lost at sea && stranger by the river

[WASPRATTLE.]

He stares into the sea, and a thousand, glittering faces stare back.

The man replies with a tilt of his head. One of those faces, it seems to follow. Brave; braver than all of its brothers. Was it only wishful thinking? Most likely... His own personification reaches to find a thing in those dead eyes. Watery and bleak.

But still, "Guten tag," falls from his maw unbidden. It's accompanied by his own stare, perhaps a mimicry of the few that met him (though, not intentionally). Not his first time settling eyes upon fish, no– but maybe... in this circumstance. Natural and river-grown, living and breathing the water they were meant to... so he's heard. He has seen them in captivity, confined to spaces so small within a twoleg's dwelling; and when he'd asked, 'where did it come from?' The river, was the answer he'd been given. And so, the river it shall be. What would that container be to the river, then? As a nest would be to the whole of the world, he supposes. With all of those places to go, what has them decide that here is home?

His paw grazes the water, and as if it were only ever a ghost, it's gone before his eyes. Wasp blinks. He wasn't– no, he... was not ready for a departure so swift. Suddenly emptiness, and blankly, he stares.

ooc translations

• Bozo staring into the river,, ( no one told him the fish would leave :( ) tagging @CICADASTAR but no need to wait <3
  
• Good day :D
  

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[Steepsnout]

WE'RE TAKING OVER THE WORLD, A LITTLE VICTIMLESS CRIME ➳​

There's a stranger by the river. It happens way more often than it should, in her opinion. Steeppaw had been bounding along the banks, tail-knocking quivers of reeds, on the search for a good fishing spot. She knew roughly where it was but... was it this boulder or the next? Willowroot wouldn't be too far behind but the apprentice didn't want to admit she had forgotten and so maintained her pace. All until that driftwood shape in the corner of her eye was carved into the silhouette of another cat.

Her face was blinkered into black and white as her eyes slipped below sand-pale lids. The foreign figure patted at the water- which, if he was trying to fish was a bad idea. Steeppaw herself had tried stunning them with a slap to the surface before and the results were underwhelming. Boring...

Aware of her place ahead of the patrol, she kept her distance. Instead of approaching she opted for a shout, its volume caught in the scalloped river banks and funnelled downstream. "Gluten-torg! Wacha doin'?" Dimly, she thought repeating their weird words might be seen as a mockery but hey, she was being nice. "Y'know fish don't like being patted right?"


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[SMOKESTAR]

With Willowroot carrying kits now and making a damn fool of herself parading around still he had taken it upon himself to keep quiet tabs on her apprentices, if anything he'd ask Cicadastar ro reassign them to him temporarily so he could have an excuse to do his watching with a little less subtly. But for now it was in his nature to drape himself in shadows and observe at a distance, at least up until Steeppaw's bicolor coat moves forward to the river's edge and he hears the girl offer a butchered version of the leader's own greeting; a language he was unfamiliar with but recognized all the same and sometimes, perhaps, welcomed the sound of it. Not now, though, because the realization that she was greeting someone hit him like a cascade of water and drenched him in icy horror. Smokethroat was standing, moving forward now through the trees and twin suns narrowed at the unfamiliar shape and scent before the apprentice. The rest of the little molly's patrol was taking their sweet time approaching, probably due to feeling safe in their own territory but the image of Peachpaw's body bobbing in the water at the shoreline kept him on edge regardless; a grim reminder that dilligence is safety and caution should never not be taken.
"Who the hell are you?" Any other day he might have been less aggressive in his greeting and this long-limbed tom had a strange sense of familiarity to him that made him even more uneasy, but he'd been caught on a bad day and he took a single step forward in front of Steeppaw so she should still observe but he had the time to shove her back if it came down to it.
"This is RiverClan territory, you're trespassing." Ball in your court, weirdo.


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[iciclefang]

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮​

Her sister's shout causes Iciclepaw's head to swivel, pale eyes pinpointing the source of the strange, garbled greeting. A lanky, strange-looking silhouette, unfamiliar, stands near their river, scaring away their fish.

Iciclepaw had not been on the patrol that had found Peachpaw's body, but the fur on the back of her neck rises. She adopts an aggressive stance beside Smokethroat, giving the stranger a pointed stare, sharp and cold as her namesake. "Shall we chase him out, Smokethroat?"

