pafp OUROBOROS | injured / intro

[ROOKFANG]

THE HERMIT ─── This was not supposed to happen. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not anytime soon.

It was meant to be a simple trek towards the border, one that he believed would finally get to be mundane now that the rogues had scattered off to the shadows they belonged to. The boulder-like weight of everything that had happened was beginning to roll gently down the top of his neck, releasing the tension that he tended to build with each stressor that decided to attach itself to his life. It was now gently rocking side to side between his shoulders as the silence was beginning to allow his stream of thoughts to flow. The rogue invasion had brought a sense of resentment that left a bitter taste to stick to his tongue, like sap and the idea of the sickness haunted him. Would it ever return? They had lost so many precious lives, his needlepoint pupils flickered up at the cooling transition of golden sunsets to navy night as he hoped to see more stars above, the ones that belonged to his clanmates.

As he observed the sky, he was relieved Hazecloud had not been included in a constellation, and despite their...separation, Rookfang had no ill will towards her now that he had heard Lichentail and her had reunited. There was a precious bond and he found soft comfort that they realized their importance for one another. Besides, the warrior knew he was a damaged piece, one that could not seem to fit in and lock into a relationship without bringing his baggage of worries and fears. He was not fit to emotionally untangle said baggage, he was still in his ignorant justification that it was necessary to him. The paranoia had kept him alive so far but with a pricey cost to the connections he cherished. So now, all he did was recount finding his adopted brother, Velvetpaw. This was a silver lining to his somewhat bleak life that kept the small glint in his eyes as he allowed a gentle warmth to loosen his broad shoulders, allowing the rock to roll down to his spine. He knew with the rogues ruthlessly taking the lives of their fallen ex-leader, Cicadastar, some clanmates had once again risen with suspicion of those with rogue-blood.

Rogue-blood. That word was as common as his name, fresh and searing to his heart that despite it all, he felt inferior for the mixed blood that ran through him. His mother. Rogue. His father. Riverclanner. Outsider. Traitor. There was no positive association to any of his history with his parental figures, one was a persistent voice within his head while the other was a voice he had never heard echo through it.

"Don't bother trying to look for him. He wasn't much use after I told him."
"Oh."
"Now, now, why the-"

"-long face?"

The boulder crashed to the suddenly frigid ground beneath him as it rolled off his jagged tail, the splintering cracks roaring in his ears as the voice he heard within his mind was coming from beside him. Rookfang went to a statuesque halt, half-lidded eyes exploded wide open, the warm orange-gold hues that were mostly hiding now mixing with his stormy blues as he looked towards the horizon. The sun was setting. Blinding his sensitive vision and causing the dark figure to want to shield away like some archaic tale of a vampire as he stared forward, his body happily accepting any pain that would reach him if it meant not looking next to him, the direction over the border where the voice had come from. Yet, no catastrophic event crashed down on him or unusual punishment from above sought him out. It seemed, that the worst was already here and Rookfang knew he had to face it. So...he slowly and stiffly turned his head. And locked terrified stare with the glinting eyes of a snake underneath a cat's clothing. His dearly beloved mother. She flashed a dearly beloved smile, the fangs he had inherited from her glinting right back at him. No wonder some kits and apprentices found him terrifying. He was the offspring of a monster.

This is where the time became as murky as being trapped in a tar pit, slow and suffocating. Yet, it felt like every second counted in the worst way possible as he listened to her, her sickly sweet voice dancing in the air with his voice refusing to join the ballad. She was happy to see him. She was not. She wished she had come sooner. It's been moons. She had no idea he had been here. Foghorn had stated and his mind quoted 'She visits. Told her I had tried convincing you to join Windclan but you like slimy fish too much.' That had also...been moons ago. Yet, lie after lie, Rookfang's rebuttals remained lodged within his burning windpipe. All, he could do was accept the sinking tar that was swallowing him up inch by inch in the spot he remained rooted to as the melting sky began to darken and his mother was appearing to quickly lose patience with her senseless chatter not reaching him. Then again, he remembered she never really had much patience for him.

"I need a favor."

Oh?

"...little brother....can't take care of...."

Oh.

---

It happened. Again.

