pafp rewrite the stars ✘ birth

[SMOKESTAR]

He has been having almost constant discomfort for several days now, not enough to mention but enough to keep him unsettled; normal it was, supposedly. As if anything about this entire ordeal was normal, though at the end of the day he had a newfound respect for queens for their duties. At least the sensible queens. The dark tom is restless in the nest, surprising that he had not woken his mate with his constant shifting about and turning to get comfortable but there is an unsettling pressure that has dropped onto his back that he can’t shake no matter what he does. He has almost given up on sleeping for the night, debating rising to sit out in the open and cool air of the camp when his muscles all tense in forewarning.

Smokethroat is jolted awake by a sudden, sharp pain; almost piercing like claws and it's enough to jerk him upward out of sleep entirely. He had felt a lot of strange sensations since the kits, but nothing like this - nothing that had hurt so profoundly. It was almost more agonizing than the very wound that took his eye, setting off a ringing in his ears. Head raised above the nest, ensnared in the coil of a curled tail and tucked limbs of Cicadastar, he waits with bated breath for a moment as the pain gradually subsides and he almost lowers his head once more when it returns again with more vigor than before; violent, unforgiving. Ravensong’s words resonate in his head of the ‘queen’s battle’ and it becomes readily apparent the war has begun.
A shrill, strangled cry escapes him as he is quietly panicking on what to do first, a sound he’s not accustomed to making and one that chokes out a following whimper like a kit whose tail was trod upon; betrayed and excessive in its frailty.
You’d have to be a fool at this point to realize it was anything but time for them to arrive, finally unburden him from carrying their weight daily as they grew; his immediate impulse is the medicine cat den and he stumbles upward only to crumple back down onto the nest with splayed limbs and a voice cracking like ice, “Cada-!” Wake up, wake up, wake up-! “I need y-”
Voice splinters, breaks, he can’t stop the horrified, fearful scream that shatters his words into pieces to replace them with just noise; it's suddenly very suffocating here in the willow den. He feels too hot, too cold, all at once; the sensory overload leaves him dry heaving into the moss and curled as tightly as could be allowed but the sudden copper smell turns his frantic attempts to breath into gasping to keep his head above the waters flooding his mind. He is drowning in his own fear scent, nothing could have prepared him for this.
Was he dying - this felt alarmingly like dying - what was the difference of a battlefield to this? Somehow it felt less significant to him, somehow he felt weaker, was there honor in dying this way or was he just a fool.

---

[Ooc]
PAFP - please let @CICADASTAR & @MUDPELT post first! Then obligatory medicine cat tag - @RAVENSONG
Kit tags - @CICADAKIT & @STARLIGHTKIT & @BEEKIT
​

 

[CICADASTAR]

the night is calm. rarity as it was, exhaustion seeps deep enough into bird bones that sleep welcomes him into its tumultuous embrace ; gingerly curling into his love’s tangle of stout limbs, the phantom had fallen into his moss nest and let slumber take him away. things without his deputy were difficult, even more so with the loners idling at their borders and influx of fox activity. he is strung thin, stretched taut — it’s seen in the hollowness of his eyes, the darkness that lies just beneath. he is stone - forged, corroded. when he curls to sleep, he does so in the embrace of his mate, ribbons long, mottled limbs around him to tucking his nose into star - ridden fur, breathing in his milk - touched scent where his chin rests delicately along his swollen belly. a calm he lets wash over him in waves — like wading into sun - warmed waters, it numbs his mind, fills his ears with pleasant nothingness until the darkness of sleep wades him in. he is heavy with kit, restless as the stars were bright, but the phantom ebbs, drowsiness welcoming him into its arms.

it’s a howl that wakes him ; something guttural, a struck - down shriek that splices salt blue eyes wide. for a moment, it does not process — until a tremulous whimper befalls smokethroat’s bladed tongue, and it is an almost forbidden noise coming from the dark feline. his head finally snaps upward, sluggish, an undignified sound falling gibberishly from his tongue, ” i — “ but smokethroat is already unwinding from him. a feeble attempt at finding his footing, a scrabble of claws at the moss and dirt. by miracle alone does his muscle move before his brain, a mad shove upwards to keep his flailing mate. sleep sheds like snakeskin and suddenly he is more awake than he’s ever been, wired and bristling along sharp elbows. his body is an arching shadow, eel - like against the cool moonlight filtering through their arching willow den.

