sensitive topics PRAYERS LAID ON THE LINE —— injury

[SLATESNARL]

// tw for descriptions of a car impact and subsequent injury

The muscular tom cat prowls through the pines, rays of midday sunlight softly dappling his dark-colored coat. He strays away from the hunting patrol he is assigned to; of course, most cats depart the camp in groups these days as a safety precaution but Slate still tends to maintain a sense of independence and space from the others. He was not leading it, anyhow, so he felt that he was at liberty to do whatever he wanted. There is still an unfamiliarity with not having the authority to delegate things as he liked; Slate did not consider himself a power-hungry type, but being able to control situations was an aspect of the job that he would miss.

Either way, he is not much interested in the usual patrol chit-chat and plus he has to break away in order to seek a quieter hunting area. A dark nose wrinkles, the warrior scenting the air around him and trying to decipher his surroundings. Faint traces of squirrels, a fairly recent smell of crow, and the acrid stench of the Thunderpath lingering only a few lengths away.

Jingle, jingle, jingle goes a stray bell as it bounces and eventually rolls to a stop onto the Thunderpath. The noise is what captures Slate's attention first, prompting the Maine Coon to weave past the trees and warily peer out onto the open road to see where it had come from. Was there a kittypet nearby?

A pair of small suns crest over the horizon, growing larger and larger as moments pass. The impending arrival of the dark-colored monster is quiet, nearly unannounced and not like others that Slate has seen in the past. He instinctively ducks backward, limbs tensing as he prepares to turn around and head back into the forest, though his gaze locks onto the sudden appearance of a figure bounding toward the middle of the road.

The monster speeds closer and the cat—who Slate recognizes as his littermate—seems oblivious at the moment to the grave danger she has put herself in by chasing her lost bell. "PRIMROSE!" The warrior roars from his position, whipping his gaze back to the oncoming monster and helplessly watching as it sets its sights on trampling the chimera. He is torn on what action to take — Slate has always steered clear of those twoleg contraptions but his sister was moments away from getting seriously injured or killed!

Large paws propel Slate off the ground and send him flying in the direction of Primrose. Stomach twisting into knots as the monster looms critically close, the tom sprung and dove into the black and silver feline's side, paws outstretched to barrel them out of the way. They are spared, if only by mere hair-lengths, and it seems that Slate is as well until—

THUD

Metal collides with bone, dislodging it from its place as a sharp and overwhelming pain strikes like lightning up his spine. Air squeezes from the cat's lungs as he's flung into the air, his limp form soon sent tumbling onto the ground. Leaves and dirt kick up in his wake and he eventually rolls to a stiff stop. The pain rapidly spreads from his hip, like ivy up a tree, seeming to close in all around him and darken his blurry vision. Something slurred strains from his parted lips, though quickly dies on his tongue as consciousness drains from his mind.

Disheveled, crumpled and far from the mightiness that he typically exudes, the Maine Coon's eyes draw shut.

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 ✹ .　 + 　˚ 　　 · 　 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐄

• please wait for @PRIMROSE.
  tldr homie jumped in front of a car to push primrose out of the way but got hit in the process, particularly on the back half of his body. he rolled onto the other side of the thunderpath and fell unconscious; no active bleeding anywhere but his hip is dislocated

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  a warrior ( formerly lead warrior ) of skyclan, slate is forty-one moons and is mentoring coffeepaw. he is mated to orangestar. he is a hulking longhaired maine coon with black fur and prominent reddish rusting on his chest and belly. scars litter his form but are prominently present on his face. ✦

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[PRIMROSE.]

˚ .  ❀ 　˚✦　. ✿ 　 Like stardust falling across the forest floor, Primrose's bell jingles as it rolls. Hunting was something she had taken to quickly — perhaps another kittypet would find something to be squeamish about here, but Doeblaze had taught her to kill cleanly and there is something. . . good about feeding the clan. Morning walks to camp become something she looks forward to and those long walks back as dusk creeps across the sky leave her contemplative and– sad. They are eager to see her, scooping her up in their arms and offering her food as she meows and circles her dish. What had seemed delicious pales in comparison to the tentative bites she has been allowed to share. Not many, of course. That would defeat the purpose of her. She could not provide for them all the time, but she cost nothing to maintain herself.

Giving selflessly comes as easily as the action of hunting itself. They have a good crouch and a smooth gait, and with the protective layer of fat atop their lean musculature they look wilder than they had before. It is a stark contrast to her pale purple collar and silken fur, and the little bell with its muffled starlike jingle.

