sensitive topics I LAY BACK DOWN IN THE SNOW ☆ RETURN

[CICADAFLIGHT]

CW : Violence, blood, and minor gore. Set in camp.

☆

It's a long walk home. A lonely walk, too.

The rogue had made his final strike and fled, gone before Cicadaflight had finished blinking away blood. Sanctity draining away, he'd gotten to shaking paws for the second time in as many quarter - moons; for a time uncountable, he'd stood, blood - splattered in the rain.

He keeps his gaze trained on his forepaws as he trudges homewards, as a dog runs back home, a cowed and rabid animal, a leashed beast bitterly beaten. The sand under his paws turns to soil, to mossy ground and ferns, occasionally to water and rock. The one consistency is the strand of scarlet he leaves behind, ready to be beaten away by the rain . . . blood splatters beach and hill, lichen and bark, spots of crimson that mark time with his shaking steps.

The pain is an aftershock, purified fire turned low and filthy, burning him up, scorching him, licking tongues of flame along his wound. An Icarian fall, sun - flames that blaze along his body, as if he might emanate a magma - glow into the gray world of the rain and the pain and the slowly - creeping fog. It's as it always is, the fallout from the high . . . a meteor crashing through Earth's crust into hellish pits, burning itself up, blood - hangover beating him low. Everything is always dull in comparison when battle is fresh in his memory, but now especially.

Everything seems fine as he trudges into camp with his head hung low, rain pouring down and dripping off tangles of fur. There's not a greenleaf - fattened catch pinioned in his jaws as usual, a little strange for him, but everyone has their bad hunting days. Everything seems fine, perhaps his steps are a little listing, his limbs a little shaky, the clouds casting murky shadows over him. Everything seems fine as lightning splits the sky, until he opens his mouth.

" Moo—eam, 'ere's Moo— " his gravelly voice is choked and tangled as though that ever- present fire has scorched the words out of his throat . . . or climbed across his face. Because the reason his words are garbled isn't a simple case of a twisted tongue . . . it's pain and simple inability, all of it oweing thanks to the hole brutally ripped in his face. Flesh is split and torn, tufts of errant ivory fur peeling away from the carving up his right side, splitting his white mask in two just above the jaw. It's an exaggerated mockery of his father's own injury, with far more than two yellowed fangs exposed. Blood trickles down his muzzle, off - white teeth flashing with each spluttered word amidst the blood and ruin.

Shadowed two - toned eyes glow out from above the destruction, lonely and hollow and haunted but blessedly intact. Every straining fiber of his body struggles to remain composed, and he would tell everyone not to cause a problem, not to make this a big thing, but he can't. More than the hurt through torn muscle and skin, he can't, each attempt at words gargled and muted by his injury. He fights to keep his physical composure, at least, to keep everyone calm and not to further frighten his already - damaged cousins, but . . . shuddering limbs give way, and he sinks into a graceless sit, his forelegs shaking and tenuously keeping him tethered to the sand below and, by extension, reality.​

 

[DogTeeth]

petrichor permeates as the rain batters the sand into mud clumps and rattles the reeds. Storms hardly kept Dogteeth in shelter, he preferred the tickle of rain running down his lashes and whiskers, and the patter against his cheek bones and ears tilted back.

His nose is to the sky where he lays in camp, eyes shut against the rhythm, and his senses are dulled blissfully. His bones, hum with relief. He doesn’t hear the pawsteps, but the tall form of Cicadaflight is not to be missed as bleary eyes blink open with slow recognition, they cast shadow across the ground even in almost what appears to be his hunched over state. Dogteeth blinks him into better focus, assuming him only to be shielding his eyes from the rain. He doesn’t think much of it until the man speaks, Dogteeth’s shoulders stiffen, and lightning splits the sky. Illuminating the sight of a horribly wounded Cicadaflight. Bloodied to oblivion, the tom’s face is carved brutally. Dogteeth swallows down a gasp.

Their long limbs trembling with, pain? adrenaline? Dogteeth’s jaws slack in horror of the sight but he blinks rapidly and kicks off the ground from where he lay and skids to the bloodied warrior’s side. The taste of iron settles in his senses, the smell of fresh wounds. His belly is so tight with fear for his clanmate he pushes his shoulder to the taller’s side attempting to support his weight. Moon-eam, Dogteeth shushes him hurriedly. " You’re okay… you’re okay.. Moonbeam!… we….we need… " his voice is hoarse with anxiety and his wide ocean eyes peer around for support.