- ,,​

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[willowroot]

( ☾ ) it is in spite of smokethroat's personal opinions that the other lead warrior trots along, not quite showing yet, but distinctly less lithe than she had been, say, a moon ago. she sees right through her friend's ruse in the shadows, quite aware of his feelings on her pregnancy, but she tags along anyway, perfectly content with working up until she is not able to. padding at the back of the patrol, keeping careful watch behind, the femme doesn't notice at first when her apprentice dashes off, but upon realizing, she quickens her pace, hurrying to the head of the patrol alongside smoke to glimpse a stranger haunting the waters. immediately, something prickles in her chest- an unease born of drowned bodies and crimson drifting ashore. the tomcat doesn't smell like peachpaw's killer, yes, but one can never be sure.

placing her tail gently across steeppaw's flank, the black smoke tips their head, observing. smokethroat calls his threat and iciclepaw is as ever enthusiastic for a chase, but something stops aggression from bubbling to the forefront of willowroot's mind. despite having never seen the tom before, he looks familiar, and his accent replicates one they know quite well. lifting her head to nod at the long legged man, they'll call out. "can we help you?" ​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )

 

[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : his past. a subject approached tentatively, if at all, if ever he dared speak of it. and he would not, not willingly — at least for some time. as the leaves changed and he settled into his new world, coaxed from the outskirts of treeline where hare whiskers group roamed. he believed what happened within the confines of that rotten twoleg nest had stayed with him and only with him. as one of the few survivors ( really, he didn't know how many — his memories of such were lost ) remaining, it was his job to keep the horrors of a time long past at bay. it was a mottle of black - grey memories, hazy, just beyond the veil of reach and the river phantom had no desire to dig into what his mind had so carefully blotted out. besides, his clanmates would worry ; although worrying at this point did very little for him or any of the victims who had befallen the illness, the plague that had stolen his childhood. the sentiment was one he appreciated, however, but not to the point that he would allow it to hurt them . . and it would hurt them, he was sure. distant cicada, cicadastar, was still recovering from the hurt himself, but it was fair to say that he may never. some things were best kept buried, locked away to rot with the worms in fertile soil underpaw.

he has different worries now. different cats to stand by and fret over than ones long dead. he cannot remember his mother but she is all but dust and bone, and those that miss her remain only in the ghost of a memory. it had been a long time since he’d last seen that broken, dilapidated nest that had once stood ramshackled and dirty at the edge of the river, skirting just outside where twoleg crawl. how he used to linger upon the flat stone of sunningrocks and watch the sun fall behind its broken planks of shattered glass until one day, it was gone. nothing to his childhood but an awkward patch of faded grass and dirt, along with that same old, swinging wire hanging limp from the cracked ceiling. it had hurt, he realizes — a phantom ache somewhere deep within his chest, like the pang of quiet pity he has when he thinks of himself as a kit, long - limbed and gangly, jutting with unkept curls from each jagged edge of his too - angular form. icy luminaries watch each careful step as they’re placed, too precise, too practiced. the man moves like the water, silent and strong and ever changing and his mother would not recognize him now, should she have lived. should he have met her somewhere along the way, she would flit from him, head down and ears pinned. she would think him the scum of the earth, wild and blood - marred. she would hate him, despite his graces.

knowing this is a simple pleasure.

no longer is he a man instilled with her bitter propriety, raised on neglect and good manners — his memories shatter around her unique tongue and cicadastar does not form them back together. there is no gold to fill in his broken pieces, nothing to salvage from the pits of his mind. it was only him, his mother, and the quiet darkness surrounding his youth that he does not dare tamper with. he is no longer the foxhole in his mind, no longer fears the horrors lurking in his unforgiving dark. cicadastar holds himself with a poise he’s made his own, though bowed and broken it has been as of late — he does not hear his mothers quick, judgmental words telling him to stand straighter, lift his chin, fix yourself. the chimera pushes her to the darkness where her memory belongs, bundles it up and covers it like aging crowfoot. he has a paw held firm over that unturned dirt, as if standing tall over the corpse of his past could keep it hidden ; but vines do not grow up the lengths of his forearms, his fur does not mat with moss and rot. at first he does not recognize the tom sitting alongside softly - babbling waters, a cinnamon - dusted paw barely touching the chilling river surface. the river phantom makes his appearance in a whisper of undergrowth after willowroot, emerging from towering cattail and water reed and he is nothing but calculating. each step so practiced, so precise. he always is, he must be.

