's remains were probably sprawled out across a road, quite literally left for the birds?

Speaking of the leader, Blazestar only chooses to speak now, though only ordering the disposal of the body and nothing else. No calls for a search party, nor outrage at Thistleback's actions. The Ragdoll seemed to have been thrown into a state of shock, so much so that he couldn't bring himself to properly address the clan.

After Blazestar retreats into solitude, Slate looked to Orangeblossom now, wondering if she would assign certain cats to deal with the mess.​

 

[Johnnyflame]

LIVE AS IF YOU WERE TO DIE TOMORROW​

---

Johnny had never met a cat that he thought deserved to be put to death before. He'd met plenty of assholes during his life, sure, ornery bastards that would take a shot at you just for looking at them wrong, but he'd never crossed paths with a cat that he thought was so vile and evil that they deserved to be put down. Not until now, that is.

Every word spilling from the tomcats mouth sends chills of disgust and horror down his spine. He's never heard a cat talk like this before, so wrapped up in their own delusions that they could justify the maiming and killing of innocent cats, some of which had been little ones.

And yet, as easy as it was to draw the conclusion that a cat like this couldn't be allowed to leave -a sentiment that Ora assured him would be followed through with- when the moment came, Johnny wasn't sure he was ready.

It was Thistleback, because of course it was Thistleback. He'd known the moment he met the man that they were unlike anything he'd ever seen before- a harbinger of so many things. Today he played the harbinger of death; the bringer a justice. And it was messy, and violent, and more savage than anything the bobtail had laid eyes on before.

But he couldn't look away.

Amber eyes blown wide, every muscle taut beneath his patchwork coat, Johnny watched a cat lose their life. Slowly. Thistle didn't rush it, and as much as a part of the bobtail wanted to look away, to back off and run like some of the apprentices were doing, he kept himself rooted to that spot. Tis was important. This was reality. While he'd been sitting on his fenceline chasing strays away from fucking garbage cans for the last two years, these cats had been dealing with every hell imagineable, a serial killer now one of them. And maybe him being here wouldn't have changed anything because he was just one cat, and not even a remarkable one at that, but for stars sake, all the time he'd wasted toward nothing. It seemed so little now, so pointless when all these bigger things were going on.

And in this bigger world with its bigger problems, you had to make calls that would either save or end lives- sometimes both. What Johnny was witnessing now was one of those calls, and he forced himself to engrave it into his memory, all of it.

​

---

 

[Orangestar]

Even with as much as she's seen in her lifetime, Orangeblossom still winces at Thistleback pouncing upon their briefly held prisoner. It's over in a moment, the rogue's body going limp under strong jaws as horrified gasps and cries fill the air. Blood pounds in her ears; he'd hurt Howlpaw. Claimed to, at the very least. As much as she can't bring herself to look directly at the point of impact, she watches crimson drip to the floor of the camp and decides with a small sense of satisfaction that he had deserved this and much, much worse.

She throws Blazestar's den a filthy look as he drops from his perch and vanishes inside, unable to ignore the flicker of resentment that sparks in her chest; he was the leader. Why did she, as the deputy, have to deal with this? She may as well visit StarClan and claim her own nine lives if things kept up like this. Orangeblossom rises to her paws, sends a searching gaze around to her Clanmates; and sighs, tail flicking. Termitepaw and Bananapaw are nowhere to be seen, Twitchbolt is trembling like a leaf in a strong breeze, and Johnny stares, catatonic, at the place where Thistleback dropped his victim.

"If you need to go and take a moment, go." She dismisses the shellshocked with a flick of her plumy tail. This would be the first death several of their younger or newer Clanmates had seen. She, personally, shelves it away to deal with later. Just like she'd done with Leopardcloud, just like she'd done with Blazing Dawn. She heaves a short sigh, some of the tension escaping her.

