camp set your teeth against my throat & waking up

[SMOKESTAR]

Smokethroat’s lone orange eye snapped open wide, a fire bursting in the depths of charred ash and burning coal; a sudden bright flash of color in the otherwise pale tinted den. The scent of herbs and plant matter assailed his nostrils, he wheezed in disgust and coughed a rasping gasp of breath. It felt like years since he’d taken in a gulp of air, it burned liquor hot and stinging and he was so disoriented that he did not realize his nest was not of only moss and bracken, long reeds and broken shells; there was a burning place next to him where the nesting had given way to another weight that was done now and he blinked his one remaining eye in confusion. The other was gone, he’d realized quickly now that the poultice plastered over it was not the only thing blocking his ability to see; his lips quivered as he resisted the urge to snarl impulsively at the thought that Weaselclaw had gotten off with just a torn ear. He wondered vaguely how long he had been out…

He doesn’t remember waking up feverish, disoriented, a warm form coiled around him; the beating of an eccentric heart to his ear, he does not recall much of hushed mutterings and calm purrs and if he does they are a dismissive dream that didn’t linger. He rarely dreamed and when he did it was a fleeting memory that passed for sudden and so swiftly that he could never quite recall them and so he thought the night prior just the same. An illusion, a dying dream, but he was still very much alive.

Smokethroat knew he ought to remain in the nest provided for him, wait for their medicine cat to return to his den and give him permission, but he stubbornly rises to stand and take a few uneven and stumbling strides forward to the exit of the den so he could peer out across the clan and remind himself what home looked like.

"....the hell happened..." His voice is strained, its usual growl somehow even more rasping and grumbling than it normally is. Whatever it was around his neck was itching and he sat down and fought the urge to raise a hindleg and scratch it off; an urge he was slowly failing.

​

 

[Redpath]

She had been sitting near the entrance to the medicine den the whole time. If Smokethroat died, she was going to rip apart the entirety of Windclan herself and leave them to rot.

She really needed to stop thinking about them. Every time she did, it made her blood boil.

She needed a distraction-

Holy shit.

THERE HE IS. HE'S ALIVE HOLY SHIT.

She gasped as he emerged from the den, not expecting him to be on his feet yet.

"S-s......"

The stoic look on her face melted completely and turned to one that looked like she was about to burst into tears. Her eyes were wide and watery and she was shaking.

"SMOKEEYYY!!" She wailed and immediately stepped over to press her head to his shoulder. Very gently.

"Y-youre...Okay...! We were all so scared...." She managed through her tears.

She had just been ready to rip and shred cats to pieces and now she was a blubbering mess.
​

 

[FERNGILL]

From the arms of the medicine den drew out the head of a snow-speckled tom- a prominent one, not just any! Smokethroat's smouldering eye rove the clearing, and Fernpaw's bug-eyes widened in a double-take. He'd smelled the blood in the air that day, heard the talk of Iciclepaw's rabbit, of WindClan's barbarity. Above all he'd heard of Smokethroat's injury, and he'd worried- he'd worried more than anything, but likely not more than anyone. Paws too big for the body they carried- though, said body was not quite kit-sized anymore-almost tangled themselves in a knot with Fernpaw's hurried approach, and the sparse-furred ginger tabby drew up beside Redpath with an unsightly but genuine smile on his face.

"Smokethroat!" he chimed, vision splitting time between the risen warrior and the rest of camp. Everyone would be so happy to see him awake! "'M glad you're oh-kay," he said, vice honeyed and stumbling. "Iciclepaw'll be so- so happy, I bet!" Everyone would be, but he knew his sister better than he knew others. She might not show that she was happy, but she would be, he was sure of it.​

( penned by pin )​

 

[ashpaw!]

Ashpaw is close on Fernpaw's heels. Smokethroat, she thinks, heart pounding—Smokethroat is awake!

(Smokethroat is still alive.)

She bounces in place beside Fernpaw, and she can't help the laugh that escapes her at Smokethroat's words—"the hell happened"—"it doesn't matter cause you're okay now," Ashpaw says, green eyes glittering, words a bit muffled. Between her teeth she carries a little stone, smaller now in her hold than it was when she first found it—Aspaw has grown. She hasn't forgotten, though. She bounds forward, spring in snow-capped paws, because finally here is something to be excited about.

Careful, careful, she'll set the little stone at Smokethroat's side. "Here. It's important. For good luck," she says. And you need it.