the tom is wailing and — is this right ? was it normal, to suffer this much this soon? he’s scrambling to his own paws and unlike smokethroat, he does not fall miserably down again. he crouched forward, aims to get close, " im here, im — i’m right here, " desperately murmured, but another shriek splits the air and.. ravensong. he needed to get ravensong. fear muddles the air, thickens the atmosphere in their den and it’s palpable, fills his veins with ice water. smokethroat was in pain, in their nest.. his paws itch to run, to help, but to leave him yowling? the leader thinks back desperately to willowroot’s kitting, to icesparkle’s and buckgait’s. he needed him, smokethroat was gasping, heaving like a beached fish. they’re hurting him, he thinks wildly, and it is a hard truth to watch — he’s never seen him writhe like this, to whine and grapple at the ground as if trying to hold on, to stay grapples to the ground lest starclan lead him away. a violent fear stakes his heart and his mate lurches, dry heaves into the soft moss and he bristles further, moves to offer fast, frantic licks at the back of his neck to try and cool him ; but he was no medic, and the tom flounders, fills their willow home with manic tension, ” i have to get ravensong. mein lieb, listen to me - “

they were coming, and his chest feels as if it were ready to pull and snap, heart like fragile ice ready to shatter the moment it falls ; his mate, his kits. what if his mate did not survive this? what if neither of them survived this? what if he returns, ravensong in tow, to five cooling bodies in his moss? he’d say that starclan could never be that cruel, if they’d not warn him of this, what would they? but smokethroat was flame - formed, melded into jagged muscle and hard edges — he’d not screamed to the heavens like this with his face gaping, eye nothing out a puddle of red mess and infection. this wasn’t right. his claws unsheathe, fear scent dripping from him, from his ailing mate, when he hears it — tall ears perk, wide eyes snapping to back to the furthest corner of narrow blue eyes and he sees it, a muzzle, trying to poke into his den. the scent of herb and bile does not follow, he knows this is not ravensong, who is this? who was this, trying to come into their den? his mate gasps, aches for air he seems to fight to gulp in. a twig snaps and driven by terror - nausea, the leader lurches without a thought, aiming a quick, hard slap of arching claw across their intruder’s face, his own chest heaving a wild, frantic beat. get out. get out, get away. away from him away from him away from him —

COLD & CRUEL LIKE WINDS ON THE SEA  ╱ INFORMATION ✟

• i.
  
• ★ ⋆ CICADASTAR −−−− FOUNDING LEADER OF RIVERCLAN. HOMOSEXUAL, MATED TO SMOKETHROAT. FIFTY MOONS, FATHER TO STARLIGHTKIT, CICADAKIT && BEEKIT. PENNED BY ANTLERS −−−−− ⁺₊✧
  
  
  he / him. tall, elegantly curled smoke tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt blue eyes. his structure sings a feral sort of hymnal, presenting an almost dangerous sort of beauty veiling what monstrosities lie beneath the ivory of his skull. jutting jawline and a squared chin, sunken cheeks drawing a shadow beneath high, sharp cheekbones with tall, angular ears settling high atop the flatter slope of his cranium. he is beautiful ; lucifer in the eyes of an envious god. for all his looks, his expression is lax, void — corpse - eyed and hollow until spoken to, sparking the undead to life. he is tall, lean, cut - glass pretty ; he smiles with too - many teeth, blackened frostbite pulling back his maw to bear canines setn beneath curling whiskers, pantomime skeletal. a predatory gracefulness from the lines that press the image of exhaustion beneath ice water hues to the slow, sure gait in which he walks, nameless strength poorly concealed within the hard lines of his physique. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unnaturally tall amongst his peers, always holding himself with a tragic sort of grace ; poised, prim, and uncannily aware of how he appears.
  
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── smells like wet moss and meadowland thunderstorms.
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── notoriously paranoid and closed off, cicadastar will tend to lie, assume, and jump to conclusions whenever it suits him. any 'suspicious' ic actions he witnesses or hears about will have a strong effect, and will have ic consequences! if you're unsure of an interactions outcome, please feel free to send a dm! no character opinions represent my own.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• " speech "​
  
  
  

​

 

[MUDPELT]

Mudpelt had been present for births. Two of them, to be exact. The first had been short and simple - his eldest daughter hadn’t caused too much of a fuss. The second, Icesparkle gave him four more kits, his two sons and two more daughters. All of them the lights of his life, and he knows he’d never forget the beautiful days they were all born.