She doesn't know why she chases it. A stubborn branch slotted between it and her collar; she pulls, startled, and it arcs through the air with sunlight trapped on its surface. Then bounces, and rolls. She watches it all in slow motion. Is it because of the connection to her twolegs? Is it simply a matter of her being a kittypet through and through? Her brother had said that with such vitriol each time they spoke of daylight warriors. Now that she's made the connection it doesn't really come as a surprise. He had always been so intent on his own path outside of twoleg intervention. Maybe she should take a page from his book. Right in this moment, her love for them dooms her. She knows the car (monster seems silly to say) is there. She knows it's racing closer. It roars when it sees her, going too quickly to stop, but the bell is an outreached paw away.

Slate hits her before she hits it. The force of his impact shoves the air from her lungs, and a silvery side scrapes across the thunderpath just out of its way. A struck bell begins to ring inside her skull and slip out from her ears. They fight to their paws before they have even found their balance, wide green eyes dazedly on the forest before them. A pile of stone solidifies to a too-still pile of fur, and she yells, "SLATE!" with panic ill-fitting on her serene features. She stumbles into a run, a delicate paw pressed to his cheek and then down to his throat where it lingers as she shouts more: "Someone, please! We need– Dawnglare!" In her haze, it's a miracle she knows any name but Primrose and Slate.

Beneath her paw, Slate's throat shifts with breath and she sobs. In the middle of the thunderpath there is a smear of glimmering rose gold, crushed beneath a monster's paw.

perhaps in a different time . ✿  i would have named us hope ╱ 05.29.2024

• ooc: —
• "speech"
• ˚ .  ❀ 　˚✦　. ✿ 　𝓹𝓻𝓲𝓶𝓻𝓸𝓼𝓮.  she ╱ they. kittypet and prospective daylight warrior of skyclan. littermate to slate and cloverjaw. purebred maine coon  ——
  ——  a black smoke ╱ silver tabby chimera with soft green eyes despite the boxy breed standard of maine coon cats, the edges of primrose seem invariably soft. her thick, sleek fur is silky to the touch and eternally well-groomed, broken only by the lines of chimerism between her pelt colors and the pale purple collar she always wears. its rose gold bell is often muffled by her fur, but not entirely.

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[DOEBLAZE]

She has started letting Primrose " off the leash ", as it were. The chimera is a good learner, quiet—a mostly - silent figure at the edge of her vision, watchful as she demonstrated—but she does not begrudge them that. The demonstration of her competence despite her limited hours and the tinkling thing embedded in her plush mane had eased some of the warrior's paranoia. It's not difficult to let her shadow make forays ahead of her and her younger charge, always with a watchful green eye flitting to her. Perhaps if she retained her other eye, what happens might not have.

" Primrose? " Her voice disturbs the abrupt stillness of the air. Lilac hackles flare up, wolf more than deer in the moment, and her lonely eye narrows to a slice of lily - pad. Her shadow's vacancy is not sudden, but her realization of it is. The chimera has strayed, and she is not to blame for the quickness of her exit, but Doeblaze for her lateness—for her foolishness, in permitting herself to relax in the warm grasp of late summer. She does not think—if she thinks, she may never move again; she merely lets her limbs guide her forth, tail swishing for Cloudypaw to follow.

Unfortunately, she arrives at a moment she hates. Too late to do anything, but not late enough to miss the moment of impact. Too often does she find herself arriving on the tail end of tragedy, as if it beckons her with an open paw—come on in, the water's fine—and she follows it, helpless and hapless. She pumps her wiry forelimbs as hard as she can, but she already knows before she thinks that she is not fast enough; that her too - quick eye already sees the path the monster will inevitably follow.

" Oh, shit, " she breathes, a harsh insuck of air immediately following—whooshing out of her body, as if to make herself more malleable. If she has learned one thing in all her moons on this earth, it is this: things bend around you, and you either bend with them or you break down the middle. She makes her choice—loping down the roll of the pines to the acrid plain of earth, saying without thinking it, " Cloudypaw, stay back. Go to camp, tell them what happened, fetch @DAWNGLARE and @Fireflyglow , " and then continuing forth, retaining the presence of instinct enough to head - check the Thunderpath. Stars forbid they have two injuries in one sunrise on Dawnglare's paws, and two able sets of paws out of commission.

