KNIGHTS AND MEN // cicadastar

Jun 8, 2022

Cats often praised RiverClan land for its beauty. She heard cats chatter about how beautiful their home-island was with the decorated shells and weaved reeds. To a non-seeing cat like Brook, visual beauty meant not a thing. To Brook there were beautiful sounds, beautiful textures, beautiful tastes, but the visual beauty of RiverClan she would never experience. In fact, she'd never understand what it even meant to be visually beautiful.

She has to get away from the talk of decoration and multi-colored shells, for she could not understand it like they could.
No matter, this opened up a window of time to get something the striped she-cat was dreading done. She finds herself at the foot of the leaders den where she knew the River King sat.

"Cicadastar." She says, "May we speak?"

// @CICADASTAR nw on fast replies cuz ill prob be a little slow anyways! plus in general im in no rush <3


− ♱ ABOUT : sunlight eases into the gaping maw of his ancient willow, alighting the wood in shades of golden reds and browns. he lie awake, as he often does, listening to the gentle babbling of river water that protects their camp. rare were the days he lie in rest, letting aching muscles ease beneath the midday sun. the man had heard once that beauty was in the eye of the beholder ; but as he lie basked in rays of gilded heat, he would argue otherwise. a voice pulls attention away from his sun - warmed daze, icy luminaries sliding open slow to gaze towards the maw of his den. standing there, illuminated silver - blue. minute surprise furls loose in his chest, bringing him to lift his head, scanning her features for any sign or tell, "brook. " the man greets, rolling over onto sharp elbows and slowly lifting himself, stretching forepaws out minutely before standing to full height.

may we speak?

it gives him pause, a brief still. the woman had only just returned -- from where, he wasn't sure. the beginnings of dread begins to seep up the lengths of his limbs, nerves prickling at the edges of his mind. to speak with him, alone in his den? the tortoiseshell chimera swallows hard because . . why wouldn't she? the molly did not seem much of an aggressor, so why does panic fizz in his veins? why must he once more stamp down the accumulation of paranoia building a migraine in the back of his skull? one more instance in which his suspicion may or may not be warranted and despite it his head inclines, though she would not see it, " of course. " its even, not quite soft but warm. inherent, the careful wisp of a weary king. he steps to the side, giving her space to settle within the old willow, "please, come in. what can i do for you? "

  • CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine 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.