long live the sea [private]

[SMOKESTAR]

—————————————————————⊰★⊱————————————————————

They were keeping a tight grip on the borders now, with the recent exiles and Kindling still at the forefront of his mind, Smokestar took no chances with security going forward. He loathed the idea of not feeling safe in his own clan, something he desperately wished not to force any of his clanmates to feel as well - none of them deserved the sharp sting of betrayal twisting in deep like he'd had to undergo so many times already. It was a wonder he'd even left his den afterwards, he almost hadn't wanted to but then he remembers Cicadastar's long limbed and flighty features twitching at every shadow and he forced himself out of the dark to face it still. He couldn't fall in such a way, he had seen what became of one who wore that crown of madness.
Lichentail had assigned him a clan border but before that he decided he was going to doublecheck the area that the former colony exiles had been cast away from first to ensure they hadn't lingered - he was more mindful this time with grabbing more than one cat, his own apparentice and the first two warriors he spotted on his way out. Mosspool was dutiful and tenacious, quite unlike her gentle mother Willowroot and much more like Poppysplash in her ferocity. Clayfur and he had always had an odd relationship, never quite seeing eye to eye but never outright despising one another. He had been surprised when the tabby accepted his leadership so quietly and with support rather than protest it in any way, but perhaps that had only been his worried pessimism kicking in; at the time he had prepared for the worst from everyone after what had happened between him and his mate. He vaguely recalls that night some time after Clearsight's death where he spoke to the mud-colored tom and they discussed loss in such depth that for a while it seemed as if they had an understanding. Naturally they went right back to how they behaved before, not antagonistic but not quite friendly with one another which was fine. It came with more knowledge now, an acceptance of things. He could trust Clayfur.

With his two patrol members and his apprentice gathered up they set out to the border, pausing only once more to inform Lichentail of his intentions before he returned to gather a second patrol to take hunting. As snow crunched under paw and the trek continued on in eerie silence he pinned his ears back in confusion to the lack of bird call in the forest and noted the ground kicked up along their territory line as if covering something. Tracks hastily hidden? Or maybe just prey burrowing awkwardly, it was just odd how it seemed to be exactly where their scent markings began. "...hold on." His tail flicked up to stop the three behind him, "...something is wrong."

✘ I've got a reputation and a name to uphold. ✘ Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves.

• Apprentice Tag- @BEEPAW.
  Patrol - @CLAYFUR & @Mosspool
  
• 
  
  
  Smokestar
  —⊰⋅ Leader of RiverClan
  —⊰⋅ He/Him
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
  

​

 

[Mosspool]

𓆝 . ° ✦ Mosspool did not complain when her leader picked her for a sudden patrol. It was her duty and honor to be called upon serve her clan whenever and however it needed her to do so. That said, though her mind was willing her body was less so. Having just returned from a patrol before heading out for this one, her legs were beginning to feel the strain.

It was a small distraction, but enough of one that she did not note the absence of the usual bird call or the kicked up terrain as she usually might have.

However, at Smokestar's signal she was instantly alert. "What is it?" she asked too quietly for anyone but him to hear. Though she had not noticed anything out of the ordinary, she trusted him not to have stopped the patrol on mere whim. She was certain that he had noticed something that she had missed, even if she was not sure what. As such, she was prepared for anything. With the news of the exiles fresh on her mind, her claws were quick to unsheathe. Her gaze slowly surveyed the surroundings.

✧　°　.　✶　.　°　✧​

ooc Information

• ooc: —
• 

  MOSSPOOL — SHE/HER･ 12 MOONS ･ WARRIOR & RIVERCLAN ･ PENNED BY @empyrean !

  Longhair black tabby with deep green eyes. Mosspaw is a very tall molly, standing a head above most cats her age. She has a slim, willowy physique with subtle musculature built up from a lifetime of constant training that lends itself well to swimming and running. Long, thick brown fur falls over her form with tabby patterning across it. Her eyes are a vibrant green, and shine with a bright intelligence and confidence.

​

 

[CLAYFUR]

The number of RiverClan exiles has grown again, but this time Clay doesn’t feel horror or shock over it. This time, there is no lump in his throat to swallow around when he thinks of what could have happened to those who are gone. No. Those two had killed Smokestar—and sure, Clay may not always see eye to eye with the leader, but he still doesn’t want to see him dead. He likes Smokestar, and owes him loyalty just as every other RiverClanner does. He understands the discomfort of being given a name that doesn’t feel like his own, a name someone else decided to thrust upon him. But more than that, he understands that Smokestar wouldn’t have called for the exile and execution of multiple cats if they weren’t a threat to the clan as a whole.

