PLEASE, PLEASE | bee

[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

the ache in her heart never resides, burrowing deeper and deeper into her frame. she can feel it in every inch of her. the heaviness in her paws, restless nights, endless mourning. it was raccoon first, then caraway. both experiencing buck's horrid fangs and claws. her spit of hatred of the clan and how they have betrayed her. she is cruel. perhaps the apple truly does not fall far from the tree. her mother is staring back at her with meek eyes, and all she can hear is her father whenever she opens her bastard jaw.

the waters are crisp and clear, silver-scaled fish reflecting the moon off of them. something akin to beauty as she stares down at them, her stomach slowly eating away at her. even through the pain and misery, the woman keeps her strength up. guard on constant alert. she's wanted in her own home, and she knows any confrontation will turn into a fight. the action is quick and graceful, a simple blink of an eye and one would miss it. a fish between her jagged teeth as water drips from her chin. a scene that is all too common. and she feasts, a starving animal as she tears into the gentle flesh and savors every bite.

her one joy left is fishing and the reward of it. it should be calm, but a branch is broken in the distance. not too far off, and buck's ivory claws already glint in the moonlight. a heavy glare upon the rustling reeds as she awaits her opponent. yet, what appears is a small cat. the same one raccoon and caraway plead for her to talk to. bee...something. she isn't sure. she doesn't really care. the earthen molly remains silent in their presence. watching, waiting. the medicine cat must have sought her out, and she'll listen.


@BEESONG
​

 

[BEESONG]

He does not seek her out purposefully. The medicine cat has left the camp, guided by the moon and stars overhead, after a fitful night that bore no fruit of rest. But when that scent drifts to him, the smell of the river yet not of RiverClan that he's familiarized himself with, Beesong changes direction.

And there she is, water droplets gleaming upon her damp chin, a fish halfway devoured beneath ivory teeth. Other RiverClan cats might've bristled at the thought of a loner eating from their land, but Beesong remains indifferent. Cats need to eat, regardless of their affiliation. And, truth be told, RiverClan has more prey than they know what to do with during the fruitful moons of Greenleaf.

A branch snaps beneath an ill-trodden paw. Beesong winces at the sudden noise. As they emerge from the reeds, they meet her glare with an expression of neutrality. If she does not unsheathe her claws, neither would they. "Hi," they greet, hushed in the dead of the night. As if what they are doing is wrong, and it might be in the eyes of their clanmates. "Good fishing tonight, I see." Their mind divulges from the conversation at hand to wonder, briefly, if the fish ever sleep. They think that the fish must, because every living thing needs rest.​