And before she can stop herself (Pebbleskip's chiding in mind's ear) Ashpaw will dart further forward, pressing ginger fur into bandaged black, leaning into Smokethroat in a slightly-desperate hug.

She breathes there for a moment. She shakes a little and doesn't cry.

Finally she backs up, fights to keep her pawsteps steady, to keep tears from falling.

She turns to Fernpaw with a gleeful whisper— "Smokethroat is alive!"
​

—— " i found gold in the wreckage "

✦ ooc ✦ character information ✦ recent events

• if this reads like it makes no sense 5hats because it doenst
  
  
• - 6 month old orange tabby with green eyes
  - apprenticed to lead warrior willowroot
  - happy-go-lucky, mischievous, hardworking
  - very friendly, but defensive of riverclan!
  - "speech"
• - disclosed being physically and psychologically abused by Spiderfall, who was exiled & who then killed her best friend
  
  - temporarily apprenticed to npc pebbleskip due to willowroot moving into the nursery
  

​

 

[BEESONG]

smokethroat is awake. despite the river he'd bled, despite the feverish nights and sickly sweet smell of infection setting into his eye socket, he is awake. and moving, without beesong's permission.

smokethroat's always been a stubborn bastard.

beesong circles around the crowd growing outside of their den, stopping at smokethroat's left side to sniff at the cobwebs. hoping that the fever hasn't gotten worse, praying that the infection hasn't spread to the wound in his throat. they've applied chervil, just as honeytwist had taught them. still, they worry that it isn't enough. "you should still be resting," beesong scolds their friend as they scrutinize over their own work. (they leave out the friendly insult of dumbass, underneath the stares of their clanmates.) then, more softly, they add, "how are you feeling?"

ashpaw comes to set a pebble at smokethroat's paws, and beesong gives the flame-furred apprentice an amused smile. "is that one blessed by starclan, too?" referencing darkpaw's pebble, there's a teasing glint in the medicine cat's eye. he knows better, of course, but it's funny to watch darkpaw run around and try to convince cats to hold a magic stone. he certainly hopes that this isn't the same one, though; darkpaw wouldn't enjoy losing track of his 'special' rock, beesong wagers.​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

"Redpath, stop that blubbering..." An embarrassment, a horrible embarrassment she was-she was lucky she didn't try to hug him or anything or he'd have swatted her (or attempted to swat her). He was allergic to this level of emotion and impulsively leaned away from her and her kit-like behavior, he'd never had anyone cry over him that he could remember; though he has hazy memories of a splotched muzzle near his face pleading in cryptic whispers and wonders if maybe he'd hallucinated more than he though he had in Beesong's den.

Fernpaw's big-eyed smile comes into focus as two orange kits come scampering onto the scene and he gives a dismissive snort at the comment overall.
"Iciclepaw will be happy knowing she gets to be free of me for however long Beesong intends to keep me prisoner.."
They better have assigned her someone just as tough as he was, if they softened his apprentice before they could finish training he'd be furious; he put a lot of work into that kid already.
His immediate impulse to being clung to was to jerk away, but that impulse was either gone or dulled due to his fading senses so he takes the sudden apprentice leaning into his leg with stride and gives a quiet sigh. A combination of him not realizing how close he'd been to dying apprently and just generally not being expressive had made this affair more emotional than he was accustomed to facing.
"...is that my rock..?" Gone snooping in his nest hadn't she? What a little furball. He had no time to scold her when a cat pushed forward past the others with a single eye to match his own narrowed fiercely.

"Don't fuss..." He's already grumbling as Beesong swoops in, head tilted down and despite his vocal protests he does not pull away from the medicine cat's careful sniffing and concerned scrutiny; he's no healer and with two stubbornly pregnant she-cats and entire sick clan he was not going to be the fool who sparked the smaller tom's ire first. "I feel..." Fine? No, there was a ringing in his ear and he felt painfully sluggish like he bore piles of snow upon his back that clung and weighted him down-but he certainly did not fee as though he was dying; his threshold for pain was high enough most of his ailments he could ignore but the horrid throbbing where his eye used to be was something he would just need to get used to. "...I feel well enough." He could function as it were, but probably not get to anything too productive.
A waved a paw down at the rock before him, "Afraid mine is blessed by something else."

