if i die young ♡ body found

[cottonsprig]

[ this is pre the most recent gathering ! slight cw for a dead body. rest in peace @heathermoon !! :( ]

New leaf is meant to signify new beginnings; a bright show that after all that is cold and dreary ends, a new start to life is possible. Cottonpaw and surely many others have fallen comfortable in the peace that their Clan is gifted shortly after their turmoil - kits are born, warriors are made. Too comfortable, perhaps, though no one would truly know what became of dear Heathermoon.

Cottonpaw doesn't take her stroll alone, but she has since diverted from her patrol after a shift in the wind alerted her to a nearby lavender patch. The mere idea of harvesting the purple petals makes her think of the unbecoming nature of death - but it's better to be prepared than to be surprised, she knows. White paws part tall grasses, and she sees a warm furred bundle resting in the patch of wildflowers. Peonies bow their heads to Heathermoon, who's body is curled so sweetly beneath them. Lavender remains tall, as if watching, waiting.

"Hey," she laughs, "Heathermoon, it's a little..." early for a nap, she would have said, if she hadn't noticed the tinge in the air. Her lips stay parted and her heart sinks - it's a slow descent, as panic mixes with despair, and she cannot tear her gaze away. She smells him. Granitepelt - he was here, not that long ago. She stares longer at her friend, and the wind parts petals and grasses long enough to expose his throat, how it's torn and spilled. Her head hurts and initially, she lurches back -

And so suddenly she decides that she can't look at him. She can't. Cottonpaw thinks terribly of the herbs wasted on Granitepelt when she should've let him fight infection on his own - that if he lost himself to disease then he wouldn't have terrorized all of the Clans as he has. That he wouldn't have taken Heathermoon from them (selfishly, from her.) Her chest hurts and she wants to scream but everything in her struggles against it. Cottonpaw scents the patrol pulling over the crest of the hill, and she finally looks back towards Heathermoon.

A sob - "Heathermoon, I'm... I'm so sorry," - and the peonies pray around them. She hopes he is among the stars without pain, without hunger. Cottonpaw breathes out something shaky, pressing her muzzle against the ruff of his neck for a prolongued moment. She detests that he is growing colder, perhaps only warmed by the sun now. A too-long beat passes and Cottonpaw makes the unfortunate decision that she cannot continue to grieve for him so readily. The safety of the living has just been threatened. Everything hurts.

"Check the nearest borders," her voice hiccups as it pitches up, directed towards the cats as they approach, "His scent - it's strong. The wind is throwing it around and - and I don't want another one of us blindsided by that rogue's claws," Granite they should call him. He doesn't deserve the sanctity of a warrior's name. She takes a break from her anger and returns to her grief, and it's still suffocating, but she shudders out a, "I'll need help - with his body, I mean," nonetheless.​

 

[Firefang]

The sickly saccharine stench of death was something she was accustomed to. Firefang was so little when she first came across the empty husk of a clanmate, she’d seen to many had spent far too long digging graves. It bothered her greatly when she was younger but that fear of death had become a scab that would only be ripped off and reopened in recent moons. There is no rot in the wind only the iron tang of blood. The freshness that surrounded it had helped to disguise it but she recognizes it, no amount of flowers can hide the face of death. The patrol stills, the scent comes from the direction Cottonpaw was headed and she turns on her paws quickly, running instead of walking over the hills and long grass. She hears the sounds of the rest of the patrol following at whatever pace they’d decided on.

She slides to a stop. There’s a pang in her chest hearing Cottonpaw’s sobs, they’re raw and unbearable. Her teeth grit and she shakes her head, gaze looking at the almost peaceful looking corpse of a fallen clanmate. She didn’t know him well but he was still a Windclanner, yet was granted no dignity in death (if there was any such thing). "He’s with Starclan now" she tries her voice hushed, she moves closer taking in the not yet stale scent of his killer. The fur on her neck prickles "He’ll be avenged I promise, that foxheart will suffer for what he’s done" she snarls her words, her claws dig into the soil and she wants to search for him. To find a phantom that had already fled, but as much as she yearns for a fight there’s other responsibilities she needs to attend to. She held nothing against Cottonpaw, whatever transgressions of disloyalty to her kin dispersed. She sees Harrierstripe’s absence looking at her, he wasn’t here anymore to look after her and his littermates.

She turns her gaze away from the distance back to the younger she-cat and the tunneler her tears fall for. "Move him onto my back, I’ll carry the brunt of him." she was strong, larger then most of her clanmates it was a gift she figures now. She doesn’t care if he bloodies her pelt or his scent sinks into her, he deserved to have the dignity stolen from him, he’d be buried with the rest of his fallen clanmates. She crouches low already trying to maneuver Heathermoon in a position that’d make him easier to move onto herself.

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• "speech"

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  Firefang ✩ She/Her, Warrior of Windclan, 22 moons
  ⭃ Black tabby she-cat with amber eyes. former-loyalist of Sootstar, Moorunner.
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by Kedamono ↛ @legmeatt on discord, feel free to dm for plots. ​

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[BLUEFROST]

Sunlight sinks into fur that does not often feel its touch. Freed from the tunnels for an early herb patrol, Bluefrost meanders behind her Clanmates. There’s a slowness to Bluefrost’s gait—her paws feel relatively frozen the moment blood graces the scent glands on the roof of her mouth. Her sister’s voice chokes, strains—“Heathermoon, I’m… I’m so sorry—" Firefang quickens her pace, finds the scene just as Bluefrost herself does. The young warrior’s body is still, his throat in scarlet tatters. Unseeing eyes mirror her reflection, the life in them spent, extinguished.