The short of it is, he trusts Smokestar, just as he’d trusted Cicadastar before him. And so when the leader calls for Clayfur to join him on a patrol, he goes without question.

It is only the four of them—Smokestar and his daughter, as well as Mosspool. They’re heading in the direction that the ex-colony cats had been chased in. They outnumber the outsiders, though, and so the brown-striped tom isn’t worried about any fights they may get into. He’s faced much worse than just a couple of scrawny rogues. But he does pause when Smokestar does, white paws coming to a stop just behind the leader as he cranes his neck to peer down at whatever’s caught Smokestar’s attention.

Something is wrong. He flicks an ear in agreement. "Yeah, that… doesn’t look right." He can’t quite place what’s wrong, but something about the kicked-up ground right at the scent line doesn’t sit right with him. Did the last patrol to come this way lose a mouse over the border, then try to cover it up? Hazel eyes flicker from the ground to Smokestar, hoping that the leader will figure out what exactly is wrong.​

[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

​

 

[THISTLE.]

( ✧ ) in lieu of a perfected plan, her ragtag bunch have devoted their time to causing a general nuisance. thistle feels almost stooped below her level with the talk of prey stealing and trespassing- she much prefers to get right into the action- but she plans to stick by kindling for now. if this is what the skinny tabby desires, far be it from thistle to argue. today she finds herself poking through the undergrowth alone, scenting the air for fresh signs of the clan cats before she moves out into the open. it is easy enough to find her old den, now fallen apart and decrepit from moons of abandonment. pushing inside of it, the molly finds little, only a few scraps of moss that she's not sure even belong to her. she backs out of the den, satisfied that at least her old home still exists.

the border lies only fox lengths behind her, stinking of river water and fish. thistle tries to ignore the stench, scenting the air for any creatures idiotic enough to be out right now. she catches sight of a scrawny mouse, rarely found in water adjacent territory like this. her stomach growls and she swallows, lowering herself into a hunter's crouch. it is a perfectly clean kill, barely a squeak out of the creature before crimson droplets dye the snow and thistle has her meal for the day. there's a swishing in the undergrowth behind her, and the rogue kicks up the snow where her paws have fallen and trots slightly over the border. she'll stay over it until the clan cats have passed, then enter from another side.

her thick multicolored coat does her no favors when hiding, and she hardly cares about the wrath of three scrawny clanners, so she enters in earlier than planned, noting their approach beyond the willow tree that blocks her from their view. her mouse still dangles in her jaws and she will scent the air, staying cautious, but blatantly trespassing within riverclan territory. ​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

—————————————————————⊰★⊱————————————————————
Smokestar's nose wrinkles, nudging the snow with his muzzle just enough to realize there was not a bit of RiverClan scent in this area. This was something else, someone else, outsiders boldly ignoring their border markings without so much as a care.
His ears prick upward, lone orange eye honing in on the molly before them as a patchwork of colored fur moves through the brush; the snow giving her stealth no pardon, she could not be more blatantly there if she tried.
His hackles raise immediately, dark fur bristling with a snarl and he's launching forward toward the rogue to pursue her the second she comes into his view. The audacity to outright hunt on their territory and then face them directly so unabashed gets his blood boiling. The leader's tail flicks, motioning for his patrol to move in as well, who knew how many more of these wretched cats were with the trespasser.
"Mosspool, flank her!" Clayfur was right behind him, between the three of them driving out this one rogue should be no problem at all.

✘ I've got a reputation and a name to uphold. ✘ Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves.

• OOC can go here.
• 
  
  
  Smokestar
  —⊰⋅ Leader of RiverClan
  —⊰⋅ He/Him
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
  

​

 

[BEEFANG]

FIGHT SO DIRTY BUT YOU LOVE SO SWEET — The black and white apprentice follows in tow with the rest of the patrol with both ears pricked forward knowing that they could run into anything out here, whether it be a hungry predator or unwelcomed visitors. When her mentor tells them to stay put since something didn't seem right, Beepaw couldn't help but hold her breath for a moment wondering who or what was around though her mismatched gaze focuses on all tracks that had been hidden rather hastily. She can't help but frown in agreement to what Clayfur says only to feel the fur along her back rising ever so slightly unable to shake the feeling of unease and her gaze lifts at the sight of a mottled rogue with a mouse dangling from her jaws, Bee feels her blood begin to boil at the blatant stealing and trespassing. With her own claws unsheathed and the signal to move forward, Beepaw runs alongside the rest of the patrol with ears laying flat against her helm. She makes sure to remain close to them already having had her own run in with rogues when she had been younger and Bee had made the grave mistake to try going after her father once, the scars on her leg are proof of her previous foolishness.