smokethroat is rattled and he attempts to press the tip of his tail against tense shoulderblades in passing, lips parting to taste the air, letting his gaze fall back to the newcomer who smells of rogue and, and, and —

and suddenly he is too small. he is staring at tiny paws through ever - wide eyes, membrany ears still heavy upon his narrow skull. he is too small and beneath his still toughening pawpads splinter old, rotten wood, mothball dust clinging to the coils of his thick pelt. loneliness envelops him more than his mother ever had, suffocating him in its black arms and he doesn’t want to be cold anymore, he doesn’t want to be alone. he’s small and scared and his mother is out scrapping for them to eat, wheres . . where’s — “ wasp. “ a rasp, an old name forcing past his lips unbidden. it seems petulant, almost — in its childish way. wasp. rattling wasp. this was his littermate. he had a littermate, a brother. how could he forget? his skull pulses with the beginning of a migraine and he stands almost pitifully before him, simply allowing the chimera to take him in. the changes, the growth, the additions to his visage. the dark circles beneath his eyes, tired, tortured, “ hallo. “ it’s choked. quick and low and despite it he stumbles a step forward, “ hallo . . hallo. “ it’s all he can say. it’s all he thinks to say, despite his title. despite the stars and their name for him, it’s all he can say until his chest shakes, eyes dampening. crybaby.

“ mein bruder, it’s been so long. “

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers
  
  
• 
• my brother < 3 3 3

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[WASPRATTLE.]

Interrogation comes sudden and swift. A rustling behind him, and the beginnings of a shout. Words that he could only describe as... an interpretation of his own. He's being watched.

His turn is slow. Flow of the river. A head that tilts and a body that follows. There's some distance between them still. One face, and then two- four. And soon, sluggish movement is traded for swift decorum. Long limbs unfurl into something straight and narrow. (Lift your chin, fix yourself.) Paws kept close and spine straight. His tail is laid neutral in a welcoming gesture. Open to new ideas, certainly. "Hello," For that was the proper thing to say. "I haven't much experience with... fish."

And he startles at the fast-approaching shadow, spotted white. His greeting is not returned. There's a crease of his brow; inkling of confusion. Jaws part with the words of another stranger. His exile was already being planned. How to respond with so many questions−? He clears his throat. "Pardon. I was not aware..." -that this land was occupied. Occupied, would that be the way to put it? Some defended their home tooth and claw. Others were no better than wanderers themselves... the consistent kind, in any event. Where did Riverclan begin an end? Friendlier face, now. Prim, clean-cut. Flowing smoke. Easier to follow. To them, he shakes his head. "No. I'm..."

A ghost between the reeds.

All too quickly, he loses his thought, and his mind stutters with the face beheld to him now. Near-reflection. Tight curls and a familiar white blaze. Unsure. His lips part, unsure. A million flashing memories, scenes he hasn't dwelled on for some time now. And again, they're swimming, swimming. Careful, a voice burdened by something he can't place. The utterance of his name, and he knows, "I know you," said with certainty, but with eyes suddenly wide and voice a low, bubbling murmur.

The visage that met him breaks down before his eyes. A form that wilts with every step closer. Proximity reveals dark circles and tired eyes. A greeting that cracks. "Hallo." There are tears in his eyes. "Cicada?" Distant Cicada. It is not a question. And what is he to do when a loved one is crying? When tears burn at their eyes because of you? Awkward, inexperienced. He's too far away. Distant. Again, so far. And the distance is growing, and the walls are piling high, and they're lost, lost in a world that's too big for them.

He doesn't want that to happen again.

A tentative step forward. And another, then again. He closes the distance, and here, still, he doesn't know what to do. A blank sheet in his mind, fresh layer of snow. His conscience burns with the threat of inaction. Wasp's jaw hangs open, and eventually... "Ich bin jetzt hier." said sincere. And he hopes that he knows − knows that he will stay, as long as he can help it. He lowers his head. Dedication. His jaw is set and solemnity in stone, but jitterings of excitement... What is there to say?

He nearly forgets their audience. "I would like to talk more." Simple whim, a low-rattled word, before he lifts his head. Now, he finds, there's more to these strange few than faces. Faces Cicada knows and trusts. "You are all... Riverclan," he decides, and he searches these few for confirmation. Cicada is regarded with a wary eye. The blinkings of be okay, please.

ooc translations

• sorry yall ghost of christmas present got his ass
  
• I'm here now. <3 <3 <3
  

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