"I need a couple of cats to help me get his body out of camp. The closer to the twolegplace border, the better. We'll take a patrol out to search for Howlpaw again if we feel up for it afterwards. We'll prove him wrong." Hopefully an errant fox or dog would get to his mange-ridden pelt before he became carrion. Maybe he'd be picked up by a sentimental twoleg, cooing nonsense and covering him with sticks and stones in a shallow grave. It would be more than SkyClan bothered to afford him, and she'd be damned if she would be dragging his corpse to their own graveyard. Her lip curls at the thought. "Anyone who doesn't want to do that but is able to move, scratch up the camp floor once we're gone. Disturb the dust, get rid of the blood. Silversmoke, Slate, if you two even think about arguing at a time like this I'm putting you both on dirtplace duty for a moon." The two toms earn a sharp look for their brief interaction.

— info

•  
• 
  orangeblossom. tags.
  — she/her, skyclan deputy.
  — mentor to eveningpaw.
  — attack in #e08550. uses trees as an integral part of her fighting style.
  — mean enough to note that her thoughts don't reflect my opinions as a writer haha.
  — penned by mercibun; @ me in any official tabbytales discord for plots. :]
  — art by merc!<3
  

​

 

[cloverjaw -]

TAGS — / tw for mild descriptions of gore in the last paragraph!

It's a heart-pounding sight when Thistleback leaps at the prisoner, spurred on by nothing besides the uncontainable hatred for the man. Cloverjaw's amber gaze grows wide with shock and this time he doesn't try to hide it; this time the cruelty is not a ghost of his brother's past, but a display right in front of him, an introduction to all the different ways a cat could be flayed and still live enough to feel it. Thistleback has always been rough around the edges, but he's a good cat to his core- isn't he? Doubt lurks between Cloverjaw's ribs; he feels the breath-stifling uncertainty (not fear- it can't be fear, can it?) right to his spine. He doesn't notice the way his smoke-streaked fur spikes along the ridge. Kuiper is dead now; his blood is a black mirror on the earth. He deserves that. Certainly, that is true. But was this really the way to go about it?

The silver tabby tom shifts uncomfortably at Slate's side. Now that the evil has stopped breathing, SkyClanners are ready to spout off about Thistleback's... methods. And he can't say he faults them for it, even though he finds his ache for togetherness particularly painful in this moment. Silversmoke jabs at the piebald-red lead warrior; Twitchbolt wails and Quillstrike comforts; Termitepaw and Bananapaw flee in tandem. Cloverjaw can only sit and watch as cats brush by him to escape the visceral clearing. He can't blame them, either. There is a great beast looming over Kuiper's corpse, and over Thistleback's bloodstained instrument; there is a tension as palpable as teeth in one's neck. For lack of a better term. Clover's ears flatten to his skull. He won't leave, but he doesn't have to like what he's looking at, either. Even if Slate seemed to.

He won't soon forget the look in his brother's eyes, watching that carnage. But he doesn't feel particularly well-equipped to ask about it right now. So, the warrior simply rises to his paws and looks to Orangeblossom as she speaks, black lips set firmly in a frown. "I can help," he volunteers, voice hardly louder than a whisper. He casts Slate a backwards glance before moving to the deputy's side more surely. The sooner they could move this body (if it could be called that anymore- it's hardly more than ribbons of smoky fur, he thinks, just red lacerations and white bone; hardly something you could call a cat) the sooner they could all move on. Deserved as it may have been, Kuiper's confession didn't bring any dead cats back, and neither did his death. He wonders if Thistleback realizes that.​

​

 

[ThistleBack]

It’s the stormy grey tom’s words that pull him from his dazed stare. Once Kuiper stills, it’s all but white noise.

Thistleback blinks steadily now, ears still ringing, each breath slowing the swells of his flanks. His eyes are fixed on a dead man, but a sudden spin takes to the world around him. His stomach is churning, and he grunts and swallows down whatever it was gurgling and twisting within. His jaws felt wet, too wet, copper is overwhelming and clotting in his nostrils he can barely breath and he coughs.