TALK SO PRETTY ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳˚❥ BUT YOUR HEART GOT TEETH

• 

• 
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ shorthaired black smoke molly w/low white and mismatched eyes
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ 6 moons old; ages the 10th every month
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ sexuality unknown/too young
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ currently being mentored by smokestar
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ daughter of cicadastar and smokestar
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ sister of cicadapaw & starlightpaw
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ "speech", thoughts, attacking
  ₊· ͟͟͞͞➳ peaceful powerplay allowed

​

 

[DEACON]

They waited in the wilted bulrushes, white belly against white snow, brown fur against brown reeds. Their eyes had been on Thistle for some time, watching the rogue act with an audacity that would get any clan cat's blood to boil. Had his fur still been stained with a piscine stench, he'd have admired her for the hustle - instead, all the ticked tabby could do was wait with bated breath for the ineffable consequences that would be enacted upon the other. Paws silently kneaded the ground as four RiverClanners found her first, the leader's cry a rally for a battle that his minions were all too quick to adhere to. Smokestar ran first, his child dashing so close it was a miracle she did not trip over larger paws, and hidden ears flattened at the call to flank Thistle. The bulrushes shifted just a moment as if rustled by the winter wind. Within, Deacon hesitated to chase the flanker. For just a second, he swore he saw the bright smile of their sister as she pushed them into the mud, and heard the rasp of an overused voice as it tried to sing a mockingbird's song. By the time they realised it was just Mosspool, they'd escaped their reedmace prison.

The gap between RiverClanner and Rogue was closed with ease from their ambush position, but instead of gunning for Smokestar, their attention was on the one who lingered behind him. A life for each one ruined by RiverClan, the idea hardly counted against leaders when death was a finite concept to the star-touched. Blood howled in their ears and set their heart alight with its ferocity, moving towards the chocolate tabby as if they could not see how bloody huge he was. 'You bleed all the same.' Unsheathed claws pushed against the earth as they leaped towards Clayfur's throat, aiming to sink their teeth into it and bite down hard. Four RiverClanners, two Rogues. Lips felt the shock of fur, a tongue tasted blood. A muzzle began to curl upwards in a grin as their jaws remained locked, seeing not the white fur of a former clanmate, but an enemy who'd taken away the last little bit of family he had. The outcome felt predetermined in that moment: three RiverClanner, two Rogues. Deacon let their forepaws go limp beneath them and twisted to push their hindpaws against Clayfur's front, trying to put enough pressure on their throat to tear it beyond repair.
​

 

[CLAYFUR]

CW: blood, major injury

---

The first rogue is blatant in her theft, and the patrol’s attention is quickly drawn to her. Clay’s blood sparks with rage—the audacity, to steal prey from RiverClan and hardly bother to hide it! As Smokestar, Beepaw, and Mosspool race after the mottled rogue, Clayfur is quick to follow after them. The leader’s still-recent murder worries him; what if more rogues lie in hiding, just waiting to leap out and take another life?

Hazel eyes flicker to a sudden shifting in the bulrushes, and a figure comes into view. Another rogue, of course. And Clay had spotted them before they’ve leapt out to ambush the patrol. But despite his notice, the warrior is not above making mistakes, misjudging his surroundings. His life has been a series of mistakes, it seems, though his luck would often have him see more good than bad come of them. And now, in the heat of the moment, when he spots a familiar form dart forth from the brush, that’s what he does—he makes a mistake. One misstep, and the tom stumbles, losing his balance for a heartbeat. It halts his momentum, and Thornmask—Deacon—barrels into him.

Fangs sink into his throat, and his movement halts entirely.

It’s surprising, how easily the rogue’s teeth slip into the skin. He can practically feel each of them as they notch into place, tearing through flesh. Is this how Howlingstar felt, when he’d taken her first life? Clayfur doesn’t have any more lives than this—he realizes with a jolt how deadly this attack could be. He strikes out with his claws, aiming at any part of the other cat that he can reach. His mind is racing, trying in vain to think of any way to escape from the dangerous hold the other has on him. But it’s too late for escape, especially when Deacon shoves their hindlegs into his chest and pulls.

Blood sprays from his neck. It wells up in his throat, spilling down past the wound and painting his chest with it. Pale fur is quickly stained red, as is the snow below his paws. His ears fill with static, the sounds of his clanmates’ shouts fading into the background. The world around him pitches to the side, as though he’s just rolled down a hill—but this is a different sort of dizziness, with none of the laughter or playfulness. It’s the same lightheadedness he’d felt when he’d fallen into the river so long ago, when he’d nearly drowned. It’s… it’s cold.