Perhaps that is why the shrill shriek startled him so much. He hadn’t been in the warrior’s den - no, he’d been on guard duty that night. His head whips around towards the willow tree where Cicadastar and his pregnant mate sleep. Amber eyes stretching wide, he’s on his paws and cautiously trotting closer. Is it Smokethroat? Something has to be wrong - he doesn’t recall any of the queens or even Icesparkle making such a noise when their labor began. This is desperate, urgent, and it sends the fur along his spine spiking. Logic leaves him, replaced by panicked instinct. The warrior bounds forward with a desire to protect those he was sworn to, and when he pokes his head into the den, he’s about to ask with an urgency what is going on and what he can do.

His maw barely has time to open before claws slice across his face. He backpedals with a yowl, a large forepaw immediately going to his cheek. When he pulls it away, he can see wet blood gleaming, dark crimson even under the moonlight. “S-Sorry!” He barks in a whimpering, apologetic tone, still scrambling backwards. “I’ll go, uh! I’ll go get Ravensong! Sorr-Sorry, Cicadastar, sorry Smokethroat!” Guilt hangs heavy in his voice as he whirls around to retrieve the medicine cat, blood oozing from the scratches across his face.​

 

[RAVENSONG]

A scream shatters his ears, causing Ravensong's eyes to fly open. He is alone in his own den—Catfishpaw long gone from her time staying here and his breath expels from his lungs in a shaky manner. His head turned slowly as if it were in molasses toward the covered entrance of the medicine cat den. Had he imagined it? His dreams were often intense and vivid, and there were times he was unsure if he were awake or dreaming.

He waits and then the sounds continue. Ravensong uncurls from his den and suddenly he is face to face with a bloodied Mudpelt. "Wha—" He breathes. "Are we under attack?" His head dizzily tries to make sense of it—WindClan had attacked their beech copse camp before, they were not below such a thing.

Then he pulls out further and the fear scent of Smokethroat brings the fur along his hackles to attention. "Grab a piece of moss and soak it to your face for now. I will deal with it properly later." He instructed the warrior, darting back into the confines of his den and scrabbling at the hollows he kept his herbs in. A dose of chervil—found by he and Dovethroat—and a stick, thanks to Starlingheart's good graces.

Ravensong had prepared everything for the deputy because he had understood how much he feared it.

"Cicadastar, I'm here." The lowly accented voice calls from the entrance of the den. His ears are lowered and he waits for permission before slipping inside. "Smokethroat, chew this," The chervil is presented to the writhing cat and Ravensong watches carefully It is already partially chewed by the medicine cat in order for the juices to work faster once in Smokethroat's teeth. When he is done, the stick is offered next. "Keep this between your teeth now—for the pain."

And now all they could do was wait while Ravensong hovered over him to check the vital signs he could distinguish.

☾₊ ⊹ 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"

​

 

[willowroot]

( ☾ ) she can hear the yowling from her nest, where her paws clamp over her ears. exhaustion hangs off of her frame like her own fur, and her eyes are bloodshot as they finally glance around. movement from the clearing, muffled mutterings, and the yowling increases. something is very, very wrong. she rises from her nest, pushes her way from the warriors' den and finds herself beside mudpelt, just outside cicadastar's den. the scent of fear radiates from within the den, where smokethroat writhes uncomfortably. something twists inside of willowroot, some deep seeded memory of her own birthing catastrophe. but smoke's been careful, he's been good about his own safety. so why is he screaming like the stars are falling? cicadastar seems even more panicked, judging by the fresh claw marks along mudpelt's nose. as ravensong enters the den, willow turns to the brown tom. "let me help you with your nose," she offers, tipping her head to get a better look. anything to distract from her friend's pain.

should the earthen tom accept her aid, the smoke snatches up a bit of moss and pads to soak it in the meager river. then she will place it on the scratch marks. "everywhere you go, someone's got something going on, huh?" she teases, tone lighthearted in reference to her own pregnancy announcement. "it's not your fault, 'cada's just worried. you were doing your job as a warrior."

hoping the tom can hold the moss to his own nose now, she'll allow him to take over, and she'll pad back towards the den, ears angled. ravensong offers a stick, muffling smoke's screams, and not for the first time, willowroot resents the fact that the man isn't in the nursery. he needs queens around him, to help guide him through. this is his first pregnancy, and he's in a tiny space, with little comfort. thank stars cicadastar's there, but willowroot selfishly wonders if the tom might do more harm than good, seeing his mate in pain. she's only just gotten smokethroat back, their bond is closer now, although perhaps it will never be the same. she needs to be there for him. the green-eyed warrior seats herself just outside the entrance, waiting, guarding. anything for smokethroat.