Silversmoke’s voice breaks the ringing again, ‘cur’ sarcasm briefing the fact that Blazestar had given him no such orders. Nobody would, to do what he did. His underarm is bleeding badly, but you couldn’t tell. Thistleback shuts his eyes and lifts his chin, tilts his skull back and staggers away. Shaking out his fur, and breathing hard. Thistleback tips his chin back down and locks with dual colored eyes.

Importance of vengeance and who it belonged to. The use of the words and Silversmoke’s meaning, it drags a twitch from the skin of his nose in irritation, but he remains as silent as he did previously. Eyeing the lead with one single bullet silver as he breathes through dripping jowls.

" aye, Silversmoke " his voice is rough and weighted with a cough, his words a simple I heared you. The eyes of Skyclan, are stricken with shock and it ripples around him in a cruel dance. A man who always kept his composure, that always kept order, who stood obediently and raised wonderful children with kind hearts- had turned on someone like a mad dog.

Termitepaw’s black and white fur catches his attention as she runs. Runs, Bananpaw next but the rest just seem rooted in horror. His former apprentice, his daughter, his friends- they all look at a monster. Rattling limbs, movement from above where the names of apprentices and warriors are cheered to Starclan, Thistleback was dizzy. Blazestar is on the ground, eyes settling on him but the world is still wobbling. Orders given. He can’t even nod, or speak to the grief-stricken father who peers at the scene in such a way that pours Thistleback’s eyes back to kuiper. He could only protect them, and serve them- he would never be the one to comfort or cherish them as dearly as he felt in his heart. He’d have the bloodiest paws, even after he’s cleaned them in the river shallows. If it meant they could rest peacefully, so be it.

He kicks dirt and sand over the blood, avoiding looking toward Eveningpaw. His jaws are slack, and his eyes distant as he works. His mind plays out the days when he was a kit, removing rat carcasses from the alley. He can’t help but fall into a daydream as he moves robotically, trying to adjust to the new world he created for himself. Or- perhaps, a revisit to a closeted past. Orangeblossom meows her own orders firmly, warning Silversmoke off Slate- Cloverjaw offers help, Thistleback wants no help but he doesn’t have a voice. Static was his stare, his tongue would feel no words for hours to come.

​

OOC INFO REF

• —
  
  
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  Thirty-three moons EVENT TRACKER | IMPORTANT INFO
  — Lead warrior of Skyclan since 12.22.22
  — Devoted to Deersong 9.29.22 | polyamorous
  — Father of Coyotepaw, Pricklepaw, and Eveningpaw.
  — mentoring Snowpaw graduate(s) Quillstrike
  — very muscular piebald black and white tom with spiky fur and cold silver-grey eyes.
  — voice & accent
  — biography･ﾟ✧​
  OPEN for Dice battles | stine#3004
  
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[eveningsun]

in an instant her view was nearly blocked by thistleback's brooding figure, there was a small sigh of relief as her heart finally began to slow. it would be okay, she leaned into the obsidian nose that promised that much in it's touch. eveningpaw was fine not being able to see the grey furred murderer standing trail. she could unfortunately still hear, however. the rogue confessed to seeing howlpaw half-dead. mismatched ears flicked backwards. poor howlpaw, alone and probably scared. she hoped that kuiper's face was not the last one she saw, hoped they would still find her before it was too late.

she wasn't left to ponder the possible outcomes, there was a visible shift in her father, something she hadn't witnessed before. watching as grey eyes flickered from her to the killer, she pleaded with her own. but thistleback's mind had already been made, there was nothing anyone could do to stop the force about to be unleashed onto kuiper. her jaw hung, unable to produce words in the intensity that was left in the lead warrior's wake. the tortie's throat felt small by the time she squeezed out a feeble, "wait," but her prayer would hang in the air. it came out as a squeak, as pitiful as a kitten's cry. that was nearly aligned to how she felt, small and invisible in he heat of it all.