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⛦ OOC INFORMATION REFERENCE ⛦

• —
  
  
• — Dogteeth PINTEREST
  — twenty-eight moons
  — VOICE & ACCENT
  — warrior of Riverclan
  — gay | crushing on n/a
  — small curly-furred blonde and tan tom with blue eyes.
  — very gentle voice and laugh
  — deals a nasty bite
  BIOGRAPHY——— ✧
  
• 
  
  

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[claythorn]

It seemed akin to a mockery to say it ran in the family, but the scent of blood on the air, Cicadaflight stumbling into camp with gaping wounds about his mouth, that was one of the first thoughts in her mind. Rain is splattered against her pelt, the only kind of water she'd ever welcome, and ears lay flat against her head. Dogteeth is already at his side, looking around in bewilderment, a sight that called out- help! help, and Claythorn began to move.

Her own shoulder shifted, strong stanced form pressing against the other side of Cicadaflight. "We're going to move him to her den." She said, ears flattening against her head. "Someone run ahead! Make sure Moonbeam is in there!" She called to any of the other cats that had begun to gather with narrowed eyes, before her vision finally turned towards Cicadaflight himself.

Perhaps she had gotten the side where viscera dripped, or the opposite, but she didn't mind either way. "Another rogue?" She questioned, and for two reasons- one, to discern if someone needed to go ensure the border wasn't broken, and two, to keep him awake. Claythorn didn't know much, but she knew when a cat lost blood, they started to get tired. Mistmatched golden eyes shifted towards Dogteeth next, and she indicated her head forward. If he was ready, she was pushing forward, supporting Cicadaflight as they headed for the medicine den.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ┌── WHO ENCRYPTED YOUR DARK ⋅❁⋅ GOSPEL IN BODY LANGUAGE? ──┐‎

• "speech"
  // shouting for someone to find @Moonbeam
  

• 

• CLAYTHORN she/her, warrior of riverclan, eleven moons.
  ⭃ LH chocolate torbie with mismatched golden eyes, scars across her right cheek and over her left ear. cold exterior and threatening glares, built for stamina/battle and not swimming (tall/muscled)
  ⭃ mentored by darkbranch (npc) / / mentoring no one
  ⭃ no current love interest / / only child
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by dallas ↛ dallasofnines on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

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[Ospreypaw]

TAGS — (ooc. tw for ableism)

It's raining, but the tang of blood permeates the petrichor-heavy air. When Cicadaflight descends upon RiverClan's camp, he wears a new face, and despite the respect that Ospreypaw holds for the newly-named warrior, there is one thought that stands out in her bewildered mind: Ugly.

Dogbite is quick to coddle him, and Claythorn is quick to action. Ospreypaw is quick to judge, as always. How could he have gone from a handsome, wing-adorned warrior to... this? Unable to get his words out, teeth peeking behind torn flesh? It's not just ugly — it's scary. A new face. Citrine eyes blow wide as she recognizes his wound, his hurt, his inability; poor thing. And that is about the extent of her empathy. Ospreypaw has never been well-versed in such emotions. Still, her ears tick backwards like clock hands until they lay flat on her blue-stringed skull, silent and unmoving. Cicadaflight needs Moonbeam. More paws would just muddy the white-pelted girl's path to him.

She does not try to tell him anything untrue. Dogbite is a liar: he's not fine, and he probably won't be for a while. "Does it hurt?" she asks aloud, and it's a stupid question, because of course it does. Just look at him, trembling in his seat. Fear electrifies her spine — maybe she does possess a drop of empathy, because she can feel the heat at her own lips, the breeze on her own gums, for just a moment. "You can decorate it, maybe." Cover it. For our sakes.
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[hazecloud]

—————————————————————⊰✿⊱————————————————————
Hazecloud had been caught out in the rains as some of the more wily youth had insisted they play in it. There was little else to do other than keep them in an already-crowded nursery, and so she had indulged them as their chaperone for the time. The view of storm clouds whirling through the sky made her think of the sights from the mountains.

They had climbed up high enough that the ground below was hardly visible beneath the fog, which she had then realized were the wall of clouds that swallowed the mountains peak as they had seen from the bottom. They had seen clouds that appeared in acres of cotton-fluff across the skies, bleeding into oranges and yellows and purples. A burning, fiery sunset get swallowed up by the water, then a silent, eerie black and blue took over.

"Remember, if there's any thunder or lightning we have to go back in." She warned over their rambunctious play, but the sky had taken a sudden turn shortly after. As if queued for her the endless vault of greys began to rumble with the arrival of copper scent. Hazecloud frown tugged harshly at her maw as she rounded them up as quickly as she could, tucking their tails behind the sedge as Cicadaflight collapsed into the clearing.

"Stay inside!" She commanded before hastily rushing to Cicadaflight. Her eyes grew wide as the scent of blood turned overwhelming, and his injury appeared most gruesome on his face. Claythorn and Dogbite were at the ready to drag their Clanmate along, and Hazecloud took to ensure the albino molly was prepared.

