killing butterflies | nightly walk

[SMOKESTAR]

The sky was empty-starless, the clan was quiet. At night the tension seemed to ease, at night the briars and bushes were shadowed and looked like monsters scratching outside the camp boundary but unable to get inside. RiverClan felt safe. It was peaceful to an extent, utterly silent aside from the small tell-tale signs of life or the snoring of the occasional cat. The muted noise of another warrior moving, the thump of a large tail idly twitching and the sudden cry of owls shrieking that rocked through the forest before dying off as quickly as they sounded.

Everything is fine.

He had woken up in a cold sweat, a nightmare still clung to the edges of his mind but he couldn't recall what exactly it had been about. The tiny filaments left were flickering in his head, shattered images and sounds from what might have been previously forgotten memories. He tries to hold onto them but they slip away as they always did and he was left grasping at nothingness. The tom heaved a sigh, pushing himself up off the mossy nest of reeds to sit up and glance around the dark den with no real idea of what to do with himself now that he was awake but in a matter of moments he made a decision.
Slowly slipping off the nest he found himself leaving the den. Sleep wasn't happening though he could rarely find comfort in rest much lately anymore, so he would not bother trying again. Strolling forward he kept walking until his face was inches from the wall of reeds around the edge of camp, he paused for only a moment before pushing through. Leaving camp alone was foolish, but he was a black inkspill of a cat at night and the shadows would easily embrace him; he would not be seen by two-legs or predators.

He was going to talk to Moss.

Moving like a silent shadow through the territory he paused once briefly only to pluck the stem of a passing yellow flower to carry with him. He was not one much for sentimentality but he felt strange visiting without something to place on the root she was buried next to. A reminder to her spirit if it lingered that he had been there. But if StarClan was real...perhaps she was there instead? Perhaps not. She had not gotten to see what happened after the battle nor during it. She died moments before.
He remembered so vividly despairing over Moss’s body, how he paced and suffered inwardly for hours before finally conceding and burying her by the old gnarled tree they had made their sleeping area. Smokethroat had stopped sleeping there entirely as a result.
In the darkness he felt his chest heave, labored with the effort not to let his heart just burst as the tree in question came into view. That he missed her was an understatement. He felt so lost.
Coming to a stop at the mound of dirt, the twisted tree roots, he paused to set the flower down atop the crooked wood before sitting slowly and when he began to speak it was as if the old she-cat was there before him.
"...I think Cicadastar would have named you Mossfang, because all you did was chew people out." His dark tail lashed on the ground behind him, it was alarmingly silent. He wondered how many other bodies were buried in this area, how much company the old brown tabby had in her grave.
"...I'm sorry I haven't visited often. I'm..." Even dead he did not want to admit to her he was fretful, "...there's a lot. A lot happening. We're called RiverClan now. There's....other clans, the colonies are no more." It felt as if life had picked a new book entirely than bothering the next chapter. "...there's two-legs...they're dangerous. I'm..."
Even without an audience, talking was difficult. He knew Moss was not listening, yet he felt as if he could imagine her steely green gaze locking onto him as he continued, "I'm a little at a loss...for what to do...I wish you were here."




​

 

[Harry Styles]

【CLEARSIGHT】
riverclan warrior. 32 moons. tags

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Clearsight was once again prowling the dark. The forest stood so still at night, silent but for the steady hum of the river, and this late even cracks of thunder rarely disturbed that peace.

Still he couldn't sleep. Couldn't rest, couldn't let his guard down and let anyone else fall to the beasts that roamed their territory. The silver-blue tom stalked forward, ears alert, pupils blown wide to catch any stray movement in the dark.

And he found it, but not in predatory form.

The tabby caught wind of just the end of Smokethroat's spilled emotions—his own head had been so cloudy these past days, clear sight blinded by visions of blood and empty blue eyes. Maybe that was why he hadn't noticed Smokethroat's certainty starting to crumble.

But now it was hard to miss, and he would leave the man to his privacy, he really would, but the idea of leaving a clanmate out alone—

He couldn't.

Not until the twolegs were gone.

So Clearsight padded closer to Smokethroat, letting pawsteps fall heavy to denote his presence. He'd come to rest beside the man, or at least he'd pretend, the hackles down his neck and twitches of his ears giving away just how relaxed he really was. (He wasn't.)

"I know I'm not the cat you want to talk to," he said softly, sunlight eyes fuxed straight ahead. "I know nothing will ever truly ease that loss. But if you wanted someone to listen..."