History repeated itself to those who did not learn from it, Rookfang had now learned that the hard way. He was limping slowly, crimson-splattered paws dragging against the dirt and fallen leaves as if he had truly been imprisoned within a tar pit. He heaved, dry throat screaming and wheezing but the ribbon of blood that leaked from his slashed eye had danced into the side of his muzzle and flowed into his parted jaws. He needed to make it back. It was dark. It was scary. Rookfang knew this was no suitable environment for the bundle of soft fur that he carried. His half-lidded eyes--no, eye was barely open, not out of defeated exasperation or ravaging insomnia. But, pain. So...much pain. It was not seeping away like the creek of blood and scent of fox that trailed behind his stumbling and swaying form. The sable figure was now inching little by little to the entrance of the camp as every trained designed muscle clicked and locked with each step, sudden rust had settled in and was slowing him down as his already diminished vision was blurring in and out of focus. The favor. Accepting it is what led him to become the pathetic state he is in now. Wounded. Damaged. Bloody. Tired.

His open eyelid was fluttering like a frantic butterfly, not aiding in his vision or composure as he suddenly pressed himself against the cool lumber of a nearby tree, sending a silent thanks to Starclan for else, he would have simply found the dirt ground as his support. It felt like he had barely moved but the soft trembling meow that reached his velvety ears was encouraging him to keep moving even if it meant spending the rest of the night to reach their home. Tightening his grip and readjusting, Rookfang shuffled closer, pushing past the tall reeds that lined the clearing of the camp. The gentle pressure it provided to the gashes that streaked his shoulder and face was oddly comforting as if to replace a mother's touch that only left him damaged one way or another. As he finally broke through the curtain that shielded them, Rookfang's silver-lined figure seemed to practically be crawling, aching claws digging to the ground as his shivering form finally decided it was safe to let go.

The ground had never felt kinder as if Mother Earth was cradling him, the stiff composure long forgotten with sore jaws cracking open to release the kitten that was tainted with his blood as the legs beneath him gave out. His undamaged mixed eye locked onto it with heavy guilt as the moonlight shone on the splintered scarlet fur of the quivering child, of his little brother. His little brother, who...was beginning to gently shift away from him. Was it out of fear? Confusion? Horror? His melted figure was refusing to do what his foggy mind was attempting to command, the energy he had clung onto was now pooling around him with his scarlet self-made sun on the terra. Rookfang felt another tiresome sting, but it was coming from behind his eyes, prickling and beginning to swell. Was he going to...? He screwed his eyes shut as pale fangs clenched tight in retaliation. Instead, he contrived himself to let out a pathetic shout, voice cracking with the plea for aid. The fallen warrior could not bear the thought of losing another sibling. Not like--Rookfang let out a low gargled groan as he attempted to cry out once more.

"S-Someone! Pl...Please help...."

[ ooc | please wait for @valekit ➶ to respond before replying / rookfang's wounds: three gash wounds on left shoulder, sliced right ear, and large crescent wound across right eye ]​

 

[valesight ➶]

⸙͎｡˚⋆ ⍋ ѧѦ ѧ⍋ ⸙͎｡˚⋆

Cold words articulate the perfectly practiced pretended love of a mother; she is a shadowy thing, not unlike the rotten-reeds in their thin, jagged silhouettes. Teeth shine in wicked smiles, effective in the way their emotionless glimmering disarms and entraps her prey. So soft was her voice, a thing like silk in its chilling first impression, it had hardly been a registered concern that the moon had traveled its lazy way towards the sky... She beckoned and called, cooing of a daring adventure for just the two, a tale promised of a hero's great reunion. She was the noble Queen, guiding her dear sweet Prince towards the Knight he needed... The one that would protect them both.

Blearily did sunshine eyes stare through the unfamiliar, chilly terrain that was to be the start of their quest. Reeds hung over and curled against themselves like starving citizens of a dying kingdom, and so did he regard them with the pity they deserved. Careful, mismatched paws struggle amongst the muck to plod along after that specter of a guide.... how she managed to move so smoothly, he could not say. She was amazing... untouchable and dainty... He hurried after her on deer-wobbly legs, chasing as they shared a laugh to a joke only they two seemed to understand.