Quick strides made for the medicine den, pausing once copper turned to bitter herbs. "It's Cicadaflight, they're bringing him this way."

✿ ———— I'll be your regular mama ✿ ————— And I'll put that gun away

•  
• 
  
  
  Hazecloud
  —⊰⋅ Queen of RiverClan
  —⊰⋅ She/Her
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ LH blue smoke with green eyes.
  

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[SANDPELT]

ꕀꕀ This isn't the first time Cicadaflight's returned to camp with a brand-new injury. It's not that concerning an event, when the monochrome warrior half-staggers into camp. The scent of blood trails in behind him, nearly imperceptible over the scent of rain that floods Sandpelt's nose. He hasn't brought prey with him, but given the downpour he can't really be blamed—were Sandpelt in his position, he would have rushed back home as soon as the rain had started to get worse. But he's never thought Cicadaflight to be particularly smart, so maybe he'd just stayed out a bit too long and then pricked himself on a thorn, or gotten smacked straight in the nose by a strong trout. It's with this hope (not hope, he corrects himself, just the totally normal amount of concern that any warrior should have for a clanmate) that he makes his way over to where the other RiverClanners have gathered around. And he doesn't rush, because he doesn't actually care that much. If Cicadaflight got himself terribly hurt, then that's his own fault for being an idiot, probably.

His eye falls upon the shadowed figure of his enemy, and in his head, he hears the word pretty in another cat's voice. A gravelly voice, asking why he thinks himself ugly when he isn't. He can say now, at least, that his own appearance pales in comparison to the ruin that's been made of the other tom's face. An open, withered thing, skin peeling back to expose the soft flesh underneath. Once, he'd wanted to be the one to create such a mark upon Cicadaflight. Now, he worries.

No, he doesn't worry, doesn't fret. He merely wonders. This is the third time Cicadaflight has gotten injured in the past month, this time worse than the others combined. When will it be enough? When will it be too much? Will there come a day when he doesn't return to RiverClan's camp at all—and if that day comes, what will become of Sandpelt? For the longest time, during his darkest moments of injury, the one thing pulling him through to recovery had been the promise of another spar, another shot at defeating his rival. Now, seeing Cicadaflight swaying like a puppet on cut strings, bearing a hole in his face and speaking with a voice hardly distinguishable from the river's worst rushing, he can only think of what it would be like if his greatest enemy, his greatest obstacle, were no longer there. What would drive him? Would there be anything at all worth leaving his nest for, then? Ha swallows harshly, and watches Dogteeth and Claythorn attempt to support their clanmate's weight.

There's so many things he wants to say, so many things he should say. In the end, he says none of them. Instead, he watches as clanmates attempt to lend their aid to the wounded tom. Then, when it's clear that Hazecloud has already fetched Moonbeam to patch up that unsightly wound (when it's clear that Cicadaflight won't be lying in a bed of rainsoaked soil by the time the sun shines again), he finally speaks. "Wow, you're lookin' like shit." It would be an insult if it weren't so strained, hardly a breath pressed out between jaws that refuse to loosen from their clenched position.

𓇢𓆸 you get on my nerves

• ooc: —
• 
  SANDPELT ❯❯ he/him, warrior of riverclan
  ❀ pretty, silky-furred tan tortoiseshell with one yellow eye. calm and hardworking, but can become snappy if angered.
  ❀ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ❀ penned by foxlore

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[CICADAFLIGHT]

His unsheathed claws sink into the sand in a futile attempt to remain stable, a great black form beginning to list to the side . . . luckily, Dogteeth is just quick enough that a tawny shoulder catches against his ribs. The world swims slightly, tilting on an unseen axis, and ivory lashes flutter in a series of frantic blinks as he digs his claws into consciousness and hangs on. Nobody . . . make a big . . . deal . . . he thinks, and though he tries to get the words out, all that comes is garbled spluttering and a fresh spray of foamy blood across the wet sand. He tries again, to caution Dogteeth to make sure Pebblepaw and Shellpaw aren't around, and is rewarded by yet another spatter of crimson

It hurts. With each attempt at speech, flesh tears wider, ripping fresh seams of fire across his face and spilling out magma - hot blood, quickly washed away by cool summer rain. Still he tries, futilely, not wanting to inconvenience the warrior . . . or warriors, because now Claythorn's here too . . . or scare the kits, or worry his cousins, or bother anyone else. Successive garbled attempts at speech only result in more spluttering, lightning's loud cracks drowning out his harsh breaths as flame burrows into the soft meat of his cheek. The world spins dizzying scarlet once more and he staggers, even with the support of the two, and it's only the strength of tawny and torbie shoulders that keep his legs from completely crumpling beneath him.