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

To say he was having what amounted to a full panic attack was an understatement, pure and simple. Smokethroat remained hunched where he was, face buried into his paws and only raising it to the sound of pawsteps hurrying toward the den; relief palpable - surely it was Ravensong, but before he could properly process who it was Cicadastar struck. A half yell, partial cry of alarm rose in his throat in warning; unsure if he was shouting at the leader to cease or the other cat to look out but he sees a flash of claws and red before what he finally realizes is Mudpelt stumbles out, the display make his fur bristle uneasily. Lashing out like that so violently to one of their clanmates - what if it had been Ravensong there, the smaller cat may not have taken such a blow as easily as the more sturdy warrior had, the size different meant it may have hit somewhere else; a throat, an eye-who was to say. He’s too lost in the haze of panic, pain, to even process much of it right now; feeling only more assured at having held his tongue on his concerns if the leader was this high strung, who knew what kind of argument might have occurred. Maybe it was best that his talk with the medicine cat went nowhere further than that reed enshrouded den. Outside voices rise in hushed mutterings, cats clamoring curious, it is the middle of the night and if he had the sense to be embarrassed for waking half the camp he might’ve curled back into a corner but right now his focus was on breathing; struggling even to do that simple task without edging into hyperventilating.
Ravensong is there suddenly, herb scent strikes his nose and he does not question nor hesitate to do as asked of him, bitter plants eaten and stick gripped so tightly in his jaws he wonders if it might snap. Out of the corner of his long orange eye he spots Willowroot hovering by the den. All there was now was to wait, to hope, to pray to StarClan the kits came without any issue.

It lasts too long, far too long for what it was. Far too long for there only to be three of them now tucked alongside him and making themselves known in mewling declarations. He’s never felt more tired in his life, a rippling pain still rolling through him but much more subdued than before; more tolerable. Smokethroat thinks that he could sleep for several moons even, but fights the exhaustion off so he can finally get a more proper look at the kittens, cleaned and content at last.
All black and white in color, two smoke ruffed and accented with a darker gray. Several of them have odd spotting in places, across the face, on the side, cupping the chin, one had a single white burst upon their forehead like a star. He dips his head down to carefully nudge each one, feeling the flutter of a tiny heartbeat under his nose. All healthy, all alive…and surprisingly so was he despite the long and agonizing affair that it had been.
Lowering his head to rest and curl around so he can trap the three of them in the fold of his body he gives a sigh so deep and worn that he feels himself grow heavy from it.
“They’re here…they’re okay.” That’s all that mattered, the fact he still felt like death, too warm and too cold all over; didn’t even have the energy to raise his head - was it worth it? He might’ve argued before but seeing them finally changed his answer to a resounding yes. All his stress, all his frantic concerns, they seemed ridiculous in hindsight. Now his chief worry was that he still didn’t have a single name idea worthy of bestowing upon them, having spent the better part of the pregnancy just fretting miserably.
​

 

[BEEFANG]

( ) The nameless kitten had only known one thing within the past moons and that was the familiar warmth that kept them and their siblings together but then it had become cramped. Out. They all wanted out and had grown impatient but it hadn't been the time... Not yet. Until this fateful day and they had not arrived silently but the small dark furred kitten was unaware of that for their eyes were shut tightly and any noise would fall upon deaf ears that would grow in size. They'd be able to hear and see but it would not be today. The cold would nip at the little body of the kitten but it was only brief when as a large body wrapped around them and their siblings. They squirmed for a good moment with small paws flailing around, mouth shut but only briefly before the need to fill their lungs made their tiny toothless maw part to let out a shrill mewl.

Breathe.

Soft pink nostrils flaring as new scents and oxygen filled their lungs, the firstborn kitten letting out more fiesty mewls of protest as the nameless bundle of fur continued to wriggle around unable to balance themselves on their small body. Several unfamiliar scents around them but the most overwhelming one of all was the sweet, warm aroma of Smokethroat's milk which made them draw near like a moth to a flame, mismatched paws pushing their small body forward until their snout bumped into the belly of the queen and proceeded to bob their head around letting out a few more cries though they were hungry and determined.