​

 

[BEESONG]

"i'll fuss as much as i want to," beesong's quick to retort to the grumbling of the lead warrior. "that's my job." smokethroat doesn't physically resist the healer's prodding, so he leaves it at those sarcastic remarks. the smell of infection is still present, but it's nowhere near as overwhelming now, and the burning heat that'd radiated from him has cooled to a temperature that's almost normal. better, but not healed. and smokethroat says as much, admitting that he feels well enough. which, in smokethroat's language, means that he doesn't feel his best.

it's to be expected that he isn't at one-hundred-percent yet; smokethroat took one hell of a beating, after all. beesong still finds themself surprised to see the charcoal-furred tom breathing after losing so much blood.

"well, don't think that just 'cause you can stand, that i'm freeing you from my prison," beesong takes a jab at smokethroat's earlier statement about them keeping him prisoner. "you still need rest if you want to fight off what's left of that infection."

beesong's eye narrows, quizzical, when smokethroat says that his pebble is blessed by something else. "oh really? and what's that?" if smokethroat says something cheesy, like love, after cicadastar's been cuddling with him every chance he's gotten after the skirmish... beesong thinks they're going to have to drag smokethroat back into the den to sleep off this infection-induced madness. cheesiness doesn't suit the fiery warrior.​

 

[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : for the past days, the river phantom had been tacking himself into each patrol he could manage. with both smokethroat and willowroot down for the count, he and buckgait had been picking up the slack, the sudden weight of crushing leafbare pressing them down, leaving them tired. weaker, if only by a fraction for now. his stomach was thin and hollow and rumbling with hunger — the river got colder with every venture out, only the bravest of them daring to try the waters despite the fat, lazy fish that swim just under the frosted layers. the patrols kept him busy. kept him moving, kept him from eating himself alive next to the unconscious body of the one who’d haunted his thoughts for moons and . . he tells himself that beesong needs room. it isn’t lie by any means, but it isn’t for beesong he parts before they wake. nor is it for the sniffling, coughing inhabitants that seem to grow by the day, dotting the stony den with half - sleeping, feverish bodies. truthfully, it isn’t even for smokethroat, who still wheezes quietly against his fresh moss.

selfish man. he feigns humility, pretends he is poised, but despite the fish he carries back in his jaws ( for beesong, for the medicine cat, to thank them for all their hard work — or an excuse? ), cicadastar knows. he takes every patrol because his mind will not rest, gnawing at him incessantly with each moment he spends lying still. shadows flick along the furthest walls of the medicine den and agitation eats at him, sends panic crawling up his limbs. sleepless thing, exhaustion beyond exhaustion. wasp had faced the wrath of his restlessness since his joining and the chimera, though regretful, found himself waking his brother for another dawn hunt, still smelling of herb and faint, lingering infection. sleep was a luxury — though he knew not where wasp had been in the many moons they had spent apart ( the questions die on his tongue each time, words like talons in his throat ), their past was hard enough to know it as fact. leafbare was harsh, and if he were to stay awake the night through, it would not be spent toiling about where he should not be in the first place.

it’s later into the morning and the first thing he spots are tails, disappearing into the medicine den. he blinks, slow at first, and . . with a simple swivel of his ear towards wasp, he follows. the moment his paws step through the stony incline leading into the medicine den he feels his heart sink, chest dousing cold and harsh with a knee jerk panic — there is a crowd, and he’s lived in fear of his condition long enough to dread the sight. the fish he’s carrying for beesong drops from his mouth and in a moment he is crouching, slinking forward to weave his way amidst the thankfully slim gathering and behold — sunset gaze, licks of fire amidst the stony darkness, more conscious than he’d been the night prior but cicadastar knew that wasn’t saying much. still, rumpled charcoal fur, forever snow dusted despite the hearth behind his singular eye. he releases an audible breath, praying they respect him enough to ignore the way it shudders at the end.

stars above.

awake. he’s awake, talking, conscious to the things around him — moreso than he had been last night and cicadastar feels as though he could shout with it, the feeling. despite the heat in his fiery gaze he feels doused in ice water relief, thrumming at his paws. even more so as the cinnamon tabby hovering over him states that the infection is ebbing, he’s less feverish, he is recovering. the chimera moves, tethered to him, to this wildfire man, feels that familiar ache within his chest and it is not just an ache, was it? to love something death can touch was more than a risk, it was a life sentence. but death was all too familiar now. he'd faced that inky darkness with his throat splayed open, enveloped in stars until they embedded within him, pain of pains forcing him back to a body mended by powers above. in his own mind he looms, black dog of the end, stricken skeletal white across his gaunt face. he is timeless now, and the thrum of love will forever ache, finality pressed against his sternum.