Claythorn's asking him something, and he'd rather just . . . let the patter of rain lull him to sleep, but there's a vague sense of urgency, and gradually, his vision clears. Another rogue. A rogue? Yes, it had been, and he coughs out, " Mmf— " with a fresh gush of ichor before nodding, head lolling slightly on a long neck. Ospreypaw's question echoes similarly as he's half - dragged towards the draped entrance to Moonbeam's den, acknowledged by little more than a brief flick of two - toned eyes. He can hear Hazecloud ushering the kits into the nursery and he tries for yet another gargling acknowledgement, the blood oozing down his neck as quick as the rain is to wash it away.

Her grey - smoked form disappears into the slightly listing mouth of the den before him, and he pants out breaths through his ruined jaw, stumbling ahead once more with the two warriors' support. Stupid. I shouldn't have . . . I shouldn't have hesitated. I should have slit his throat where he stood. Regret flutters in tune with his pulse, and his bleeding should have logically slowed to a trickle, if not for the continuous motion of his torn jaw with each attempt at speech, mule - stubborn in his efforts to get the words out. By the time Sandpelt makes an unsurprisingly smart remark he's nearly on Moonbeam's doorstep, shaky breath emanating from his shredded maw.

Why? Why does it . . . bother me? The tan - furred warrior couldn't make it more clear that he can't be bothered to give a damn whether Cicadaflight lives or dies . . . and he should be glad of that, right? Right? His thoughts, as listing and trembling as his body, wander around the subject in circles. He's blind to the tautness of Sandpelt's jaw, the sharpness of his breath . . . just the dismissiveness of his strained insult, and he gets out a last red - raining splutter and a foggy - eyed glare before the two warriors inevitably hustle him into Moonbeam's den.

OOC : —

☆

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[Moonbeam]

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. By now Moonbeam is no stranger to the injuries that the territory could bring, to the death and destruction that cats outside the clan - and sometimes within it - can bring back home to camp. It's sad that she, too, is no stranger to the injuries of the litter of Cicadastar and Smokestar, that two of the three have visited the medicine den so quickly after their warrior ceremonies, that one of the three has visited three times back to back.

She thinks it is over, the wave of new patients being rushed to her den or her being rushed to them in the territory though deep down she knows it to not be true. The clanmates that reside within the clan were not stupid but they were fiercely loyal. Loyal to their clan, loyal to their leader, loyal to the territory that fed and protect them, and there were many threats upon all of those that they were loyal to and though not stupid her clanmates were foolish in their loyalty, throwing precaution to the wind and simply rushing forward to attack rather than to think, in the moment not caring if they were to be killed. It hurt her to see two of the three she grew up with follow in this pattern of reckless abandon that should be left for leaders for they had lives to spare, lives to do what must be done. But what should she expect when the trio were born into the bloodline of leadership twice over?

Hazecloud is quick to enter her den, quick to stop and share of what had happened and just as she's grabbing herbs to heal whatever it was that was so bad the cats had to drag her new patient to her den instead of him coming to visit himself she smells that oh-so-familiar coppery scent and she turns to look, watches as he's moved in with the help of those around him and with a quick movement of her tail she'd motion to a nest where he'd reside for now while she healed. It would later be moved next to her own so that he may sleep as close to his sister as possible she would make sure of that.

"Quit trying to talk." Quickly words were mewed out as moss was placed against the side of his face, pressed there to help stop the blood before herbs were moved towards him to help stop the pain. "Try your best to eat this, quick as possible." Usual softness of the pale moggie's voice was replaced with focus, with instruction and stern orders slowly gained from her time healing the clan, from the practice that she had to endure to get to this point. There was no question if she knew what she was doing when it came to healing these wounds, for although she had not seen something like this so fresh she had seen it healed before, knew it could be, knew that infection was the main thing to fight away.

"I need one of you to fetch me water, and the rest to leave." She knew there would be a gathering of cats quickly at the mouth of her den, but she needed space to think, space to heal without questions or distractions. They would know soon enough how his healing was going once bleeding stopped, once she had enough time to shake the feeling she was treating Cicadastar in her den now, for though they were not the same cat they looked so similar in this moment.

LET THE VALLEYS AWAKE ꕥ LET THEM RATTLE AND SHAKE

• --
• ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ flesh wounds
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ infections
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ aches & pains
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ illness
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ breathing
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ traveling
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ broken bones
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ kitting
  ꕥꕥꕥꕥꕥ poisons
• ꕥ SH white masking cinnamon torbie w/orange eyes & small ears
  ꕥ 14 moons old; ages the 17th every month
  ꕥ homosexual homoromantic ; mated to beefang
  ꕥ currently mentoring none
  ꕥ "speech", thoughts, attacking
  ꕥ easy in combat unless in water, focuses on defensive tactics

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