Finally, the nameless kitten latched onto Smokethroat starting to suckle, they lost their grip but only for a heartbeat as they used their small paws to hold their spot suckling once more. The firstborn kitten's tail waving a little in the air almost as if triumphant in finding their - later, her, place amongst her littermates.​

( KILL EM WITH THE MOJO ; CINEMATIC SLO-MO )

 

[iciclefang]

The commotion draws her attention, just as it does the other warriors still awake or sleeping just lightly. Iciclefang rises from her nest with her smooth fur bristling at the shoulders. Like Ravensong, she feared WindClan had infiltrated their true camp, waded through the waters to bring savagery into their home—but she’s greeted with the sight of her father’s bleeding muzzle and Willowroot close by. She sees the feathery dark tail of their medicine cat disappear into Cicadastar’s den, and the frantic fear scent permeates the air—her former mentor is giving birth to Cicadastar’s kits at long last.

She pads to Mudpelt, her eyes twinkling with sympathy and amusement. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it. I can smell how afraid they are from across camp.” She frowns, gaze flicking past her father and Willowroot and into the gloomy close quarters of their leader’s den. “I hope everything’s going alright.” She vaguely remembers Willowroot’s kitting, of Hazepaw and Mosspaw’s entrance to the world, but it’s otherwise been some time since she’s been in camp during a kitting—and this is Ravensong’s first. She wonders if the young healer is adding his own fear scent to the palpable perfume. “Wait… did you hear that?” Her light blue eyes light up. “A kit. A kit cried out.” She wants to peek into the den, but she hardly fancies getting the same treatment as her father, so she refrains from intruding.

✧ INFO.

•  
• 
  — iciclekit . iciclepaw . iciclefang
  — she/her ; warrior of riverclan
  — lesbian ; single
  — short-haired tortoiseshell with white markings and ice-blue eyes
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — penned by Marquette
  — chibi by Pin

​

 

[Cricketchirp]

————— ✩ —————
AND POINTED SKYWARDS

The last-born of the yet-nameless children is, as their siblings, blissfully unaware of all that is existence. They know not of the tom that sired them, nor the pain of the one who delivered them. They know not of the blood that drips from the face of the well-meaning warrior, nor the careful preparation and guidance of the medicine cat, nor the clamoring crowd which has gathered in anticipation of their arrival.

All that they know is warmth and sensation. And ah, there is a new sensation: that of air, that of freedom. They do not react at first. They're not used to new.

The last-born child is a fragile thing, a delicate thing, all spun glass and starlight. Bones like brittle ice hide beneath a pelt of night, shifting shadows curling around their frame. A tiny phantom born into the moonhigh dark, black and grey dancing across their tiny form. Nearly indistinguishable from the dim surrounding them, vanishing into the pitch of their father's fur.

But there, on the crown of their head: spot of light. A star-shaped crest marking the arrival of the youngest child.

And there, in the dim of the night, a sound.

The child cries out, makes themself known. They know something else new now, that of sound, that of demand. And oh, they demand attention, incessant mewling accompanies the child's writhing. They know too now scent, and the scent of milk is sweet and they know of want. There is so much that is strange and new...

They seek the warmth of a body larger than theirs, and all at once they are quiet.

SCRAPE THE HEAVENS !
————— ✩ —————

₊°✩ info ; visual

• //
  ​
• STARLIGHTKIT named for faith and for the star-like mark on her forehead.
  — he/him, she/her, they/them. newborn
  — riverclan kit. smokethroat x cicadastar
  — twitchy and strange, with boundless curiosity.
  
  penned by saturnid.​
• "SPEECH"
  ​
• 

​

 

[CICADAFLIGHT]

✦₊ ⊹—— just like their siblings, the second-born kit knows not of the frenzy surrounding them—not the one growing around the willow den, nor the one that might build itself around the forest at the news of their birth. the screams and the blood that bring them into the world mean nothing, unknown to the small shape with their eyes and ears sealed by newness. the kit does not know who it is they are born to, doesn't yet know of the too-heavy crown of river royalty that will press into their temples until they bleed. they only know of two wriggling shapes at their sides, the smell of milk and fear and blood, the warmth of their father they seek out now. it's easy for them tonight, easy as it will never be again, pressing into smokethroat's flank with an openness that will evade the nameless kit for the rest of their life.

they're not named yet, no, only a too-sharp shape curled at their father's belly. like a scattered skeleton, a broken shell, all hard edges and bladed lines of black and white, already gangly beneath newborn fat and fuzz; the beginning of limbs that will always be too long. quiet now, mind sleeping the dreamless slumber of new birth, knowing nothing but milk and warmth and sleep; peaceful for the first time, peaceful for the last time. they don't look quite the same as their siblings, don't act quite the same—don't cry out triumphant, don't wail for attention, nearly silent as they find their way to smokethroat; the only sound is faint gasping cries that sound like sobs.