His vision blurs, then becomes clear once more. His hind legs give out, and suddenly the only thing holding the tom up is any grip that Deacon still has on him. He opens his mouth, tries to speak—to say anything—but iron coats his tongue. More blood fills his mouth, coats his teeth, spills down his chin. He blinks, but it’s slow, just like his limbs. He flails them, attempting to strike out at his attacker one more time, but it’s useless. He’s tired.​

[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

​

 

[Mosspool]

𓆝 . ° ✦ The sight of such blatant trespassing made Mosspool bristle instantly as she let out a low hiss. She did not hesitate to follow her leader's instructions, leaving the rest of the patrol behind as she darted ahead to flank the trespasser. Her gaze was locked on the rogue, ready for any sudden moves, when she heard a sound behind her.

Mosspool glanced back just in time to see the spray of blood from her clanmate's neck. "CLAYFUR!" Her scream was hoarse with panic and surprise. It had been only a moment since she had looked away from him, and now he was limp in the grasp of a rogue. A rogue that she quickly realized she recognized as Thronmask. Her fur stood on end, and she saw red as all she could think of doing was racing to Clayfur's and repaying the traitor's treatment of him in kind. By the stars, she would tear out his heart and throw it in the river.

And yet she didn't.

Under all the emotions raging within her, she knew they could ill afford to all turn their backs on the first rogue, especially now that the numbers were no longer in their favor. Sure, it was still three against two, but Beepaw was merely an apprentice. She was just as likely to be a liability as she was to be helpful. Someone needed to keep the first rogue busy. With Smokestar and Beepaw were both closer to Clayfur, she was the logical one to do so.

Even though her rage threatened to make the decision for her, her discipline prevailed. Her eyes narrowed and her jaw set. She made no move to communicate her plan. Instead, she turned away from Clayfur - as much as it hurt to do so - to attack the first rogue. Directing all the fury she felt toward Thornmask toward her. There was little time for words with Clayfur's neck between a rogue's jaws. Mosspool simply trusted that they would feel the same base, instinctual urge to protect their clanmate as she had, and she wanted to make certain they had the opening to act on it.

Mosspool rushed at Thistle, attempting to overwhelm her opponent with a flurry of attacks with her claws. As long as she could force the rogue to fight her instead of helping Thornmask, she would consider that success. That said, she would eagerly take any opportunity she found to kill this scum and help her clanmate; aiming her claws for Thistle's neck.

✧　°　.　✶　.　°　✧​

ooc Information

• ooc: —
• 

  MOSSPOOL — SHE/HER･ 12 MOONS ･ WARRIOR & RIVERCLAN ･ PENNED BY @empyrean !

  Longhair black tabby with deep green eyes. Mosspaw is a very tall molly, standing a head above most cats her age. She has a slim, willowy physique with subtle musculature built up from a lifetime of constant training that lends itself well to swimming and running. Long, thick brown fur falls over her form with tabby patterning across it. Her eyes are a vibrant green, and shine with a bright intelligence and confidence.

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

—————————————————————⊰★⊱————————————————————
There was another.
The vitriol that rose up in his chest was a blazing inferno, his mouth snapped open in a silent scream as he briefly locked his lone eye on the clash of brown tabby fur rolling onto the ground; if hatred had a name it was Deacon - he thinks briefly that the clan name he had given the tom was most befitting. A thorn is sharp, cutting, dangerous and to wear them as a mask was a sign he should've seen long ago of what was to come. Maybe then he would have not quietly allowed the colony cats to join, maybe he would've argued with Cicadastar more - maybe he would've thrown them all out the day he exiled this one and Sasha and spared his clan ever having to have that muddy water blood in their home. Mosspool presses onto the molly, he twists to turn midstride to move in the other direction, "Beepaw, stay!" He orders his apprentice to remain with the older warrior, the tenacious young cat he had once watched at Willowroot's belly now attempting to wash her teeth in blood rather than milk.
His focus is on the whirlwind of brown and crimson streaked fur, Smokestar knows he is not fast enough to stop the swift bite he sees glancing over a pale throat, but he rushes forward anyways.
"Clayfur!"
He lunges, claws and teeth, intent to harm or at the very least get the rogue off of Clayfur with as much force as he can; if he can not shred Deacon to pieces he will attempt to knock him aside with every ounce of his strength.