Nothing immediately presents a glaring threat and she darts across with the quickness her namesake lays claim to, although with a little more caution. Panic does not suit Primrose even as it claws at her features; Doeblaze's own countenance shows little but a twitch to her jaw and a flinty set to her eye as she eyes the tragedy with all the grim expertise of a carrion - bird. " Make sure to keep off the Thunderpath, " she manages, quietly thanking the stars that Slate had landed on the other side and not been left in the middle of it.

" You're fine? " she confirms, eyes roving over the crumpled heap that is Slate. His flank rises and falls, but his eyes do not open, and she fights a grimace, cursing her lack of expertise—without blood to see, she is clueless. Her fangs come together in a quick harsh click as she damns it—damns the monster, Slate, the whole damn situation, but mostly herself. Muscle ripples in her neck as she tightens her jaw.

" Cloudypaw's getting Dawnglare, it'll be—fine, " she mrrows soothingly, her voice glassy with what could be either an incredible calm or an extraordinary chill. The hazy look in Primrose's eyes is piercingly familiar and she presses her shoulder to the chimera's with only a twitch of reluctance, hoping to ground her. Guilt is already beginning to pace a familiar track in the back of her head. " We'll figure it out. "

" Stars— " she mutters to herself. The situation is growing more grim by the minute as dilemmas compound; Slate is dead weight on the ground and the Thunderpath is dangerous enough with only your own four paws to account for. I should've kept a closer eye on her, she chides herself, hoping with a twinge of guilt that Primrose's shouts will draw more Clanmates. " We'll have to get him back across at some point, " she notes, head raising to see if any help might emerge from the pines.

OOC : —

♥︎

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[Batscreech]

OOC: I feel like this mightttt need a CW but I'm not entirely sure what for specifically, just take caution for generally distressing descriptions!

Also tagging @ThistleBack because Bat is his prisoner where Bat goes Thistle goes I am so sorry...

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A heavy set of paws dragged along the sturdy forest floor, the soft and crisp sound of loose brush being pushed away flitting through the air with every step taken. Sullen and defeated, Bat had not done well for himself on this particular hunt. He had yet to anchor himself back to reality, his mind continuously slipping between what was genuine and what was long past, what he was forever powerless to change. It ate him alive, its jaws clasped around his neck so tightly he swore he could truly feel it- its relentless ache and piercing sting so intense he could focus on nothing else, hunting being an activity that too would not be spared from such a deterrent. His body felt weighted with emotions unidentifiable to him, for they all meshed together into a hideous web of unintelligible memories. Was Thistleback disappointed? He found himself surprised at the unprompted thought, what brought it on something he could not discern. Perhaps that was what grounded him- the only person who could seem to stand being near him, albeit via the command of one whos status was beyond him.

There was peace, if only momentarily. Perhaps not within Bat's mind- but in the world which surrounded him. Greenleaf was notorious for its continuous promise to bring prosperity and beauty in the forest, a beacon of hope in the cataclysmic darkness that so often plagued every poor soul who found themselves without a home or without their hardened instincts to guide them- it was what those who struggled fought so hard for- to see the mercy and majesty of nature. It could have been perfect had it not been for the unbecoming split between this side of the woods and the next- the visual of a jagged and sour smelling road enough to make Bat cower deeper into the foliage. He couldn't stand them, a plague to everything that he was and a testament to what he could have been- it made him nauseas- but not so nauseas as what conspired soon after would make him.

THUD!

He stopped in his tracks, every fiber in his body tensing, coiling in on itself like a spring soon to be let loose- soon to snap. He knew that sound, that hellish, incessant sound like the foreboding melody sung by the reaper- the song that promised the relinquishing of what was so precious and so sacred, so...momentous. That's all a soul truly was, and this sound- it was the chime of violent bells that signified the end of potentially everything for some. He lamented the idea of turning around, his breathing already so ragged that it had grown audibly hoarse, crackling like a blazing fire in his rapidly inflating lungs desperate attempt to take in what was still pure in the air- there was no purity there now, tainted by what might await him from behind. He would turn eventually, his verdant eyes meeting the very scene he desperately tried to prepare himself for- he knew what it looked like from another experience long since past and yet so vivid- it was too identical. The sound of sobs so desperate and filled with anguish and...regret- he swear he could feel his own throat constricting with the sheer force of it, tighter and tighter in your wretched attempt to be heard, as if that in itself would be enough to bring that departed soul back. The miniscule sliver of hope which light dimmed the longer you chose to look, to grasp, to press your warm flesh against a frame so cold and stiff- petrified.

