just wanna be like you - cicada

[pumpkin]

Pumpkin is tired, so tired and theres a deep rooted ache in her heart. She still cannot see out of her left eye and where adrenaline once was, there is a fear. What if she'd never be able to see again? She weeps for the unknown, for her eye, for the deep bites on her neck. Shes terrified, its been so hard trying to adjust with only seeing out of one eye. Would her life be full of this? Constantly looking behind her shoulder, scared that another cat would jump her? She feels sick.

Pumpkin finds herself near a river and stumbles to a stop besides it. It had been what... maybe hours since the battle but her wounds still stung like nothing else. She looks at herself in the reflection of it, gnarled, angry, blood stains sticking out like a sore. Her face did not look like hers anymore. It was covered in wounds, mud, dirt, blood. She sighs. How does she come back from this? She was not staring at the same cat that she was when she first joined. Why did it hurt so much? Why was she so scared?
// @DISTANT CICADA ​

"speech"​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : water like rippling crystal ; sun dapples it's reflective surface in scattered shades of sunburst oranges and golds, canopies overhead casting shade from a cobweb of thick greenery. hound had taken him from camp after the war and shown him the workings of the river, it’s beauty, the abundance within — yet his mind still raged with question. flashes of blood and fallen viscera painted his inner eye, too - fresh memories of death painted behind his eyelids. his body still stung despite the way he’d cleansed himself in the shining waters to rid the iron scent of war, thick rivulets of cool liquid seeping through his fur and running through lightly seeping wounds until they ceased their fiery pain. the deep scratched in his belly still ached, tear wounds in his shoulders and neck feeling nearly bone - deep, but numb. numb. a part of him wished he was. like the older, dead - eyed cats that roamed their marshland camp ; ones who had seen too much in their lifetime and could no longer scrounge the empathy to extend. the smoke’s heart rocked him violently like the rushing waves, rattling at the cage of his ribs and creeping slow up the hollow of his throat. misery bit at him like rabid rats, their teeth sinking deep into his marrow and slowing him down.

a sudden burst of color amongst the cool blue - green tones of the river alerts him — at first, he fears it a fox pup. brilliant shades of burnt orange and cream, clumped in mottled shades of reds and brown. suddenly he lurches, the scent of marsh hitting him and — “ pumpkin? “ the chimera is slipping from the water, monochromatic curls springing back to life and coiling against his damp frame. she was mussed, caked in the scars of battle, eye folded closed and neck still weeping. he sucks in a breath, throat suddenly feeling wrapped in razor wire. he couldn’t help her. he’d lost her, early in — was overtaken by that damned charcoal tabby and saved by bone and gray and they’d gotten separated. she was so bright, full of life . . but young, too young to have been out in that. he should have been able to protect her, and ash, and all the other lives that were lost or nearly so, “ oh, liebling, what are you doing out here all alone? “ the male speaks, tone gentle and riding the shaking waves of despair, throat clicking around the urge to break already. she didn’t deserve this. he settles aside her, the sun already working on setting his dark coat out, icy luminaries drifting towards the water she stared into ; her wounded features, still dashed with blood. carefully, he would attempt to lean forward and lick at one of the wounds that stretched near an ear, working gently at the blood matted there both to keep her wounds clean and to provide at least a fraction of comfort, “ you’ve had such a long day, id thought you’d be resting in camp. “ cicada speaks quietly, accented vocals careful not to reveal any emotion other than the one he intended to portray — warmth.

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• liebling: darling.

​

​

 

[pumpkin]

Theres a ripple further ahead and Pumpkin hardly even notices, she continues to stare, stare at her ugly figure, stare at the girl that wasn't her. The thing that brought her out of her self-built misery is a flash of a curly black smoke in her peripheral vision and her heart tightens. She knew that fur anywhere, Cicada. She stares straight through him with an unreadable expression before her lips pursed and her ears slightly flattened. She knew she let him down but his voice was sweet, hushed and she feels the familiar emotion of sadness run through her. "Hello." her voice is quiet after he says her name and she tilts her head up to get a closer look at him. She finds herself shaking for no reason, she wants a hug, a hug, a hug.