It's clumsier than his typical tries for connection, but everything about Clearsight is a little clumsier these days. He lets the offer hang in the air unspoken. There for Smokethroat to take, should he choose.

"And for what it's worth, you should know that you've been... exactly what RiverClan needs, these last days. You may feel lost, but you're something of a guiding light yourself."

He takes a deep breath, and his next words might be meant to reassure himself as much as Smokethroat.

"We're going to be alright."

​

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𝄞 — A DREAMER, A SOLDIER

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : cicadastar was no stranger to loss. that much was common knowledge around these parts ; his warriors had witnessed it, the aftermath. his walks now were longer than they had been, those days long ago in the marshlands. alone, nothing but his thoughts and the distant cicada screaming for his company. he was a sad soul, now. it was seen in the slouch of his shoulders, the droop of proud ears whenever prying eyes fall from his stately figure. his time for grieving had been short, intercut with the need to settle and mold the rivers into a home. the twolegs had caused damage to his lands, now ; beyond the blood that had spilled from his own gaping wounds, beyond the splintering crack of woods behind him. he finds solace only in the water lapping ivory paws, the wind pulling at sleek curls. icy luminaries are fixated on the sky when he hears it — a familiar voice, echoing rough over the foggy night. the mottled tom emerges from the reed to the sound of clearsight, his voice not quite reaching his ears as frigid eyes lock on smokethroat.

the white - dappled tom was speaking towards the soil, where new life springs in florets of river flower and cattail. loss lines itself in every inch of his trembling form, seeming all too familiar with the gnarled roots he surrounds himself with. cicadastar watches for a moment, brow furrowing to form a gentle crease between downturned eyes. slowly, aiming to use the tip of his tail to alert smokethroat to his presence, the leader of riverclan would slink up alongside him, tipping his sloped muzzle to look at the slightly shorter tom. grief. aiming to press gently against his shoulder, just enough to brush monochromatic curls with white - flecked ebony, he speaks, “ a wise old cat once told me that the hole left in our hearts from loss never shrinks. we simply learn to grow around it. “ a beat. german vocals linger in the still air, frigid lumiaries soft as they stare down towards the chipping bark. stories weave themselves in language of scratches and entry points, moons of claws dug into the dark, sturdy trunk, “ id nearly laughed in his face at the time. childish. the permanence of loss never truly sinks in until death takes the ones closest to you. “

the man sighs, and the sound is . . light, despite himself. the flower before them beams in the low light, a single alabaster paw coming to brush barely - there against the gleaming stem, “ it’s beautiful. she must have been . . very special to you. “

out of character information translations

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and icy blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a thick german accent, former marsh cat, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[SMOKESTAR]

His gaze is sulfuric, burning, wide. Company was unexpected but his bristling fur aside he did not react to the careful approach of paws until the owner came to a stop alongside him. Blue tabby pelt gave him away, he wasn’t going to chase the blue poet away but he was quiet in response to what he said for a time.
Clearsight is a tom who wore his heart openly despite attempts otherwise, he spoke with an earnestness that was almost enviable and hung his weariness on his back for all to see. Sometimes he wished he could drench himself in feelings, the struggle of being apathetic in a clan that pulsed with a constant heartbeat was overwhelming at the best and throttling at the worst.
It had never occurred to him you could drown on dryland, but words were far more suffocating than the river could ever hope to be and he felt doused in them like a torrential downpour yet he could not find cover; perhaps he didn’t want it.
There is little solace in the remark, but he’s grateful for it all the same. He did not need to believe what was said to accept the gift of it, the effort was valuable on its own.
Smokethroat would not begrudge another their comfort even if they were not actively seeking it, his tone was a warped gravel path as he replied back, “Of course we will.”, more for Clearsight’s sake than his own. It was a strange thing, having others to worry over. His own wretched hide was a mangle of dark fur and scars and he hardly paused to consider the consequences of throwing himself headlong into danger with a scream like sword blade’s clashing and claws just as sharp. His reckless abandon would not aid RiverClan, he needed to drop one of his blades to carry a shield and it was a jarring shift from his usual preference of blood and fang in a synchronized dance.