eve wasn't as naïve to not understand what was to come. the cat before them was pure evil regardless of what anyone said or did this meeting would end with kuiper's blood staining the ground. she only wished it could be someone else to spill it. anyone, the girl didn't care who. nearly all of skyclan was seated here, yet none of them moved, all of them ready to let her father bear the weight of this burden alone. her heart ached, but could not entice her body to move. paws frozen to the ground, she could only clamp her eyes shut and pin her ears flat to her skull in a desperate attempt to let not a single drop of the attack into her senses. she could not allow this rogue's presence to shatter the image of her father.

voices were muffled and distant as they once again raised. she peeled open her eyes slowly, releasing the tension on her ears. it was over, it had to be. even though tensions remained high, there was a quiet lull as the threat had been eliminated. she caught the end of silversmoke's poison filled words, a vile accusation that he had missed blood marring his fur. anger replaced the fear bubbling in her chest. the tabby had sat there, done nothing and now wished to persecute thistleback after the fact. he should have stopped him if he felt that strongly, saved the peaceful image of her family. there was just as much blood on his paws, on everyone's, but only one would be remembered for their violence. the thought made hot tears well up in her eyes. a burning glare was tossed in the direction of the silver shaded lead warrior, it said everything that her mouth refused to, before she made a haste filled exit to her nest, sparing no glance or ounce of attention to any cat near her.

//out ​

[ FALLEN STAR ]​

 

[DAWNGLARE]

It is something he does not consider within his busy mind. He is all too preoccupied– Caught up in the whirlwind of his joy; thing he feels for no clear reason, but he does, and he allows it to be as his paws shift against the dust. He freezes, though, at Blaise's word. And what of Howlpaw? He couldn't he wouldn't. His smile does not quite fall, but it freezes, unwilling to further widen nor fully fall. It was no satisfaction he would give to him. The ranting of the madmen goes one ear and out the other as his eyes seize on the ugly thing. Dawnglare picks at his claws. "How should... would we? Should we celebrate the muss of blood on your fur...? Pointless murder is not noble..." He says it to himself, more than anything else. Does not expect him to hear, and does not care for him too.

But oh, this beast–! there's a crack of the glass within his mind. Visible wincing as he claims to have severed Blaise's own flesh and blood. His eyes flare wide. Impossibly large, blue pools. The brunt of his claws is not enough if he is frozen. The half-crack of a smile is left on his face, but his gaze spells a different story, indeed.

Then– guts, terror! Oh, bloodied brew. Even more shocking indeed, was the suddenness in which Blaise's warrior lunges to rip that life away. Well earned, well deserved; and yet– surprise! Twisted surprise on his face as that life drains and drains. For all his wicked words, he had not been ready. For all that he'd believed, he had not been ready. His mind lurches something strange, but he is still left standing and smiling, even if placid lips come to hide the teeth that shine through. Nearly electric, the intensity in his eyes, but he does not look away, he would not.

And attention is a hard thing to keep at bay for each of them, then. A few of them cannot handle it, at all.

He isn't sure when it had ended. Had only kept staring, dead-eyed. His head is thick and woozy with something he cannot name, and only when the deputy murmurs above it all, does he regain what he needs to. His paws carry him closer to the scene of it all, to the thing turned to sagging meat and bone below them. It was no cat anymore.

"You did a good deed," he tells the warrior– Thistleback; and his gaze is not kind as he looks to the body. Briefly, he looks to the heavens. Were the stars happy with what they had witnessed?

He would not be carrying it, and he does not expect any response; either or. No more to see, no more to feel, he leaves.​

 

[Fireflyglow]

Staring down at a dead body had become routine in all of these moons; don't inhale, just wait patiently for the body to still. Then, breathe. Watching a cat suffer while not doing anything about it, evil or not.. It felt.. Odd, to Fireflypaw. He scoots closer to his mentor then instinctively, trying to distance himself from the sight.

"We will waste no herbs on him. No lavender to soothe the scent. So it will stink soon. Bury it far from camp." He mutters loud enough for the gathering cats to hear as they begin to clean up. His father leaves, and Fireflypaw finds he can't look at his dad right now- not because of shame, or disappointment. But because his facial expression would be twisted into one he couldn't understand. And Fireflypaw hated it when he didn't understand.