He asks her what shes doing out here and finally the tears fall. She begins to weep quietly. "I don't want to go back." just barely a whisper but it shook violently. Hes licking her wounds and she falls apart, attempting to press herself close to his body. "I'm scared. I don't want to rest. What if the pines come back to avenge Rain?" she wants nothing more than to never leave his side. She was terrified to be by herself again. The sobbing slows down but does not cease. "I look so ugly. I look... so, so ugly." the words shake again as she turns her eye back to the river. She stares intently. A harsh laugh leaves her mouth as ears pin against her skull. "Do you think I look ugly, too?" she asks him, turning an eye back to him. "Red is an ugly color."​

"speech"​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : the tacky tang of old blood was a familiar taste now ; matted fur giving way to his quick laps, working her mottled fur back to clean quicker. he’d had to clean his own only hours prior, the water only giving way partially the sticky, clumping liquid. his barbed tongue worked through curls for what seemed like hours, rushing rivulets helping pull the smell of death from his dark shades. it wasn’t fair for her to sit in this filth when it never should have touched her coat to begin with. he wished he could take the terrors of war from behind her eyes — or what remained. she was beautiful despite it ; the gore that war had wrought upon her had done nothing to quell the spirit that lie within, the fiery tongues of spirit she had shown. she’d shown red hot bravery like the cinnamon shades of her pelt, and he couldn’t be more proud of her despite his higher wishes for her to have avoided it altogether. he feels her sob before he hears it, his little form starting to shudder beneath his careful administration and she closes the short gap between them to press against into the curls along his flank. cicada takes a deep breath, lifting his head briefly towards the fading sky to fight the tears that ring his icy gaze before bringing his muzzle down to press his nose gently into the space between her shoulderblades. there was little he could do but let her cry, the catharsis of tears something he'd been privy to himself only a short time before her arrival.

i dont want to go back. he understood. without the shadow of doubt he knew ; he'd only done so for a short amount of time, salamander's biting words enough to draw him back out towards the river alongside hound and he'd stayed. long after the tabby's departure, watching the lazy waves roll slowly upon the bank, where sloped soil gave way to the repetitive force of nature. she cries into his pelt and he takes that moment to gather his thoughts, the wisdom of his elders something he finds was not given with age. what if the pine cats come back to avenge rain? the smoke winces at the name, his jaw locking minutely despite the tenderness in his words, " they won't. the stars are watching, they wouldn't dare. " it was a sacred truce, one fragile and laced with tension but a truce nonetheless. aside from their spectral guardians, they had warriors posted at each edge of the marshland clearing ; the briar wall provided safety. the kittypets wouldn't dare attack their camp, especially with how weakened they were, but the fear was all - encompassing. hey were both vulnerable, short in numbers and still half starved for prey, " they are . . handling their losses, as we are. " the words don't want to fall from his tongue. he thinks of the loss he'd caused, forces himself to think of the lives they'd saved in the process. the bicolored male tucks his head over her shoulders finally, resting the curve of his throat over the back of her neck and bringing his tail to drape around the other side.

it was a fleeting comfort.

the molly's cries begin to subside and he takes the moment to lift his gaze, her words meeting his ears only seconds later. i am so ugly. his heart lurches suddenly, pinpricks of cold dread beginning to creep up his extremities. she wasn't. of course she wasn’t. cicada lifts his head and pumpkin is staring over the water, her unharmed eye distant and shrouded in tears, “ oh, no, no . . you can’t think like that. “ his accented vocals are quick, hushed, near frantic as he nudges closer on his forepaws the best he can — as if imploring. scarred eye or not, the girl was painted in shades of ginger — red like waves of roses and begonia, like fire. she turns her gaze back to him and he meets it easily, brows just slightly ticked up and furrowed with emotion too muddled in his chest to explain. she reminded him of quiet ; night he’d spent with them at his side, coiled tight around them as if he could keep the terrors of the outside world away by force, “ you will never be ugly to me. “ it’s sharp in his tone, firm — he is unwavering in his intensity, his sureness. softly, he allows the corners of his lips to slope into a soft, sad smile, lifting a paw to touch carefully at her mussed cheek, “ there is nothing wrong with you, my darling. these scars aren’t your shame — they’re your story. it means you survived. that will never be ugly. “

a shaking sigh befalls his maw, ears coming to lower just slightly, “ we should get you cleaned up and fed. “ he suggests softly, turning his head slightly to cast his gaze out over the water. it would help, slipping into the shallow river edge as he did. and the fish beneath . . the opportunity to pass on the knowledge he’d only received himself recently shows it’s face, if only for the smoke to ensure she ate. gingerly he turns back and nudges her ear with his nose, “ theres no rush back to camp, pumpkin.. but i will be with you here until you’re ready to return. “ it’s a promise and a warning ; he wouldn’t be leaving her side until she was safely home. home, for now.

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty seven months old, leader of riverclan
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

​

​