that does not mean he will let it go.

he can have this. ashpaw is curling against the lead warriors haunch and it’s enough for cicadastar to lean his head down, aiming to press the flat of his head against smokethroats cheek, “ good morning, geliebt. “ he hopes his tendency for odd tongue serves him well, keeps nearby ears from questioning what was said but his tone is demure enough, tender enough for his flame to know. he is tired, feels the weight of the days past heavy on his chest and the quiet, wet chuckle that falls from him is tremulous before he speaks, “ already giving beesong a hard time, i see. “ it’s almost warbling, his voice — soft against dark fur. a gentle sniff, squeezing of icy eyes and . . he would not cry. despite the stinging nettle in his throat, tight and restricting, he would not cry. not again. one would think his tear ducts had long since dried, but king of rivers, of water, he fears they never will. the man thinks of making of joke about how well the tom had been behaving since he'd been out, but the words die on the barbs of his tongue, bitten raw with worry, “ we’ve . . “ we. it was always we. the clan, the collective ; but he pauses, hesitates. he deserves this, he could have this, even if just once. even if it burns at his paws, makes him want to turn away. he'd nearly gone somewhere cicadastar could not follow and he feels the bubble in his throat rise until it shakes from him, falls from dark lips pressed just beneath the jut of smokethroat's jaw. the truth, trembling as it was against herbal cobweb wraps.

" i've missed you. i've missed you − i’m so happy to see you. " he'd cried in front of them once, amidst that cobblestone bridge, ringed in blood like halos of starlight. a nick of a claw away from only meeting him in his dreams, a cursed, wretched existence — an inevitable. a near silent sob and he tightens his jaw, clenches his teeth until it dies in his throat. he wouldn’t cry. not now, he couldn’t. instead, he blinks momentarily towards the ceiling, attempting to blink away the fog over his eyes as they mention the rock. smokethroat’s rock, much smaller in ashpaw’s mouth than it had been when she’d found it, " your rock . . very special indeed. " soft he speaks, icicle eyes fixing blearily on the stone. a single ivory paw drifts forward, touches it lightly, hopes it grounds his desperate mind. it shimmers lightly in the low light, catching the blinding morning rays jutting through the maw of beesong's den, " but ah, little ashpaw has always had an eye for the extraordinary. " a shaking smile, blue eyes drifting to where the orange apprentice curls against his . . his. she's much bigger now, shed her kitten fur for sleek, river - bearing rivulets of red. he mentions it being blessed and the river king can't help but chuckle, feels the way his limbs shake with energy, with relief, with the sudden exhaustion of adrenaline draining in the wintery air.

he almost misses beesong’s question, but it’s the narrowing of his eyes that draws his attention. a brow quirks, prompting, playful despite the fragile sorrow hiding behind cold eyes. and what’s that?

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−−−−−⠀⠀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 is 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, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• tagging his prisoner hehehe @RATTLING WASP.
  
• none.

​

​

 

[iciclefang]

( *+:｡.｡ ) Iciclepaw is not a demonstrative cat, and she is not waiting at Smokethroat's bedside when he awakens. However, her ears catch the strains of Fernpaw and Ashpaw's speech, of Beesong's admonishment, and the tortoiseshell stares with glazed, hopeful eyes at the medicine cat's den. Cicadastar, as if hypnotized, is drawn to its mouth himself, and that's when she knows.

He's awake. He's going to live. But the crowd deters her, the sappy words that must be exchanging, nuzzles and purrs. She feels half-frozen to the earth, as though the snow has crept halfway up her limbs.

After a few stalled, stuttering heartbeats, Iciclepaw forces herself to move towards Beesong's den. She stands just outside the mouth of it, where she'd seen Cicadastar, and peers inside.

"Welcome to the waking world," she murmurs, looking at her mentor with stoicism. But her eyes betray her -- and she flashes Beesong a look so filled with gratitude it practically emits from her pores in a cool spray of riverwater. "I've been bored. 'Fraid you were taking the easy way out and going to StarClan." She flicks an ear, uncomfortable. It's all she can manage. She gazes about the other cats, eyes lingering particularly on Cicadastar, the way his pale eyes illuminate with feeling. So protective.

She glances at Ashpaw, her pelt prickling. Have her eyes ever looked like that?

"I'll leave you to recover." Her exit is hasty.​

( I HAVE THE ANSWER, SPREADING THE CANCER ; YOU ARE THE FAITH INSIDE ME )