I AM GOD (✦) 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑰 𝑵𝑬𝑬𝑫 𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑬 𝑫𝑬𝑺𝑻𝑹𝑶𝒀𝑬𝑫

• ooc: ——
  
• disclaimer: it's important to note that cicadakit is not always in a stable state of mind. his view of the world may not always be accurate to objective reality, which may include seeing things that are not genuinely there, reading motivations or thoughts from actions that are not actually implied, and making assumptions or jumping to conclusions. this is not an attempt at metagaming, powerplaying, or mischaracterization, and is not legitimately true or correct to reality or what your characters actually think or believe.
  
  it will always be noted in the post if he is seeing something that isn't actually there. all opinions & thoughts are ic only and do not reflect my thoughts and opinions as a writer.
• 
  — cicadakit
  — he/him ; kit of riverclan ; newborn
  — "speech" ; thoughts ; attacks
  — penned by dejavu
  

​

 

[CICADASTAR]

claws connect. a gasp is punched from his chest as if he were the one struck, ears snapping flat and paw flying back. the familiar touch of sticky heat floods ivory paw tips and he scrambles back just as mudpelt does, " so sorry — sorry! " strangled yowl, cast loud enough for the tom to hear over the rush in the leader’s own ears. a crowd forms, too fast behind bleary gaze. he can feel his heartbeat behind icy eyes, rapid fire and nauseating ; but im here, comes his medics voice, and despite the bristles at his shoulders never falling, wild eyes snap towards him. the lumbering tom stands paused outside the maw of his den and cicadastar’s brain fires, he paces, swerves his body further out of the way, paws itching to move, biting anxiety crawling further up his limbs with each second of immobility, ” yes, yes. “ he mumbles, frets, flicks his tail wide in invitation. once. twice. again, again, again.

cicadastar all but ushers him in by the ears, sharp - knuckled paws rounding back on him just as he steps calmly inside, ” why is he screaming like this? “ this isn’t normal, this isn’t normal. a pant, a flick of cool blue eyes towards his lover where ravensong already strides towards. something medicinal clasped in his maw, he leans towards still floundering deputy, fear scent stronger now and his mind is whirling too fast to process, to identify why other than pain. the phantom creeps closer, head down and gaze wide, pale blues glinting against the moon, ” fix him. help them, i need.. “

everything. he needed everything, and blessedly, ravensong does as he is told. like a specter the leader paces behind them, darkness catching on mottled tones of his coat and molding heavy curls into shadow at the edges of his willow den — a hound at his growing family’s heel. it drags, seconds turning to hours in his ticking mind, the ever - present sound of paws tapping rhythmically against the pebbled ground only pausing once they arrive.

smokethroat eases as well as he can, clenching onto the stick ravensong had fetched so taut it could snap between pointed teeth. slowly, slowly, he guides their children into soft moss — fluffed and fresh, far away from the commonality of their medicine den. as they come, cicadastar crouches, crawls to pull himself close along his lovers back as much as he would allow in his pain. he watches as one, two, three ; starclan blesses with with three, all shades of dark gloss. and — oh. his middle child splashes ivory across his sloped face, and phantom memories flit behind wide, wondrous eyes. of water, of reflection, of a sky lit bright by a slanted moon. the stars had crafted them well. they’d taken their time in delivery, stopped even to nose his youngest between pinched eyes and light them with a stunning, permanent brilliance.

all delicately curled, shrouded in night around their bird - boned form ; two are tinged silver, all splotched in blinding ivory beneath the wreckage of their birth. it takes all he had to look away, to turn shellshocked luminaries towards smokethroat to gauge his expression. his mate is tired, pants and gasps. they’re here. they’re okay. yes. they mewl, crawl and latch ; strong, healthy.. a hearty pull makes a good swimmer, ” they’re okay. “ he repeats, knowing not whether it was truly for smokethroat or not. but he leans, aims to bonk his head gentle against his love’s shoulder, blinks slow, and.. he’d only smokethroat to thank for their kits health. confined to the den, never taking a risk despite his ever - present need. carefully, he leans over — aims a soft rasp at his cheek, smooths a rumple of dark, white - splotched fur there.. the same splotches that dot their children now with constellations, casting silverpelt’s dance along thick, downy curls, ” they’re beautiful. “ reverent, he breathes.

