private IT'S BRUTAL OUT THERE — cicadastar

Beesong had ushered Cicadastar towards the small stock of medical supplies once the meeting had concluded, tinnitus ringing in his curled ears. Everything's happening too fast. He's hardly had a chance to breathe. Pressure builds behind his eyes, splitting his skull. Too much is happening. He's been torn away from his friends, from his home, forced into the clan lead by Rain's murderer, and now Cicadastar has returned from the mystical cavern with deep wounds. He's shut the borders down, and Beesong fears for what that means. Would he not be allowed to visit SkyClan then? Would they not be able to visit him?

He wants to curl up into a nest and cry. But he knows such weakness wouldn't be allowed, not when he has a duty to fulfill. A duty that had been thrust upon him. Beesong has respected Rain from the moment he met the blue-furred tom... Yet he cannot help but to question Rain's decision.

With a sigh, Beesong slides a couple of thyme leaves over to the frazzled leader, beckoning towards them with a paw. "Here, eat these." It would help to calm him... Which Beesong believes he desperately needs right now.

"...Do you want a pain reliever?" Beesong inquires before they pick up the damp mossball a clanmate had brought, beginning to wipe away the blood that cakes smoky tortoiseshell fur. They'd collected poppy seeds on their way back to the makeshift camp after gathering thyme, if not for Cicadastar than for any future patients. Their stomach twists. Future patients. This is their job now, isn't it? The realization is still sinking in.


− ♱ ABOUT : he's being ushered into where the cinnamon tabby had made his nest, head spinning and throat burning with rising acid. vertigo pounds at the nerves behind his eyes and he hobbles his way towards a patch of floral - scented moss, bruised limbs shaking visibly beneath fur matted slick with blood. he falls heavily into the makeshift nest onto his right shoulder, gritting his teeth at the pain that riots up his injured left side. his wounds have all but stopped their free bleed with the amount of time he'd spent ranting atop the fallen tree, yelling his oddly - accented voice hoarse, only dotting crimson with each too - far stretch. thank starclan they were given a medicine cat when they were, he supposed. the man grunts, flattening his ears to his skull and tucking his tail close to his crumpled body. he was tired. tired of fighting, of being fought. the ache of rips and tears were hauntingly familiar now despite their seclusion. he wasn't built for fighting, he never was ; he'd realized over the past moons that he was most accustomed to the water, curls and webbed paws aiding him naturally in his new home. he wasn't built to withstand blunt force and it showed ; taken off - guard, he was put at an immediate disadvantage and paid the pride dearly.

here, eat these. the man tosses his head to the side, gazing at the newly named beesong through tired, haunted eyes. he didn't know what it was the tabby was offering, eyeing him frantically, " what is it? what does it do?" his vocals are quick, still panicked despite the tinge of exhausted sluggishness that slurs his accent heavy. his head pounds and the tom suddenly lifts a paw, rubbing harsh at his sloped nose. his head was rushing still, flaring fight or flight signals in a yowling cacophony of noise and sound. he wanted it to stop, desperately -- he wanted sleep. the tom couldn't sleep alone anymore. alone in the willow tree, coiled tight around himself . . before the construction of riverclan, he'd slept surrounded by his clanmates, his friends, at night. he never thought he would miss the nights he'd spent tucked into bone's fur, only because he'd never believed they'd be gone ," my head, i don't . . " a sharp inhalation, the sudden bowing of his skull, eyes squeezing shut, " the stars, they spoke to you too. did they say nothing? no warnings? anything? " would they know? surely they knew.

he gasps a breath, finally lowering his head to his paws and tucking his nose between their snowy tips. would you like a painkiller? " yes -- no. i don't know. " fear. fear, fear, fear. razorwire wraps tight around his throat, squeezing any further word hanging to his barbed tongue trapped within. what a mighty leader he was.

  • he has tear wounds on his throat and shoulder with one severe puncture along the arch of his neck. he has some pretty deep scratches on his chest, forearms and a couple on his belly that arent as bad that he wont let them get to. he's also having mild delusions from sleep deprivation!!!
  • 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.