the mottled tom knew not if it was common knowledge, his relationship to boneripple. something long-standing, a closeness born from childhood and greyed as they age, experience life outside of hare whiskers colony. perhaps that was why his ears perk — why he overhears, turns his head to look at this from his place shaded not too far away. boneripple is talking, reminiscing, and each word stakes confusion into his chest. she speaks as though it were a time to remember fondly, as if they had been better off. pikesplash and saltsting settle aside her, asking questions, the latter far more concise about his take in her departure from shadowclan. with a flick of his tail, he turns his head, makes clear his eavesdropping.
" we were starving. " to be considered a cold opening he was sure, but one nonetheless — his expression is still, slitted snake eyes lifting from the glinting scale and shredded white meat lying haphazardly between two ivory paws. a meal like this would have been a rarity, something once in a lifetime,
” when the pine group had moved in, they’d taken a section of land with them.. kittypets that hadn’t know their tails from their teeth — drew our prey away. hare whiskers colony was condemned to the marshes. “ inexperienced house pets, clambering at the ground and trees for something that wasn’t dry, dusted kibble. he looks at boneripple, curious beneath the hollow glint in his eye,
” bone and i had grown up together, raised to survive on toad and crowfood. the outlands were wild and rogue - filled, rampant with predators. there were no patrols, and no protection. to hunt beyond the mud was near certain death. “
he thinks of dewdrop, her kits — fox scent and blood, childrens cries. he thinks of a familiar blue - grey coat, hard green eyes. he thinks of lost family, verbal assaults,
” you were young then, saltsting. “ his gaze reaches back towards the tom, let’s his cool gaze flit absently over the fish hook splash of ivory to touch his muzzle. he draws a tongue over the warped side of his maw, dampens the jutting canine there,
” when the battle took place, we were tearing wounds into one another for a measly mouse or squirrel. often i’ve tasted more the blood of a loner, than the meal id fought them for. “ he thinks of honeytwist. wide, frightened eyes mirroring his open jaws, pearl teeth.
would he have killed her, for a piece of prey? his sunken stomach at the time had screamed yes,
” it was like.. leafbare, each sunrise. we’d nothing but our own misery. “ perhaps dark, but he would sooner bite his own paws off than return to living how he had. no bloodshed.. it was nearly laughable.
his ears perk and his head snaps upward, ears lowering at the insinuation,
” but she is correct in one thing. there were no healers, no leads or deputy. there were no laws, no borders, no promise of prey. “ its slow, pointed, a glance down towards the fish beneath him, splayed and gutted.. he would have taken a life for this, moons ago. his paws burn and he thinks of a large, blue shaded tom, and suddenly the edges of his vision dot black stars.
rain,
” here, all the fish, bird and vole beyond our rivers belong to us. each living, breathing creature — we catch, and we bring back. “
bloodshed.
” but there, we were at eachothers throats. some, more literal than not. “ a screaming match he'd shoved his way between. salamander, turning her back to be attacked only hours after their bloody return. he flicks his ear up pointedly at her, then to pikesplash,
” even after the great battle, our aggression remained.. as did our hunger. each day was a clamber for food, licking more wounds we had no herbs or medicine cats to heal. until starclan aided us to split into five, and we grew less hungry, did we begin to live in less tumultuous waters. “ a single paw extends long, clear claws, sloped muzzle dipping to watch where they click at what little iridescence still clings to his shredded prey,
” the marshes had always been.. a difficult place to live. “ his eyes narrow,
” the clans have saved more lives than i can rightly say. “
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i.
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˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀
−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 50 moons, ages every 50 posts.
penned by antlers
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"speech"
