sensitive topics my time is a little unclear [viserion]

[CRAPPIEPATCH]

The clan’s most recent meeting has sent the calico spiraling, terrified, seeking answers in the mist. Each time they think they have caught something, a hint, a guiding light, it slips away from between their paws like an especially slippery fish.

Beesong replaced Gloompaw. Willowroot replaced Ashpaw—and Cicadastar replaced Willowroot in turn. Cicadastar replaced Buckgait. Who is next? Who will be next to fall, to fade, to be replaced? Will it be them? Is it worth fighting against such a thing? The tremble in their paws says that it is not worth pushing back. Hyacinthbreath defended herself from a WindClanner and was wrong, but she let one go free and was wrong once again. The lilac tabby’s pushing back of her fate only hurt her more.

They are reminded of when they traveled to the edge of the territory with Ashpaw in search of Gloompaw—so unaware of the fate that their other friend would soon meet, so similar to Gloompaw’s. Now, though, Crappiepatch has no need to sneak out under the cover of nighttime. They are a warrior, no matter how wrong it feels. How false. How much of a lie. They are no warrior,no better than pond scum. And they fear, after Hyacinthbreath’s exile, that they will be discovered soon enough, dug up like bones, the truth too damning to ignore. They will not fight for their clan. Crappiepatch is a coward, shies away from everything that might spill blood.

Is it wrong? They are not sure. Where is the line in the sand between what is wrong and what is right? Does the line even exist, or does it shift with the tides of Cicadastar’s moods, his paranoia? Will Crappiepatch be safe one day, only to find themself facing down a raving mad leader the next?

These thoughts fill their head as they walk, crossing right over the clan’s border on their trek. It does not smell of anything—it never has, the scents of the world lost on the young warrior’s perpetually running nose. They keep walking, lost in thought, sharp gaze darting around for any sign of… Any sign of…

There! They swear they spot a tuft of orange fur a few fox-lengths away, and rush toward it on aching, exhausted paws. And as they grow closer, there is movement in their periphery. They whirl around, but do not see anything. "Ashpaw! Ashpaw…?" Wide green eyes sweep across the landscape around them, trees and bushes blocking their view, but they had heard something. Have they found one of their missing friends at last?

// @VISERION​

[ my my, cold hearted child ]​

​

 

[VISERION]

Meandering past the Twolegplace for the first time, Viserion couldn't help but feel out of place in the wider forest. Plants curled towards the light whilst he shyed away from it, other creatures wore pelts of gold and fawn whilst he was as white as the newleaf snow. His long neck was strained from the constant swiveling as he moved further and further away from his comfort zone, each distant movement and odd new smell treated with the respectful distance it deserved. He didn't know how long it had been since leaving, and motivated by another influx of strange 'exiles', he wondered how far he would need to travel until he found answers. His home was not a dumping ground for those who did not fit into the status quo, his home was a dumping ground for those down on their luck, who were too young or sick to fend for themselves.

A splash of colour appeared in view, jumping over the arbitrary borders the clan cats put up, borders he'd tried to replicate with his own corner of the world. Pink eyes widen at the insolence - a clan cat, leaving the land they made for themselves! Was beating up young cats and invading his home every day not enough for them?! The yellow collar around his neck felt tighter as he puffed himself out, but when the creature spun around to face him, he had disappeared into the reeds, his grey and white form no different than the river stretched out some distance behind them. It was there where he remained as Crappie wondered on, scarred face contorting with a curious disgust at the scent of the other. Amidst the deaf ears and the poor eyesight, it was the strongest scent available, a visceral reminder everytime he breathed that this creature was different, dangerous even. There was a breadth of time where the world around Viserion seemed to freeze and the silence he'd been accustomed to disappeared behind the steady beat of an assured heart. For the Twolegplace and all those forced to shelter within it, he knew what needed to be done.

With a caterwaul, he leaped out of his hiding spot, gnarly claws out and trying to latch onto whatever skin or flesh they could find. Breaths like hisses of an adder, he aimed to throw both himself and the stranger onto their sides, hind legs vigorously kicking at whatever they could.

​

 

[CRAPPIEPATCH]

The calico shifts on their paws, stepping closer to the source of the sound they had heard. "…Ashpaw?" They feel hope surge in their chest—they have surely found her. They have found their friend, and they will return to camp with her at their side, and they will not be alone any longer. They step ever closer, and-

A brilliant white form bursts from the brush, screeching and yowling louder than anything that the calico has ever heard before. They freeze in terror, heart beating out of rhythm, and… Crappiepatch does nothing. Their mind flashes with images of the ThunderClan apprentice’s face, her hesitation to seriously harm them. The ThunderClan warriors, the way that they had turned and run, had left their clanmates behind. Their promise to Cicadastar, to defend their clan even at the cost of their life. The pale brown figure of Beesong, limp and unmoving and dead.

They cannot move. They can only stare in wide-eyed horror as the other cat grips onto their patched pelt with hooked claws, unrelenting, and drags them to the ground with ease. They land hard on their shoulder, swear that they hear something crack. "Stop! You do not have to-" they are cut off by the cutting of claws into their flesh, ripping lines through their soft underbelly. Fern-green eyes well up with tears—they can feel the blood pooling from wounds, they can feel death coming for them.

With a shriek, the young warrior lashes out with a paw at the other’s face, hoping to catch an eye, an ear—something, anything to help them escape. "HELP!" They scream, but no one can hear them this far out.

No one can help them.​

[ my my, cold hearted child ]​

​