camp I'M LEARNING WHERE THE SICK DOGS GO ☆ RTA&NIGHTMARE

[CICADAFLIGHT]

TW for mentions of death/minor gore, blood, and emetophobia. Set the night after the night of the silent vigil for new warriors (so like....two days later? Whenever he's first sleeping in the warriors' den at night anyways.)

He is killing Smokestar.

There's black fur caught between claws that splinter under the force of his blows until the blood spattering his forearms is not just his father's. The shape of the cheekbone crushed between his jaws is achingly familiar, the curve of a smashed muzzle the same one that nudged him towards the warm bodies of his siblings. When he grabs the throat and shakes it, he knows he's tasting his own makings.

The taste is the worst part. That bitter coppery tang that's so satisfying paired with an undercurrent of brine or the thick, palate - coating stench of rogue instead brings with it the taste of smoke, of willow, of home.

Actually, the taste is not the worst part. The worst part is that that old - penny metal coating his tongue still brings a fresh wash of bloody drool to the surface, is still equally ( more? ) satisfying as it would be if he could know it was the blood of a fish or a rogue.

The whole time his mind is screaming stop stop stop stop, and the whole time his body keeps going, his gap - toothed fangs finding purchase, broken and blunted claws digging for one last drag of flesh, and then he finds that his idea of the worst part is changing again. The worst part is this sickening greasy chill in his belly—the real unreality of it all—the cold knowledge that not too long ago ( now? ) this felt like a real possibility.

Feels like a real possibility. Smokestar is not the only one he cares about.

It's almost a relief when he wakes up screaming.

A relief until he tastes it again—bitter metal and rich red—tastes his father's blood still on his tongue, can hear the song of familiarity under the basic copper stench, and he wonders if he might not open his eyes to find Cricketchirp's glittering eyes dulled forever.

He gags. Not here.

He can almost hear Iciclefang's voice ordering him to do that outside if you must do it, and thank StarClan, it's like he moves on autopilot—staggering through the maze of nests, hoping his rasping scream didn't wake anyone up, cold copper roiling in his stomach like a sleeping moccasin, waiting for some lower snake to wander by. Some target for this taste, this feeling, the bloody drool and adrenaline making him wonder—Was that real? Am I awake now? Is this real?—making him worry.

Gag, retch. Spill.

It's only when he feels burning long after the bile—nothing but bile, he couldn't think to touch food before the ceremony, too nervous, not that he touches it often anyways—has spilled out onto the wet sand that he realizes the blood is his. The thick taste coating his tongue isn't his father, but himself, and a moment's probing reveals a deep bite mark into the side of his cheek, already ragged from worrying at it.

Cicadaflight winces, stands shakily and glances around with surprising elegance. Hopefully nobody saw.

" speech "

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[claythorn]

They saw, and heard.

Claythorn was jolted away by the scream- eyes snapping wide open and head picking up. New warriors, threats, the twolegs- it was still too fresh and too close for Claythorn to relax and sleep deeply. Rogues in the territory, ones related to her, bated breath held as she waited for the shout of attack or screaming of pain. But the noise that had roused her belong to one terrified of their own mind.

Sharp was her inhale when she watched him rise and slip out of the den on hurried paws. She followed then, eyes glittering against the hanging of night. He is hunched over, form made obvious by the cast of moon and starlight, retched fluid spilling from parted jaws. And the reek of blood carried on the undercurrent below the bile, and her ears flattened. Claythorn made her approach obvious- no need to spook the kin of Beefang- and stopped just hesitated seconds away.

She stared forward and for a long moment, didn't say anything. When she spoke, her words were quiet, tucked away as to ensure those who were roused gently from his shriek went back to sleep. "You may want to flush your mouth. Will help with the taste." She indicated the water with twitched ears, eyes studying Cicadaflight's body. The shaky legs, the sheen in his eyes. Claythorn had been here many times before, but saying that aloud wasn't going to help either of them.

"If you're fine, I'm going back to sleep." She said quietly, waiting for any kind of assurance of confirmation- or denial.

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

• "speech"
  

• 

• CLAYTHORN she/her, warrior of riverclan, fourteen 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
  ⭃ padding after otterbite / / 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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[SANDPELT]

ꕀꕀ He had hoped that when he changed dens, he would stop being awoken by this sort of thing. Nightmares just seem so much more like an apprentice thing, and now that Cicadaflight is a warrior, Sandpelt had kind of expected for them to stop.

Apparently, such an expectation was too much to hope for. Instead of getting a nice, uninterrupted sleep for the first time as a warrior, he’s roused by the sound of screaming. Somehow, though, this seems much worse than it had been before—is something actually wrong tonight? The tom’s single eye blinks heavily open, and he peels himself deftly from his nest before making his way to the den’s entrance. He can see the night-shaded figures that await him there, one cloaked in shadow and ice, the other in hues of dappled sunlight. Of the two, either could be the one to wake him, but Sandpelt has his suspicions. They're only confirmed when Claythorn’s words reach his ears—you may want to flush your mouth. The scent of blood and bile hits him then, and he winces.

You couldn’t have emptied your stomach further from the den we all have to sleep in, he would normally ask, but sleep dulls his sharpest wits. Instead, Sandpelt brushes aside a leaf and settles onto his haunches at the Tom’s side opposite Claythorn, a sigh tugging at his maw. It’s with an awkward familiarity that he asks, "That bad?" It seems so, if the other warrior’s current state is anything to go by. Cicadaflight looks shaken even when looking with one eye in the dark, and while Sandpelt has never felt okay with the other tom, he isn’t cruel enough to ignore pain when he sees it. "Sounded pretty gnarly."

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 fangs come together in a hard click before he can stop himself; night seems to half strip away his humanity, and he clenches his jaw hard when Claythorn speaks, nodding. The warrior sets his jaw and steps to the riverbank, his stride only a touch shaky now, composure he'd lost for a moment quickly gathering. The loss of control slithers down his spine as he dips his heavy head—rinse, rinse, a pause for the water to clear, then a drink. He can feel Claythorn's eyes on him, studying him in this moment of weakness, and the awareness coils in his stomach, a slow - moving serpent.

By the time he's back, Claythorn's speaking again, and worse—Sandpelt, of all cats, has also been roused. Stars above. " I'm—fine, thanks. Don't let me keep you, " he bites out, and means it despite the night - honed harshness of his tone. With a sort of familiarity, he starts dumping generous pawfuls of sand onto the spill of bile on the earth, heavy - lidded mismatched eyes settling on Sandpelt when he sits up—hopefully, he thinks, Claythorn's making good on her promise to leave.

Now if only Sandpelt would, but night makes him forget himself, and he answers before he can stop himself, two hard - bitten words: " The worst, " the monochrome warrior affirms with a sharp intake of breath, moon drawing him into a caricature of himself, light and shadow with a thin line of red down his chin. He can still taste blood, and Sandpelt's voice carries an undercurrent of familiarity beneath the awkwardness of the whole encounter, and the story nearly spills out of him—no. Cicadaflight shakes his throbbing head and mutters, " It's—I'll be fine. You should get your rest. "

" speech "

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