“Check the nearest borders,” Cottonpaw’s order comes in hitches. Bluefrost turns to her sister, her chest aching for her—but she only nods. Granitepelt’s scent, still shadow-dark and full of the mire, pierces her nostrils. She had shared a Clan with that kit-stealing monster once—and Sootstar had placed the remnants of her kingdom into his sullied paws. She tastes the air, shaking her head. “I’ll start remarking and check for any signs of him,” she murmurs, giving Heathermoon’s body a regrettable, lingering look before turning to part the grasses.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 14 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

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[SCORCHSTAR]

༄༄ Cottonpaw may no longer be her apprentice, and Scorchstreak may have her reservations regarding the smoky blue she-cat, but there is still a part of her that worries for the apprentice’s safety. She may have originally been trained in tunneling, but she was also snatched away from it just as quickly as she’d begun to learn. Her fighting skills are rather poor, in the calico’s eyes—something that should never happen, given her age. Even healers must fight to defend themselves, and when Scorchstreak first hears the crying from Cottonpaw, she assumes the worst. Dappled paws race over to where the younger WindClanner stands, and-

Oh. Oh. Perhaps the relief that she feels is wrong, because she sees the bloodied and lifeless form of Heathermoon on the ground instead of Cottonpaw. But can she truly be blamed, for feeling concern over her former apprentice? Quickly she schools her expression back into one of steady stone, a calm lake with not a ripple upon its surface. Firefang and Bluefrost approach quickly, the former offering to help carry the body back to camp (another clanmate lost, and one who the lead warrior will mourn only in passing). The young healer’s words are heeded with a sharp nod, and Scorchstreak turns to Bluefrost. "You shouldn’t go alone. I’ll come with you." Even if she is ignored, the lead warrior will follow after the younger tunneler, intent on ensuring her safety. Granitepelt is dangerous, and clearly cares little for his kin.

As she sets off behind Bluefrost, she mutters, "We should have killed him when we had the chance." They should hunt him down anyway, she thinks—they should scour every last inch of the loner lands for him. No stone unturned, no blade of grass untouched. He has killed too many, from both WindClan and ShadowClan, to be allowed to live for a day longer. The rest of his so-called clan could be flushed out as well, either driven farther into the wilderness or killed. It is only the thought of Rumblerain that keeps her from admitting such thoughts aloud.​

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[RATTLEHEART]

AS HE RAISED HIS FIST BEFORE HE SPOKE — Peace was a fragile, beautiful thing. It brought with it warmth, and comfort, and a sense of being able to finally relax. To finally feel safe after so many moons of blood, death, and looking over one's shoulder. Selfishly, Rattleheart had allowed herself to languish in Windclan's latest state of peace, and security. Though she had kept up with her still fairly new duties as a lead warrior, she had also neglected things like her own battle training, letting her unrefined skills fall to the wayside as she focused herself on recovery and helping to lead the clan into a brighter future. The tunneler had been praying that she wouldn't need to worry about her combat prowess, because it wouldn't be needed. It had been foolish of her, she knew, but she had also been desperate.

Eager for a world over the horizon that might not need her to spill the blood of others in order to keep her clan and kin alike safe.

Of course, what remained of Sootstar's most loyal sycophants could not allow her such a dreamlike reality. Their former leader had always promised that she would paint the moors scarlet if necessary, and it seemed as though Granitepelt and his followers had taken up that same mantra. The scent of death hit her even before Cottonpaw's cry reached her ears, her heart sinking as she followed after her sister and the others. Her mind was stubbornly refusing to accept the reality of the situation, her steps light and crooked like she was walking into the scene of a simple nightmare, rather than real life. Slowly though, realization sank into her bones. Heathermoon's body was limp and unmoving, staining the flowers around him a rusted crimson that actually looked oddly beautiful against their petals.

Peonies. The thought of her former apprentice made her stagger, a wounded whine leaving her throat as she grew closer to Heathermoon. To his corpse. "He can't... of course he did this. Of course we couldn't just be allowed to keep our happiness. Heathermoon..." Tears welled up in her pale green gaze, though she stubbornly swiped them away with a paw. Rattleheart knew that she needed to be strong for the others that had gathered around, no matter how hard that might be. How impossible it felt when one of her fellow tunnelers was laid out in front of her, growing colder by the moment. Not even just another tunneler, but one that she had seen grow up from a mere kit into an accomplished warrior in his own right.

Bluefrost and Scorchstreak both volunteered to go along and check for signs of Granitepelt, yet she found that she couldn't offer her own assistance. She didn't want to move away from Heathermoon's body, instead moving closer to Firefang as hoarse words left her muzzle. "Let me help too. We can all make sure he gets back safely, and then I can work on... a grave..." The thought of digging such a thing caused her heart to sink, yet she knew she would do it regardless. He deserved a proper vigil and burial, and she knew that her paws could tear away the ground more efficiently than anyone else's. It was the least she could do while others worked, and while the elders carefully worked to weave lavender into his pelt.

THE RIGHTEOUS HAND OF GOD 𓆩♡𓆪 THE DEVIL THAT YOU FORGOT

• 

• 
  ❥ longhaired black and white tom with pale green eyes
  ❥ 49 moons old; ages the 1st every month
  ❥ afab; uses he/she/they pronouns
  ❥ homosexual homoromantic; mated to venomstrike
  ❥ sibling to scorchstreak, lizardbounce, and rabbitclaw
  ❥ currently mentoring downypaw
  ❥ somewhat difficult to befriend; wary but kind
  ❥ "speech", thoughts, attacking
  ❥ peaceful powerplay allowed
  ❥ all opinions are ic

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