- Aug 9, 2022
- 689
- 327
- 63
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The Marsh Colony territory was familiar like an old wound, scabbed over and healed but still strewn upon the same canvas. It was nostalgia and also otherworldly, he couldn't say he was glad to be back given the circumstances but he wouldn't have been glad to be back regardless. RiverClan's territory and camp had become home more than this place ever had been, more than any time he had spent in his youth in two-leg place chasing rats and running from packs of rogues hellbent on defending land they didn't own. He longs for the willow tree, the warm nest, the curl of a larger mottled form around him in a comforting embrace; it wakens him from his already restless sleep. Smokethroat can not get comfortable here, he didn't think he would ever be able to rest without at least knowing something, any kind of answer whether it be the one he wanted or not. Cicadastar was out there still, somewhere, but even knowing his foolishness he rose to stand without hesitation. He had told Snakeblink it was bordering on a death wish to take a group to find him, too many cats drew a crowd and the rogues were of larger numbers than he had initially thought but one cat might manage. One cat might slip through undaunted and he had the pelt to match the night sky that would keep him guarded even longer from prying eyes.
His clan slept together near the burnt sycamore tree, the mingling scents of other clans still present but they were all still distinct enough he could find his clanmates even in the dark. His thoughts drifted to the journey cats as he carefully stepped over loose limbs and curled tails, how they would be unidentifiable on scent alone after a month of traveling in a group; their clan identities lost.
Iciclefang, Fernpaw, Hazecloud, Dovethroat, Mosspaw, Lakemoon...would they ever come back, would they bring the cure? With all the clans together the sickness would begin to spread like wildfire, catching any weaker, younger and more feeble cats first to claim before it branched out to their strongest. Soon no one would be equipped to search about the carrion piles for food, meager scraps to hold them over.
Was this how the clans ended? Not with a roar of violence, a last stand in a battle to defend themselves but in a meek whimper as they coughed and sputtered; choking on their own mucus lined throats.
The dark tom reaches the edge of the circle of cats, casts a glance backwards and meets the glimmer of green eyes in the dark. He is frozen for a moment, silently staring back, a flutter rising in his chest; the last wisp of hope still there desperate to burn, to blaze. Almost immediately the eyes are gone, closed, a head settles back down. It is a quiet acceptance, an acknowledgement.
He was going to come back with Cicadastar or he was not going to come back at all. With a flick of his tail he turned and took to the brush, vanishing into the ink spill of shadows that shrouded them all in the trees mighty shade.
The Marsh Colony territory was familiar like an old wound, scabbed over and healed but still strewn upon the same canvas. It was nostalgia and also otherworldly, he couldn't say he was glad to be back given the circumstances but he wouldn't have been glad to be back regardless. RiverClan's territory and camp had become home more than this place ever had been, more than any time he had spent in his youth in two-leg place chasing rats and running from packs of rogues hellbent on defending land they didn't own. He longs for the willow tree, the warm nest, the curl of a larger mottled form around him in a comforting embrace; it wakens him from his already restless sleep. Smokethroat can not get comfortable here, he didn't think he would ever be able to rest without at least knowing something, any kind of answer whether it be the one he wanted or not. Cicadastar was out there still, somewhere, but even knowing his foolishness he rose to stand without hesitation. He had told Snakeblink it was bordering on a death wish to take a group to find him, too many cats drew a crowd and the rogues were of larger numbers than he had initially thought but one cat might manage. One cat might slip through undaunted and he had the pelt to match the night sky that would keep him guarded even longer from prying eyes.
His clan slept together near the burnt sycamore tree, the mingling scents of other clans still present but they were all still distinct enough he could find his clanmates even in the dark. His thoughts drifted to the journey cats as he carefully stepped over loose limbs and curled tails, how they would be unidentifiable on scent alone after a month of traveling in a group; their clan identities lost.
Iciclefang, Fernpaw, Hazecloud, Dovethroat, Mosspaw, Lakemoon...would they ever come back, would they bring the cure? With all the clans together the sickness would begin to spread like wildfire, catching any weaker, younger and more feeble cats first to claim before it branched out to their strongest. Soon no one would be equipped to search about the carrion piles for food, meager scraps to hold them over.
Was this how the clans ended? Not with a roar of violence, a last stand in a battle to defend themselves but in a meek whimper as they coughed and sputtered; choking on their own mucus lined throats.
The dark tom reaches the edge of the circle of cats, casts a glance backwards and meets the glimmer of green eyes in the dark. He is frozen for a moment, silently staring back, a flutter rising in his chest; the last wisp of hope still there desperate to burn, to blaze. Almost immediately the eyes are gone, closed, a head settles back down. It is a quiet acceptance, an acknowledgement.
He was going to come back with Cicadastar or he was not going to come back at all. With a flick of his tail he turned and took to the brush, vanishing into the ink spill of shadows that shrouded them all in the trees mighty shade.
- OOC can go here.
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Smokethroat
—⊰⋅ Deputy of RiverClan
—⊰⋅ He/Him
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
—⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
—⊰⋅ penned by Rai