✘ I've got a reputation and a name to uphold. ✘ Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves.

• OOC can go here.
• 
  
  
  Smokestar
  —⊰⋅ Leader of RiverClan
  —⊰⋅ He/Him
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
  

​

 

[BEEFANG]

I HEARD, I HEARD ACROSS THE MOONLIT SEA — Beepaw's eyes widened at the sight of Deacon shutting their jaws down onto Clayfur's throat, a part of her wants to scream for the traitor to release her clanmate and wants to rush forward but her father barks out an order for her to stay. Her large ears lay flat against her head in subtle irritation but decides that it's not worth disobeying her father and mentor, she darts forward in the direction of Mosspool and Thistle watching the young warrior send a flurry of attacks in the direction of the rogue before attempting a more lethal attack for the throat. Her own eyes locked onto the trespasser only to briefly spare a glance in her father's way soon focusing on the pair of cats in front of her once more, she dives forward with claws outstretched attempting to claw at the molly's side and rolls out of the way springing onto her paws just as quickly, in case, Thistle tried to return the swipe.

Bee growls not hesitating to overwhelm the rogue with another attack, she leaps forward in an attempt to get onto Thistle's back before biting down on her shoulder while her claws stabbed into skin and leaned slightly to the side in hopes of her weight setting her off balance even if briefly. She simply wanted to tear into Thistle just the same as Deacon had with Clayfur.

THE OLD VOICE WARNING ME ✦ BEWARE, BEWARE THE DAUGHTER OF THE SEA

• 

• 
  ✦ shorthaired black smoke molly w/low white and mismatched eyes
  ✦ oftentimes comes off as untrusting of those around her, closed off, and not the easiest to engage in conversation with, she's not easy to befriend. all her opinions are IC only.
  ✦ 7 moons old; ages the 10th every month
  ✦ sexuality unknown; currently interested in no one
  ✦ currently being mentored by smokestar
  ✦ firstborn daughter of cicadastar and smokestar
  ✦ sister of cicadapaw and starlightpaw
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, attacking
  ✦ peaceful powerplay allowed

​

 

[CLAYFUR]

CW — death :')

---

Clayfur gasps for air, chest heaving, struggling to drag in oxygen through a torn throat. He feels so cold. He feels so… heavy, like he’s swimming through mud. The wounds don’t hurt, not necessarily, but he can feel himself growing weaker with each moment. Blood keeps spilling, it won’t stop, and the static that fills his limbs, his ears, only grows more pervasive. He attempts to hold himself up with his rapidly-draining strength, but it isn’t enough. He’s tired.

Finally, the tom collapses, landing on his chest with a weak, wheezing cough. His head tips to the side, crimson-coated cheek falling to settle against the bloodstained snow. Hazel eyes flutter once, and his surroundings momentarily drift out of focus. As though he’s seeing through a thick fog, everything around him seems to fade. He hears his name—from Mosspool, then Smokestar, and then once again, softer, in a voice he hasn’t heard in nearly a full year. He blinks wearily; he’s never felt such numbness before, and for a moment he wonders if he’s going to die. But he can’t die, not now. His clan needs him—they need him to get up and keep fighting, like he’s always done. He can’t lie down just because he’s cold and tired. His limbs don’t seem to get the message, though, and he only manages to shift ungracefully onto his side in the snow.

Above him a figure seems to materialize, not touching but only watching. Is this reality, or just his muddled mind showing him things that aren’t really there? It’s cold, so cold, and the figure standing above him takes a step forward. Real or not, Clayfur would cry in relief if he could. Because his tired eyes focus on the figure, and the details become crystal clear—blue fur draped over broad shoulders, with eyes like twin yellow suns set into a familiar face.

"Clear… sight?" His voice trembles, weak and strained. More blood bubbles up—he tastes iron and salt—and he chokes on it, managing to draw in one last ragged half-breath. I’m dying, says his own voice in his head. He’s dying, and it’s come far too soon. He isn’t ready… is he?

He thinks of his nieces and nephews, his family, how big they’ve gotten. How strong they’ve become. He thinks of his mate, and a rainstorm, and a river-smooth rock that’s settled atop a grave, a perfect match to the one that rests in his own nest. He thinks of Smokestar and Snakeblink and Lichentail, and how they’ll get RiverClan through the coming months. They’ll get RiverClan through all this, through rogue attacks and icy weather.

They’ll be okay. They’ll all be okay…

A scarred, bloodied chest falls one final time, and the tom falls entirely still for the first—and last—time in his life.​

[ YOU ARE THE STARS TO ME ]​

​