He was not surprised to be noticed leaving camp, but he was surprised to be noticed twice. One set of eyes was often enough for him but another had his fur prickling in a way that betrayed him countless times; his weakness in repertoire, his failings in etiquette. Sitting between the two now he felt like a feral dog held by a leash alongside twin statues carved and sculpted to neatly laid perfection. Chipped and perhaps worn but otherwise pristine. The leader of cloudy patchwork, from blue skies to stormy days, speaks and he is more focused on the sudden close proximity than what was being said immediately; it is a testament to his will he does not bolt into the forest like caught prey slipping through claws, forces his hackles down and tries not to let his senses overload. Being around cats, being in a group, part of a unit. It was new to him, he was still trying not to respond to friendly gestures with hostility. He liked to think he was getting better at it…

Smokethroat struggled in silence for a moment, he was oft not given sympathy or kind words and his immediate reaction was to take it as mockery but he forced the old habit down before it could reer its sharpness back into the back of his mind. Opening up was easier with claws to tear flesh than it was words to a heart, he hated that he was so abysmally poor at even accepting pittance that was not portrayed in any negative way. His instinctual urge was always to fight.

“Her name was Moss.” He blurts out, hardly as refined at speaking as either present but he simply goes with his gut and lets the words form themselves as they fell, scattered and disorganized as he was. “...crazy old she-cat, no idea what took her.” Sickness, if he had to wager, but he was no medicine cat, “Had to be something unnatural, nothing on this earth could ever kill a cat like her.” His claws unsheathed, not out of malice or anger but more an anxious gesture, “...she actually hated flowers, I don’t know why I…” She hated a lot of things. She practically raised him and his naturally aggressive demeanor or manners was a reflection of her, but she did have a softness to her, she did care. Like him, she struggled to express it. Unlike him, she never tried to change but she was so old there was no point.

​

 

[CLEARSIGHT]

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➵ Cicadastar seems to have better words than his own for this, so Clearsight listens, flaxen-gold eyes watchful.

And then Smokethroat doesn't seem to know what to do with the gentleness—he struggles, silent, eyes more open than Clearsight's ever seen them. And Clearsight wants to say something then. Encouragement, maybe, or an easy out—but not all discomfort is best soothed, and he thinks well-intentioned words will do more harm than good here.

So he sits with the silence. He waits for Smoke to find his footing, and his sunlit eyes flick to Cicadastar, alive and breathing, the spring of nine—eight—lives in his pawsteps. That loss had not been permanent and Clear supposes he's selfish for hoping it never will be. For hoping, planning even, to go first. Is eight lifetimes long enough to die his own warrior's death?

Smokethroat starts to speak, stilted admissions of the loved one lost—a name, a few details, and Clearsight imagines her, this woman who hated flowers and couldn't be killed.

He listens, golden eyes soft, as Smokethroat's voice catches and stalls again.

"Maybe it's not the flower," Clearsight murmurs, choosing his words carefully. "It's a thought. A remembrance."

It's facing the loss and feeling it. Letting love run its course, even after the end. It seems small, a flower on a grave, but it might be the very hardest thing. "It's all you can do for her now, to miss her."
​

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& we've all got battle scars ✗ ​

 

[SMOGBREATH]

Normally he doesn't find himself coming all the way from camp. Normally he is too afraid to step paw so far away from safety but he sees others and so he bears the grim darkness that has soaked around the lands. The night sky feeling heavy upon his own back as he slowly makes his way after the others that are quietly taking their own strolls. He should be sleeping, should be doing anything else but being a creep. He feels like that is what he is doing stalking others through the quiet dark. Even though that is not his intention. He just wants to see what is going on and he sighs softly before looking over his own shoulder. Just checking to make sure that nothing is following him. It's too quiet for his liking, missing the rushing of the river the further he follows the rest of the group and then he pauses. Listening to the soft murmuring of voices in the distance. Smokethroat is here and he tenses a little. There is some fear in him of the other and he looks beyond the blades of grass to see just what they are discussing. Something about a dead cat, and how nothing could kill a cat like here.

Oh, he knows plenty of things that can kill a cat. Once such took his face away and he frowns, lopsidedly. Flicking his thin tail he pushes his way through the grass, trying his best to look like he isn't shaken and shriveled up from his own fear. It's okay, he's here for...comfort maybe. But he doubts he is the best comfort out there. Still he is here and he looks at Smokethroat after Clearsight's words. Understanding twinkles in umber orbs as he nods along with what has been said. "Memories always keep them alive. Especially in your heart." He hopes the best for the other even if he is scared of him. Hell, the chocolate tom is even afraid of his own shadow.​