She was the full moon, beaming to light the way.

But hush, stay hidden.

And suddenly the penumbra had all but lost her to him completely. It had been dark... baby eyes struggled to make out heads or tails and soon he could not deny the way his paws stung on the cold earth. She had been gone so long... His belly rumbled his frustrations. And then the rumbling had been loud... too loud to be from within his small frame, surely-

Teeth like barbed wire shone in a fragment of space where the shadows did not reach. And he had screamed-

A lumbering shadow that bled like the night sky bled across the sun's horizons- this was meant to be his Knight? He blotted out the stars behind him from where the tiny harlequin-faced kit sat in abject horror- the smell he wore did not elicit feelings of warmth and honey and protection- it stank of desperation, of confusion, fear. Why had he been left behind here? Where slavering jaws searched for him and strangers came to save him instead of her?

Shuddering against the cold, he could not afford to be abandoned by a protector, could not afford to see him fall. Pressing tiny paws stubbornly at the leg of the beast that let out haggard breaths, eyes of aurum pled his case. Please don't leave too. The rook-feathered Knight hoisted his charge in one easy pull and so continued to drag the night sky along behind him as streaks of red blotted the path of the eclipse.

Slow... slow they stumbled together, a pearl nestled in the tight-lipped grasp of a too-stubborn clam. Barely they made progress through tar-polluted waters and even as the camp walls fell away to reveal scents of more cats than he had ever imagined, not even those combined could rid him of the acrid scent that marked a blood-debt he'd made with his brother. He wasn't sure of it yet.. a puff-ball sized tangle of browns and soft yellows that stuck out wildly to reflect his distress. Claws dug tightly into the gritty earth where he was left to quiver, staring wildly around this unfamiliar place while his Hero cried.

Silently his mouth moved, a mimic of the hoarse-voiced martyr that bled around the both of them, repeating the shape of words he had no voice for. Help.​

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[coyotecreek]

( ★ ) he finds himself awake in the depths of the darkness, like he often is. it is too often, in fact, that he becomes nocturnally motivated. his motions during the days are stilted, languid vocals and tired eyes make for an ineffective warrior, but at night he feels opposite. a short sleep in the evening has him wakening well before moonhigh, when he will take his post, ever watchful, as guard of his sacred home. whether officially appointed or not, the patronly feline takes on this knighthood with honor and duty- no rogues will slip in and slaughter again. tonight he paces just inside of camp, his back turned to the other guards as his odd gaze sweeps the night. the river rushes quietly by, a once comforting sound now simply disguising potential pawsteps of trespassers. coyotecreek paces his silent vigil, alert and alive as night air fills his lungs.

riverclan territory is full of sound, from the river to the creek of wind over rushes and reeds, to the chirp of frogs and lonesome call of solitary owls high in the tops of willow trees. coyotecreek has learned to tune out these sounds, and this is why he pulls himself to quickly to action when the faint rustling of undergrowth reaches his tufted ears. they swivel back for a moment, flattening as suspicion masks his gaze, and the man will glance back at his fellow nocturne dwellers. there, in a puddle of exhaustion, lies a wounded man barely inside of camp.

the metallic scent of blood reaches his nose and he winces, worry gathering in the pit of his stomach. fox scent wafts not close behind, causing coyotecreek to quicken his step towards the fallen tomcat. "rookfang!" he gasps, the scent of blood overwhelming as he steps closer. a soft squeak of something fearful pulls him briefly from the worry for his clanmate and the tomcat blinks in shock as the small form of tabby and white wriggles next to his caregiver.

"someone fetch ravensong!" he orders, and expects to be obeyed, despite the lack of status he retains. the tomcat crouches over his bleeding clanmate, scooping up the kitten and placing him near rookfang. this is an odd sight, a frightening one. he sends a silent prayer to the stars that medicine comes quickly.

@RAVENSONG <3 ​

 

[RAVENSONG]

He is almost well enough to put one paw in front of the other without shaking or falling into delusions. Bit by bit, Ravensong feels his strength return and his work becomes more rigorous. The break between his falling ill and his recovery could hardly be called a holiday, but occasionally he misses the feeling of wasting away with no sense of time.