a beat passes. after a lingering gaze towards smokethroat for permission, his eyes drift back towards the bundles nosing clumsily at his belly. his youngest cries out, and the leader rumbles a velveteen laugh ; soft, leaning down to press a brief nose to their blessing - licked skull. their paws already brim with stardust, reed - woven royal. something meant to be. the heavens sing upon them, watch with crinkles at the edges of proud, eager eyes. he hopes they can they smell him, hopes they take it in, a first and forever memory. i would give you the stars, he’d once said — and now he does, ” starlightkit. “ he breathes, pulling back away from the curled child and nuzzling his mate’s side — no more fitting name there could be, a name for what they were, ” unser star. our perfect little light. “ i have given you a piece of the night sky itself.

the next is not too loud. not so present, bursting with life at their softly woven seams ; they are born of fragile - woven alabaster and shadow, a mirror’s image. their limbs stretch to pull slow, quiet towards the heady scent of milk and warmth. they are not aware of the porcelain that laces their features, the crook in their tail, their muzzle. long notches of spidery limbs, fur thick, ever tangled in kithood. they are born scruffed, jutting and odd.. ” and.. “ had he looked like this, when he was young? had his mother looked down upon this very sight, and how had she felt of it? and — what could he do differently? what could he do, to form this creature, so awkward and rot - touched, from turning out as he had? his jaw clenches for only a moment. he swallows, ” cicadakit. “

finally, his oldest. a small, fuzzy thing, shaded cool black with alabaster dipped paws. his daughter, his eldest daughter.. he rasps a lick over her head as she mewls ; she fights and kicks against the moss and an amused, gleaming - eyed grin passes his mangled maw. she was feisty, stubborn.. ” this one didn’t fall far from the willow tree, hm? “ the leader teases, dark vocals wavering against the strain of.. something in his throat. pride? joy? fear? his chest hurts, his stomach rolls ; he is happy. with a grin bright enough to rival the moon, he nudges forwards just a mite. encouragement, suddenly. it was no surprise that cicadastar was the more creative of the two, loud and brightly - colored.. despite his mate’s worry, his mind was something bright. life through simple eyes were often the happiest, he conceded, ” smokethroat.. “ he begins, aiming to finally rest his chin delicately along the hook of his mate’s neck, watching as the little molly finds her way to his belly. so intelligent.. he knew they would be, ” why don’t you give her a name? “

COLD & CRUEL LIKE WINDS ON THE SEA  ╱ INFORMATION ✟

• i.
  
• ★ ⋆ CICADASTAR −−−− FOUNDING LEADER OF RIVERCLAN. HOMOSEXUAL, MATED TO SMOKETHROAT. FIFTY MOONS, FATHER TO STARLIGHTKIT, CICADAKIT && BEEKIT. PENNED BY ANTLERS −−−−− ⁺₊✧
  
  
  he / him. tall, elegantly curled smoke tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt blue eyes. his structure sings a feral sort of hymnal, presenting an almost dangerous sort of beauty veiling what monstrosities lie beneath the ivory of his skull. jutting jawline and a squared chin, sunken cheeks drawing a shadow beneath high, sharp cheekbones with tall, angular ears settling high atop the flatter slope of his cranium. he is beautiful ; lucifer in the eyes of an envious god. for all his looks, his expression is lax, void — corpse - eyed and hollow until spoken to, sparking the undead to life. he is tall, lean, cut - glass pretty ; he smiles with too - many teeth, blackened frostbite pulling back his maw to bear canines setn beneath curling whiskers, pantomime skeletal. a predatory gracefulness from the lines that press the image of exhaustion beneath ice water hues to the slow, sure gait in which he walks, nameless strength poorly concealed within the hard lines of his physique. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unnaturally tall amongst his peers, always holding himself with a tragic sort of grace ; poised, prim, and uncannily aware of how he appears.
  
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── smells like wet moss and meadowland thunderstorms.
  ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── notoriously paranoid and closed off, cicadastar will tend to lie, assume, and jump to conclusions whenever it suits him. any 'suspicious' ic actions he witnesses or hears about will have a strong effect, and will have ic consequences! if you're unsure of an interactions outcome, please feel free to send a dm!
  
  no character opinions represent my own.​
  
  
• " speech "​
  
  
  

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[RAVENSONG]

The pressure between Smokethroat's pain and the pacing of Cicadastar makes Ravesong's fur stand on end. The constricted space of the leader's den is not ideal for this—he thinks—but there is no way in heaven that Ravensong would prompt them to move elsewhere. He mutters under his breath and watches for blood and counts Smokethroat's breaths in order to keep his cool with the distraction behind him. He cannot help but feel like his life is at stake—a different one than what Smokethroat and the kits were facing.

