- Jun 7, 2022
- 415
- 336
- 63
cw for brief gore + disassociation.
− ♱ ABOUT : he awakes.
his death had been indescribable. the bright, white - hot light he'd been thrust into, the one that unspooled his soul and left him gutted, flayed and unsightly . . he'd rested there. there, in that blinding heat. limbo. not god nor devil was he, neither starclan nor the darkness should he go. his suspension — speared, pinned like an insect beneath a watchful eye, pinned and drained. death had been oddly cold ; an inner chill, a draft where one should not reach bringing a hollow whistle between splintered larynx, bubbling with blood. fate was cruel, crueler than him, crueler than the vengeful paw of his mother, of his enemies. he’d been thrusted into starclan after moments of seeping, unable to act beyond watching his clanmates scramble for their lives, to listen to the steady spatter of his insides against the slick ground below. his vision dims only when the last of the patrol dips from sight, clayfur tugging smogbreath along at the tail end. foxpaw, his charge — her eyes haunt him even in his first, conscious moments. clearsight had taken her with him, his touch still singed into his fur. a goodbye.
rebirth had been worse.
the star - laden cat before him had offered him a soft, pitying look as life floods back into him and his eyes blur, the wavering feline before him dissipating into the unfurling fog — clawed his broken pieces together, forced them to stick. a quack surgery it was, like stone shards in his veins, but slowly — slowly — he'd been remade. something solid again, something unlike he'd been before. scars old and new line the soft edges of his fresh physique, the wound that had splintered his throat only hours prior sealed. he thinks of memories drowned in a vase of hyacinth petals, voice spilling dust, how the florets in his chest twine and twine. he relates to the way they choke, strangulation in it's purest form and he, too, is undefined. he, too, is more than this body. the earth doesn’t drink of blood today, only of fresh water — but the same cannot be said for him. he still tastes it ; the viscera that ripped its way up the hollow of his throat, spattered onto smokethroat, clearsight, iciclepaw.
pallid eyes blink open and he is. . somewhere dark and cramped. the walls around him move with the wind, like too - big leaves, shaded the color of damp soil. his heart drops as he realizes, the stench of twoleg too strong. sickening. the man stumbles to his paws, limbs forced to steady and stand, shaking like a newborn upon untrodden paws. their nest. he was in their nest. they brought him back, tucking him in this little hole where the walls smell of death and rot. the heady scent of blood and something deeper, smokey and metallic amongst the reeking stench of an upwalker. as the man’s eyes adjust, he can see the slightest sliver in closed walls, early morning light casting a billowing white glow across the covered ground. an escape. with a quickness he’d rarely exhibited outside of battle, the mottled leader shoved his arched nose through the sliver and shoves through. late greenleaf wafts over him in gusts, maw parting and gasping lungful after lungful of crisp, morning air. he was alive. he was alive again.
the area around him was immediately familiar. towering nests, making odd flapping sounds in the late greenleaf air. the curled fur along his spine bristles, wide, pale eyes skittering over the open land before him. it was a flat clearing, with patches of bare, pale dirt, grass worn thin and broken by overuse. small, strong black sticks jut haphazardly from the ground, pinning nests where they weren’t simply discarded, lying half - overtaken with moss in the undergrowth. in the very middle lie a cluster of splintering, charred wood, the scent of smoky prey wafting heavily from its flickering embers. nervously, cicadastar creeps forward, crouching lower and lower to the ground with each nearing stride. the scent of prey grows stronger yet — calling him forward, beckoning him by his empty, grumbling stomach. just around the charred logs lie a small pile of hare ; skinned red, drained, their pelts lying draped over one of the bigger, toppled trees around the small stick - pit. he blinks : once. twice. a single glance around tells him that the twolegs are not present, and their prey . . was perfectly ripe for the taking. picking one of the hares up by its semi - exposed spine, the tom lifts, striding forward without another glance back.
the walk home is made in near silence ; nothing but the call of birds and snapping of twigs underfoot, pale blue eyes staring forward. unwavering. unblinking. he’d died, just as starclan had said ; they’d gifted him nine lives, and all the excruciating pain that came with it. he felt too light, now. reset. his body no longer aches with exhaustion, with restlessness. he felt youthful, brimming with ceaseless energy. he feels numb. as the tall, dark leader of riverclan pushes through the reed lining the entrance to his home, he slows. he stills. he burns. something violent crawls it’s way up his throat, guttural and horrible. a sob. it never reaches his maw, head lifting high, aquiline muzzle tipping skyward to keep back tears — trauma lines each tense, trembling muscle. for a moment, he seems to stand strong. until his body wavers, visibly — as if shaken by the wind, landing heavily on the opposite paw, seeming dazed. he wanted his children. he wanted clearsight, wanted beesong, even. he wanted to see smokethroat, foxpaw — to see them okay, not hunted as he had been. speared and taken to rot, harvested like the scraps around those charred logs.
the hare falls from his sloped maw, unceremoniously.
the river phantom has returned.