He broke out of his memorial trance once motion erupted from all sides of him, the sudden sea of movement spiking his own adrenaline and allowing that aforementioned spring to finally uncoil and force his limbs into action. Doeblaze was the first to arrive on the scene, as was characteristic of her- she was calm in her address, level-headed and assuming control over the situation. She was everything that one needed to be under such strain, without a doubt- and yet Bat could make out the fear in her eyes, pressing against the edges of those exceedingly tired olive optics- she would not let it perturb her. She had guided the distraught chimera she-cat- Primrose, he had heard the occasional utterance of her name- away from the body of Slate, who had been the one to take on the majority of the force brought forth by the oncoming vehicle. It was sickeningly ironic how such an outcome could be one's reality on both fronts- the desire to take life away, and the desire to preserve it.

It was disconcerting to see the formidable tom in such a pathetic state- he seemed so weak, so small despite his incredible size. Limp, unmoving and yet his thick furred chest still rise and fell to the tune of his shallowed breathing. He was a reminder that anything could be broken, and no living being would be spared from the hellishly unfair circle of life- you are stronger than all those around you until you are not. Bat found himself resigning once more, undisclosed fear beckoning him back into the safety provided by concealed delusion, the voice of Doeblaze cutting the thick atmosphere the tether between the scene before him and what he wished to surrender to.

We'll have to get him back across at some point.

In response to her comment, Bat leaned down, putting himself closer to the battered body left behind by a sightless vehicle. There was no liquid crimson to be found pouring from any orifice of the ebony maine coon- a good sign, though it remained leaving much to be desired. His eyes trailed along every inch of Slate's elongated physique, lingering on a point nearest to his flank- the shape of it was slightly out of place, unnatural- one area of it protruding against the thin layer of skin above much more than what was normal for any cat. "Um-" He began, his voice tentative- it was shaking, unsteady. "Th-There's somethin' w-wrong, uh- with 'is hip...Best not 't m-move 'im 'tll..." He seemed to grow increasingly more distraught as he forced himself to continue on with an explanation, bile threatening to spill from his throat in his attempt to swallow it back down. "...Y-Yeh. Right." He gave up then, turning his head towards anything else, it didn't matter to him- just so long as he no longer had to bear witness to what was staring him in the face. He stumbled as he walked to the farthest side of the constricted area, rapidly congesting to an insufferable degree as an umpteen of concerned clan members rushed to do what they could for Slate and Primrose alike. Her sobbing had not ceased, and it pressed heavily against every crevice of his brain now, her hallowed cries pushing him further into the confines of his fabricated world that feigned safety but promoted escape. He was useless now, just as he was then- a mirror inverted, looking through a lens that was so familiar and yet was entirely different- for he had endured his misfortune alone- and it was he who had left with blood laden against his fur.​

 

[ThistleBack]

He’s prowling the ferns, muttering under his breath as he traces old prey trails. He hated tracking, tedious task that often resulted in long treks across the territory only to end up on a borderline. His temper is short when he has to track for long periods, but he does his best to keep it under his fur, his attitude toward his apprentices is schooled in a quiet frown and instructional flicks of his tail and ears.

Thistleback and Bat in unison are paused in the way the world suddenly ices over with that familiar thud, the groan of a car engine always following that silence. Only the silence is split with a wail, shattering and horrific. He is quick to follow his shadowing warrior to-be.

Upon the scene and across the blacktop, a large darkfurred body is splayed in the wake of the metal beast’s unintentional wrath. Haunches dipped unnaturally, with the rise and fall of breath. He was still alive, Thistleback bounds across the thunderpath next. The familiar pavement under his paw tapped by calluses until he joins them.

bat points out the awkward jut of his hip, it was clear, though not bleeding outwardly the same cannot be said with confidence from within. Anger pierced his heart, this mockery made of fate for Slate time and time again. If the hip was broken surely, he would be made lame like a racehorse with a snapped leg. A powerful cat given the warrior’s greatest tragedy. Thistleback has to scold himself for giving into anger in this moment instead of concern. Doeblaze had sent for Dawnglare, her mellifluous tone bringing calm to the chaos swirling around them as she inspects the gravely wounded.

To carry him would take two large cats for a careful maneuver, curse the Maine coon genes. While he was certainly strong enough, Thistleback would drag the man’s hip and most likely make it worse.

He lowers his chin to Slate’s ear " hang on lad, your story doesn’t end here" he mutters, " alright…what’s the plan? " he turns his chin to Doeblaze, eyeing the thunder path and configuring ways this could be done. " We could wait and lay him over Dawnglare and Primrose’s back. Each of us could split and scout the thunderpath on both ends " he suggests, both perfectly large enough to support him safely.