His lip minutely curls for a second but falls in an aborted threat when the leader dares to crawl closer against Smokethroat suffering in labor and move within Ravensong's jurisdiction. It's best for space—but he remembers Mudpelt's face and looks down. Ravensong keeps his head and focuses on the health of their deputy as the kits are born. "Last one," He confirms, examining the trio of kittens and determining their health to be satisfactory for their first minutes of life. Then to Smokethroat he looks over and it is a success. His first assisting birthing and neither parent nor kits were lost.

"They are healthy and well." He speaks again, softly. Their names are spoken outloud and Ravensong orients his head upward to stare into the dark roof of the den. Starlightkit. Cicadastar cannot be serious—and yet he is and Ravensong feels a pit of unease in his stomach.

"I have another matter to attend to." He continues, backing away. "You know where to find me. Congratulations." His elegant head is bowed toward the two of them and he disappears with a flick of his feathered tail. His face gives away nothing to the cats waiting outside and he makes a beeline for Mudpelt to prepare a poultice to fight infection.

☾₊ ⊹ 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"

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[SMOKESTAR]

He'd already told the tom he had no idea for names, that he worried over picking something foolish, that he had no ideas at all. So when the time came he looked expectantly over to his mate to wait and see what he might come up with and he was met with outright surprise on both fronts.

Starlight. It was a name that struck him as charming at first but it also left him uneasy, it seemed almost blasphemous in a way to name a child after the stars; surely he wasn't being serious? Leaders bore the star in their name as a symbol of their greatness, their leadership, StarClan's chosen few. To bestow it upon a kitten seemed outright heretical in a way. Though the name suits the child with the star spot upon their forehead they could have easily named them Lightkit. Shinekit. Glowkit...something else similar. Cicadastar's seriousness on the name is solidifed as he moves on to the other.

Cicada. Cicadakit was suiting for the doe-limbed spotted child that looked eerily similar to the leader in every way, though he wasn't sure how he felt naming one of their kits after his mate; it rang very similar to Sootstar's own egostical nature as she too had a child when the clans were still new that carried her prefix as well; he wondered how that fellow felt about it as an adult now. Surely it was a title that may be burdensome to carry but he was much too exhausted to delve into a possible argument right now. Cicadakit, Starlightkit...they were nice names all the same, but their meaning worried at his mind; he'd let it be for the time being.

Smokethroat is debating how to breech the topic of 'we might need to have a talk over this later' in a way that is gentle but phrased appropriately so nearby ears did not pick up on his disagreement when he is encouraged to make his own attempt at naming the final kitten, the little flailing molly that looked the most like him of all the trio.
"...me...? I don't..." He pauses, frowning, if left to his own devices Cicadastar might very well name the next one Egokit or Moonstonekit and at the very least he could spare one of them the tom's narcissism. They would be having a talk about those later, but for now he nodded once, "Let me think on it for a moment." The dark tom was tired, worn to the bone and wanting nothing more than to just drift back off into sleep now that it was over.

"...you didn't cut him too badly did you...?" His mind drifts to Mudpelt then, in his frantic moment during the entire ordeal he had not been able to give the chocolate tom a single thought but now kits mostly named and comfortably settled once more he is more than a little uneasy that they came into the world under flecks of clanmate blood; a terrible omen, if he were a medicine cat he might be wary but theirs remains rigid and professional even during what was a very stressful situation. It didn't cross his mind that Cicadastar was part of that growing shadow of burden the healer wore upon his shoulders, though he would believe that his mate's presence certainly had been smothering all the same. When Ravensong bowed his head to retreat he falters, "I...thank you, by the way...for everything." For being there, for being there prior, for listening to his foolish worries, for carrying on proudly despite the circumstances that forced him into this role. He had certainly came into his own and it was this realization that made him think back to his predecessor with a fondness once again. Beesong would have called Cicadastar ridiculous for the names and he had not missed the brief look their young healer had for Starlightkit especially.
The name struck him suddenly with the thought, like a burst of light erupting in his mind. Clarity and certainty. Smokethroat bows his head back down, nose pressing against a tiny folded black ear to the sounds of pitched mewls, "Beekit." He murmurs just loud enough anyone in the den still could hear, and it feels right. It feels like a proper name and not something droll or boring as he had worried his attempts might be.
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