− ♱ ABOUT : he awakes.
his death had been indescribable. the bright, white - hot light he'd been thrust into, the one that unspooled his soul and left him gutted, flayed and unsightly . . he'd rested there. there, in that blinding heat. limbo. not god nor devil was he, neither starclan nor the darkness should he go. his suspension — speared, pinned like an insect beneath a watchful eye, pinned and drained. death had been oddly cold ; an inner chill, a draft where one should not reach bringing a hollow whistle between splintered larynx, bubbling with blood. fate was cruel, crueler than him, crueler than the vengeful paw of his mother, of his enemies. he’d been thrusted into starclan after moments of seeping, unable to act beyond watching his clanmates scramble for their lives, to listen to the steady spatter of his insides against the slick ground below. his vision dims only when the last of the patrol dips from sight, clayfur tugging smogbreath along at the tail end. foxpaw, his charge — her eyes haunt him even in his first, conscious moments. clearsight had taken her with him, his touch still singed into his fur. a goodbye.
rebirth had been worse.
the star - laden cat before him had offered him a soft, pitying look as life floods back into him and his eyes blur, the wavering feline before him dissipating into the unfurling fog — clawed his broken pieces together, forced them to stick. a quack surgery it was, like stone shards in his veins, but slowly — slowly — he'd been remade. something solid again, something unlike he'd been before. scars old and new line the soft edges of his fresh physique, the wound that had splintered his throat only hours prior sealed. he thinks of memories drowned in a vase of hyacinth petals, voice spilling dust, how the florets in his chest twine and twine. he relates to the way they choke, strangulation in it's purest form and he, too, is undefined. he, too, is more than this body. the earth doesn’t drink of blood today, only of fresh water — but the same cannot be said for him. he still tastes it ; the viscera that ripped its way up the hollow of his throat, spattered onto smokethroat, clearsight, iciclepaw.
pallid eyes blink open and he is. . somewhere dark and cramped. the walls around him move with the wind, like too - big leaves, shaded the color of damp soil. his heart drops as he realizes, the stench of twoleg too strong. sickening. the man stumbles to his paws, limbs forced to steady and stand, shaking like a newborn upon untrodden paws. their nest. he was in their nest. they brought him back, tucking him in this little hole where the walls smell of death and rot. the heady scent of blood and something deeper, smokey and metallic amongst the reeking stench of an upwalker. as the man’s eyes adjust, he can see the slightest sliver in closed walls, early morning light casting a billowing white glow across the covered ground. an escape. with a quickness he’d rarely exhibited outside of battle, the mottled leader shoved his arched nose through the sliver and shoves through. late greenleaf wafts over him in gusts, maw parting and gasping lungful after lungful of crisp, morning air. he was alive. he was alive again.
the area around him was immediately familiar. towering nests, making odd flapping sounds in the late greenleaf air. the curled fur along his spine bristles, wide, pale eyes skittering over the open land before him. it was a flat clearing, with patches of bare, pale dirt, grass worn thin and broken by overuse. small, strong black sticks jut haphazardly from the ground, pinning nests where they weren’t simply discarded, lying half - overtaken with moss in the undergrowth. in the very middle lie a cluster of splintering, charred wood, the scent of smoky prey wafting heavily from its flickering embers. nervously, cicadastar creeps forward, crouching lower and lower to the ground with each nearing stride. the scent of prey grows stronger yet — calling him forward, beckoning him by his empty, grumbling stomach. just around the charred logs lie a small pile of hare ; skinned red, drained, their pelts lying draped over one of the bigger, toppled trees around the small stick - pit. he blinks : once. twice. a single glance around tells him that the twolegs are not present, and their prey . . was perfectly ripe for the taking. picking one of the hares up by its semi - exposed spine, the tom lifts, striding forward without another glance back.
the walk home is made in near silence ; nothing but the call of birds and snapping of twigs underfoot, pale blue eyes staring forward. unwavering. unblinking. he’d died, just as starclan had said ; they’d gifted him nine lives, and all the excruciating pain that came with it. he felt too light, now. reset. his body no longer aches with exhaustion, with restlessness. he felt youthful, brimming with ceaseless energy. he feels numb. as the tall, dark leader of riverclan pushes through the reed lining the entrance to his home, he slows. he stills. he burns. something violent crawls it’s way up his throat, guttural and horrible. a sob. it never reaches his maw, head lifting high, aquiline muzzle tipping skyward to keep back tears — trauma lines each tense, trembling muscle. for a moment, he seems to stand strong. until his body wavers, visibly — as if shaken by the wind, landing heavily on the opposite paw, seeming dazed. he wanted his children. he wanted clearsight, wanted beesong, even. he wanted to see smokethroat, foxpaw — to see them okay, not hunted as he had been. speared and taken to rot, harvested like the scraps around those charred logs.
the hare falls from his sloped maw, unceremoniously.
the river phantom has returned.
- he is very visibly in shock
-
− 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.
