- May 14, 2023
- 201
- 33
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⋆⁺₊ ☾ ⁺₊⋆ The marsh has erupted in color with the newleaf, those scrappy flowers which find the bogs their home reaching for warmth with desperate, greedy petals. It is alive in a way ot has not been for many seasons. Frogsong fills the air, a siren song for daring hunters. Fox kits and otter cubs dance a fatal waltz, teeth growing hungrier and hungrier for the flesh of cats. Shadowclan's home teems with life.
And Swansong feels as though she is dying.
Perhaps a cat such as herswlf is not made for such times. Her pelt bears the colors of winter, the season where death's chill grasp takes its strongest hold. No amount of woven flowers can hide what she is; a ghost of a cat, someone who should have died long ago. It would be hard not to notice the rasp in her voice, but it grows even stronger as the mardh grows brighter. It is as if the flowers themselves constrict her lungs, roots taking hold around her throat and choking the life out of her.
She stumbles, gasping, back to camp. A trail of petals marks her return; she'd been gathering them when her chest started to feel like it was caving in.
She knows what death feels like. Their chest clutches tight when they try too hard to join with the living; their body pleads with them to lie and rot instead. That cloying, suffocating feeling that had her trapped in the medicine den for moons... She's forgotten the terror of it - or tried to forget, at least. Convincing herself that she will face death with a smile, that she has already made peace with her fate. She'd grown too bold in her certainty, too haughty; she nearly let herself forget that death and fear come riding side by side. StarClan's mercy upon her had been fragile, brittle. Their grasp was a reminder, and oh how it tightened when she forgot about it. She had grown too accustomed to living, had forgotten the terrible purpose she serves. It is as though she has already been buried, gravedirt piling into her lungs. She wheezes, keens, stumbles blindly in a panic. It is not the grace with which she had hoped to face death; what a terrible psychopomp she is, to be caught off guard by the fear of the beyond.
Her voice is strangled by some invisible force as she speaks. "Ca... hh - can't..." Swansong barely makes it to the entrance of camp before they collapse, alone and choking on air. Flower petals trail as a gravemarker behind them. "can't... breathe..." It is a pitiful exhalation, gasping and weak. I fear that I am dying, they do not say. Such a thing feels far too obvious and trite to waste their rationed breaths upon.
And Swansong feels as though she is dying.
Perhaps a cat such as herswlf is not made for such times. Her pelt bears the colors of winter, the season where death's chill grasp takes its strongest hold. No amount of woven flowers can hide what she is; a ghost of a cat, someone who should have died long ago. It would be hard not to notice the rasp in her voice, but it grows even stronger as the mardh grows brighter. It is as if the flowers themselves constrict her lungs, roots taking hold around her throat and choking the life out of her.
She stumbles, gasping, back to camp. A trail of petals marks her return; she'd been gathering them when her chest started to feel like it was caving in.
She knows what death feels like. Their chest clutches tight when they try too hard to join with the living; their body pleads with them to lie and rot instead. That cloying, suffocating feeling that had her trapped in the medicine den for moons... She's forgotten the terror of it - or tried to forget, at least. Convincing herself that she will face death with a smile, that she has already made peace with her fate. She'd grown too bold in her certainty, too haughty; she nearly let herself forget that death and fear come riding side by side. StarClan's mercy upon her had been fragile, brittle. Their grasp was a reminder, and oh how it tightened when she forgot about it. She had grown too accustomed to living, had forgotten the terrible purpose she serves. It is as though she has already been buried, gravedirt piling into her lungs. She wheezes, keens, stumbles blindly in a panic. It is not the grace with which she had hoped to face death; what a terrible psychopomp she is, to be caught off guard by the fear of the beyond.
Her voice is strangled by some invisible force as she speaks. "Ca... hh - can't..." Swansong barely makes it to the entrance of camp before they collapse, alone and choking on air. Flower petals trail as a gravemarker behind them. "can't... breathe..." It is a pitiful exhalation, gasping and weak. I fear that I am dying, they do not say. Such a thing feels far too obvious and trite to waste their rationed breaths upon.
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// not actually dying shes just morbid <3 swan is having a pollen-induced asthma attack!!
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SWANSONG ⋆⁺₊ ☾ ⁺₊⋆ she / they, warrior of shadowclan, fourteen moons.
➳ a pale, silky-furred cream tabby with tired blue eyes.
➳ dreamy and detached, known for her perpetual sleepiness.
➳halfshadex smogmaw, littermate to applejaw, garlicheart, & ashenfall.
➳ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
➳ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
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