⛤ OOC INFORMATION REFERENCE ⛤

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  forty-eight mns. EVENT TRACKER | IMPORTANT INFO
  — Former Lead warrior of Skyclan 12.22.22 - 06.2023
  — Father of Coyotecrest, Eveningsun and Scorpionpaw
  — mentoring Teeveepaw formerly Snowpath & Quillstrike
  — very muscular piebald black and white tom with spiky fur and cold silver-grey eyes.
  — voice & accent
  — biography･ﾟ✧​
  OPEN for Dice battles | stine#3004
  
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[DAWNGLARE]

What a wonder this is... A strange burden he bore, that of undertaker, drawn from his resting grounds with the promise of soon bringing Slate to his own... How long has it been now? How many moons of praying that the swinish pelts lining Blazestar's council would be lain to waste? It is a tad... late, he thinks. He is not meant to understand with what urgency Mother handles her subjects... He's witnessed lightning bleaching a spine white within moments of transgression. He's witnessed trees suddenly toppled before cursed word could fully form on the tongue... But it is only now that justice finds the brutish tom, long after the sky's death; not - so - long after his power has been stripped to naught.

Still — it is a gift, is it not? ( Something genuine tinges the inward question. For would Mother croon so quietly if she thought such justice well - needed? ) He scrambles to his paws, a certain keenness gleaming in twin blues. And Cloudypaw — dear Cloudypaw... Perhaps he was blind to the reality of Slate's liveliness, looking along with that face that demanded with just a look. Remarkable nerve, he thinks... He slotted in easy with the rest of his kind, asking for more than he quite deserved... His presence is all that should be sorely asked of... but with a grouse held between teeth, he brings his nose to his herbs, anyhow... ( What was this, even? Some... ancient demand, pressure bid by one long gone... If he wanted for Dawnglare to care about his word, he should have kept his sorry self alive... )

Dawnglare is brisk in his movements, not bothering to listen for Fireflyglow's oafish self in tow... He rummaged together a few somethings; nothings, really... all of them bundled together in his oak leaf. It's nonsense, truthfully. Nonsense to keep His eyes from prying. Sitting atop it all with a hardiness is that lavender sprig. No, it would not be typical procedure to dress the body there, but it would be a bit of trouble to dredge that thing to camp just to dredge it back out again, would it not?

The body is lodged on the side of the Thunderpath, its clanmates huddled around it like mewling maggots. Dawnglare would not deny them their hungry swallows of pity, but he was under obligation to sniff at the site of their concern, first... The Thunderpath does little to intimidate him, though he does remark at what great lengths he goes through for these few... And just what is he given in return? No, no... this day ought to be a joyous one, but then its with a sinking of the mood that he remarks, " ...Oh. Alive, are you? " Something like disappointment clings to his fangs, though that all - seeing eye keeps him from indulging too fully... His gaze briefly flickers to those present. Yes, he supposes... were Slate dead, they would be squawking their heads off, rather than simply sniveling...

His bundle is placed on the ground. There are mutterings around him; plan of action, or some such... Meanwhile, his eye is drawn to the misplaced jut of bone by Slate's hip. The key here: misplaced, not shattered... Though either outcome inevitably spells eternity spent with Slate in his care, at the very least this one was the more... satisfying of the two. He wonders: had this been the intent after all? In a quiet exchange to her, he asks this very question. It is all silence, beneath the dirt.

Dawnglare leers over an unconscious maw. With claws itching in their sheathes, he wonders just how far he could go without him waking... but there are eyes about. Four sets, unremarkable. One set looming large. Dawnglare paces about Slate's form, anticipation blooming in the twitch of his tail; the smallest of smiles curling the ends of a wolfish maw. " Space, " he demands. " I need space. " The hiss that whips up is excited, and then he is laying paws over the bone with a delicateness —

And pops it back into place with anything but.

In his most ideal reality: perhaps there would be blood spatter, perhaps a mousy shriek before screaming lungs are caught on the sudden lack of a soul... but this would satisfy him for now. Perhaps his newfound contentment would make Slate's ensuing stay more... tolerable. Dawnglare will sleep rather soundly tonight, he thinks. He reaches for his herbs, remarking, " He will live, " and the smile crescenting his eyes would not seem so in character alongside this revelation. For the swelling that would inevitably come, he prepares a poultice of marigold and comfrey root. Poppy seeds are eyed curiously, in the case that Slate was to wake...​