He glances down at his paws then, worrying his lip between his teeth. Thistleback had done the right thing. That cat.. Was a murderer. Fireflypaw felt a breeze against his face then, a soft whisper on the wind- imaginary, made by his own brain. She whispers to him then, and Fireflypaw listens. "I think She's happy, Dawnglare." He guesses, their imaginary being a shared purpose between the two medicine cats.​

 

[CHRYSALISWING]

The chimaera listened to the madness that rolled from Kuiper's tongue, spitting out his crimes as though they were sweet candy instead of abhorrent acts, as if there was no aftertaste of blood in the rogue's mouth. Honorbound and horrified, Chrysalispaw showed no trace of his dread upon his face. Was there no shame? The rogue dared declare that Chrys' kind were nothing but savages and monsters, like a plague that ate away at the soft forest, with a corrosive tongue and a sharpened tooth. Chrysalis knew the clan cats were anything but, though he still found it surreal that such anathema could be directed against the concept of clans as a whole. Kuiper was nothing but a man without true purpose, and his descriptions of his terrible exploits in excruciating detail only exemplified it so. Scorn adorned the boy's face, draped like mistletoe flowers from the bough, a downturned and earthbound expression. How idiotic. He's just going to admit to everything like that? When he could surely get away with more? At least he's stupid enough to come forth. All outsiders do is talk, talk, talk about what little achievements they have. Pathetic.

A name, uttered by Blazestar first, grabbed his attention. Heterochromatic gaze trained upon the leaden-hued tom, and where a blurry dissonance once stained his awareness now whetted into dire command for audience, like a shriek that cut through the thick silence. Chrys' blood ran cold through his veins as he dared tune his ears in, as though he were condemned to listen to the noise, drawn into the concerto of dread. If Starclan sent Kuiper as some twisted and divine justice, then Skyclan had surely learned their lesson. The thought of the molly that teased him being nothing more than crow's feast permeated his mind, like the taste of rabbit's blood, coating his mouth and spilling down his chin. He couldn't wash out that fear, that terrible trepidation that painted his tongue.

Chrysalispaw had never thought about death before. He knew what it was - strange thing in the sky, gravid cloak upon the wearied eyes. He knew he would die, but it was just another fact of life. In valiant battle or in comforting nest, it was what met all honorable warriors.

He barely processed what he saw as Thistleback tore into Kuiper's pallid pelt, drawing wine-red out of snow, like he dragged out the crimson hues of the earth from underneath the soft blanket of winter. The scene pulsed, rang, pounded with fury - but Chrysalispaw could hardly focus on it. The murderer became his own grim painting, the author became his own morbid depiction, and the herald became what he foretold. A sickly sweet irony, a rotted honey that lie without witness, except for the starving beasts whose stomachs growled with a primal hunger. A hunger for justice or a hunger for blood, it was all the same without semantics. Tearing and tearing until the prey lie destitute... Just as he had done.

Howlpaw is dead. She's on the side of the Thunderpath. The crows are picking at her body. Am I never going to see her again?

Death had never felt so real before. Like a smooth pebble, he rolled it between his paws, for it had never felt so tangible before. He would have never paid attention to such a small thing in his path, but it had become lodged in his step. He felt how the weight pressed against silken pawpads, pressing toes against the smooth surface, as though it were, somehow, divinely preserved from any roughage and abrasion. And finally, he let it helplessly drop to the cold earth. It did not roll nor escape, simply stood there where he had left it.

After a silence that coated his fur like grease, heterochromatic gaze blinked again as he came to his senses. Many cats had left, and many more were celebrating the slaying of such a monster. The tom ambled slowly towards Orangeblossom's authoritative voice, head bowed low as though it had cowed him, and the dauntless flame had simmered down to a candlewick's ire. His every move felt heavy, almost. Eyes brimmed with some sort of pensive buzzing, though he would push forth, for he had naught to do. "I'll help."

( late reply but i wanted to get something in! )
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