Time. Ravensong is jolted into the waking world by Coyotecreek's call. He glances at his meagre store and retrieves the usual poultice and cobweb bundle for wounds. He has not been told what the situation is, but his guess is an educated one and he can always return back for more. The lanky shadow of the medicine cat passes over and his hackles raise stiffly on seeing the sight of the warrior.

"Quiet now. You'll be alright." Ravensong murmurs, passing over the kit entirely—it's not his jurisdiction—and begins to methodically examine Rookfang. He starts with the gashes, chewing up the poultice before offering a half-hearted warning that it would sting before attempting to place the medicine over the gashes and start to bind with cobweb.

☾₊ ⊹ темная ночь — dark is the night

•  
• 
  RAVENSONG of RIVERCLAN
  — LH BLACK POLYDACTYL MALE (CARRYING CINNAMON, DILUTE) a tall, slender creature with pitch-black feathery fur, large ears, and a sharply angled skull held up in an aloof manner. smells of dried herb, speaks with a low and rumbly accent and walks with an elegant slinking gait.
  
  — born in twolegplace and orphaned at a young age, he joined riverclan at its inception and began training as a drypaw warrior known for a bitter temperment until beesong made him his medicine cat apprentice. after his mentor's untimely death, he had been named ravensong at the moonstone, young heart revitalized with anger and guilt. he is a somber and thorough medicine cat that guards every word spoken in the confines of his den.
  
  — secretly loves "the stars but not so much what inhabits them"
  — openly suffers from chronic migraines
  — single, but "it's complicated"

​

 

[hazecloud]

Hazecloud never learned much about Rookfang's life before he adapted to Clan life. For all the time they had spent together, nearly attached to one's side in the moons leading up to her departure, Hazecloud never thought to ask. Of course it hadn't been one-sided, the molly was rather quiet about the environments of her own upbringing and she would gladly shove any hint toward her kittypet roots so far in the horizon's past it couldn't be seen. She isn't sure there are many of her Colony-era Clanmates in RiverClan that were there or would even remember the arrival of two fluffy show cats bringing their hardly-weaned kittens into the marshes.

Velvetpaw was the closest Hazecloud ever got to knowing more of Rookfang's past beyond his rocky apprenticeship, but that was really just as much as any other stranger who watched the way they interacted.

Now, as she stared at the battered form of her former... (what were they? Nothing official, she quickly answered) The smoky moggy came to the realization he was more a stranger than a friend. A kit laced with the scents of beyond the border, a fragrance she had yet to wear off herself, and crimson iron sank beside him. Certainly no age to have left the nursery just yet. While Ravensong took to what he provided best, she did in turn.

"Let's get you cleaned up." While Hazecloud was no queen she wouldn't leave him shivering to endure what he could not entirely comprehend. A glassy stare drew her in and she began to rasp her tongue over messy tangles of fur, ignoring as much as she could about the taste. She was careful not to tug or pull the scrap too far away from Rookfang's injured form, just enough space to let Ravensong work. "Do you have a name, dewdrop? Mine is Hazecloud."​

 

[valesight ➶]

⸙͎｡˚⋆ ⍋ ѧѦ ѧ⍋ ⸙͎｡˚⋆

It's like being walked over by a shadowy pile of darkness and it swarms his hero with strangely scented breath, a command for quiet, an insistence of the situations 'fineness'. Rookfang is practically yanked out of his grasp entirely by the abrupt movement of a swath of fog envelopes him in rough passes of a tongue through his dirtied fur. He has half a mind to reach up and swat at the chatty beast's face and even flexes his claws to examine how effective they might be. She's much smaller than the other ones... still plenty big enough to fit his head in her mouth if she tried but maybe?

No... no his paws were too shaky and his knight!!! What was happening behind the shifty figure that reeked of soggy leaves? She says something about a name and green-gold turns to find her face again. What is a "Hazecloud"? Is it like a princess? Or maybe some kind of evil witch? She asks for his name too and he recoils at the idea.

Why would he want to share that with her? So she might steal the power of it and control him like a puppet? Or maybe she wants a better one and intends to steal it! A small growl of a reply is all the shadow-born boy answers with, the split colored fur of his spine standing on end in an effort to make himself look bigger, scarier.​

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