ship in a bottle ✘ river patrol

[SMOKESTAR]

It was a patrol for moss and water to bring back to camp for the queens and kits as well as restock Beesong's stores surely lessened by their brief bout with WindClan upon the bridge; despite the retreat he feels light in his steps, assured at RiverClan's change in fortune and content to know he continues to be a thorn in the side of every moorland cat he comes across. They won't soon forget this loss, but he savors the victory all the same, even knowing retaliation would continue in a cycle until someone died or something gave; his endless rivalry with Weaselclaw emphasized with each passing encounter. When would the day come that he sunk white teeth into a white throat, broke the threads of fate that wound so tightly around them; ended it all. He both despaired and looked forward to it, not wanting something as simple as death to rid him of his foe but more than happy accepting it if that was the course he was on. The dark tom guides his patrol along in silence, never one for chatter and thankfully he knows he won't be pressed to participate in any conversation that did occur, he knew the spot the willow branches hung low and the clumps of moss spilled over sprindly limbs within range for a cat to snatch with a well-placed jump. It was a little futher out of the way than most spots, but it was a guaranteed and worth the extra walk to get there.
Spotting the dipped tree he raised his head, noting some moss already on the ground where it had fallen and the tree bowing low and expectant for them to take from it its bounty.
The nearby trickle of water from the river is a weak, hushed sound and it parts a frown across his maw.
He pauses, ears flat as he stares at the divet in the river where the water crept low from the shore and the stones shone as they were finally exposed to the sun above; still slick but some drying near the tops as though several days had passed since they dipped beneath the current. It takes Smokethroat a moment to register what he is looking at. The water is low. Alarmingly lower than what might often occur during the hotter days of greenleaf and they had only just touched paw into the season as it were.
"...the water is low.." He states, its an obvious remark but he isn't so stupid as to think no one else noticed; only stating such in bewilderment at why. It fills him with dread, the last time the water receeded so was because of the frozen river icing up and blocking its flow; he remembers the bite of ice water, the gasp of freezing and drowning at the same time-Cicadastar vanishing beneath the white sheen of the snow ladden surface.

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[Ooc]
Patrol - @>Honeystone & @GILLSIGHT & @ICICLEFANG
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[>Honeystone]

—

— Limbs as white a fresh snow, save for a single that was adorn in the stripes of lightly colored branches, padded along after the patrol. The gale had been unpredictable in the days to come, being so forceful to push twoleg rubbish into their river but today it was gentle, like a mother cleaning her newborn. Honeystone savored the breeze, a gentle smile upon her maw. She was aware of the tensions her clan faced with their neighboring clans but had yet to spill blood of her own or others. Today was a simple patrol, to aid with water retrieval to the camp. Starclan only knows while in her stages of pregnancy, she'd wind up breathless just from the travel of the nursery to the dirtplace. Bless those mollies.

On instinct she'd navigate herself beneath the bowing tree, her jaws grabbing up a nice amount of moss. A light humming would strum from the lilac tabby as she crept up to the shore of their waters. Then it all died in her throat. Her grey-blue eyes flickered all over their river as the words of Smokethroat announced the obvious. The moss she had clutched in her mouth would be dropped, her maw hung agape. "No.." She'd mumble. When would they see a break? Constant conflicts, rubbish in their waters and now.. the water running low. Her ears would find their way to lay flat against her skull. "Maybe there's a block!" She'd suggest with a clawing anxiety creeping into her voice. What about the clan? What about her children? Honeystone would look upstream trying to find a reason for the low waters.— tags​

— tags​

 

[GILLSIGHT]

He files in behind Smokethroat and Honeystone, white paws seeking to steady himself against the gusts pushing against him as he keeps a look out for any newfound obstacles the stormy weather has brought forth.

Gillsight thinks he'd be a little happier participating in this patrol if it weren't for the poor weather, but the young warrior knows the task is important. The queens and kits need to moss and water. And Beesong's medicine den needs to be restocked, after RiverClan's recent battle with WindClan. RiverClan was running low on supplies - someone needed to find more.

Upon his arrival at the bowing tree, Gillsight follows in Honeystone's actions, picking up what moss he can manage between his jaws. Of course, he expects he'll be gathering water with what's in his mouth, but when a sunny gaze sets itself upon the river, uncertainty and confusion arise.

"A-Again...?" he slowly asks, setting down his moss as he continues to look at the lowered stream of water. Barely a trickle. The last time Gillsight had seen the river in a similar state, it had frozen over in leaf-bare's cold temperatures - an inky darkness, a chill creeping into his form as he sinks into frosty depths.

However, greenleaf makes the air all too warm for ice to find its home within the river. Honeystone suggests it's blocked, but with what? Dread beings to set in as Gillsight takes a step closer to the river, as he seeks to investigate.
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[iciclefang]

The sun blazes with the same strength she remembers from her kithood. It’s hard to believe sometimes that it’s been a season since she’d left the nursery. She blinks icechip eyes against the sunlight and is back, back in fuzzy dreams where she lays between her mother’s white paws and sleeps the innocent, undisturbed sleep only a child can. But she’s not the same—time and hardship and ruthless training have shaved her innocence away, leaving what has always lain at her core.

A heart carved of ice and fang.

She follows at the heels of her former mentor, jaws full of moss dry as cotton. The receding waters are cause for Smokethroat to pause, his single eye flaming as he gazes into the river. “The water is low,” he tells them, and Iciclefang’s ears flatten. “Again?” Gillsight’s meow from behind her causes her to sigh. They’ve hardly been back in their camp for a moon, and truth be told, this is the last trouble she’d expected. No ice could trap their river in the oppressive heat to come.

Honeystone nervously asks if there could be a blockage. Iciclefang lowers her bundle of moss to the ground, light blue eyes narrowing. “I wonder, too, but…” She doesn’t finish her thought—if one of the other warriors were to look her way, they’d see her focused on something further ahead, past where Smokethroat has stopped.

She stalks briskly ahead of the dark lead warrior, her mottled flank brushing against his in passing. She pauses just before a set of pawprints pressed into the earth. “Cat tracks.” She half-turns, looking at Smokethroat and her other Clanmates with a grim expression. “What do you think?”
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[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Again? Gillsight asks and he looks back to the younger warrior with a sympathetic grimace, he understood fully. It was as though they could not just be left to their idealic life without something going wrong and ruining their peace.

Honeystone makes a good point that maybe it was a simple blockage somewhere, but this patrol was out here for moss and it would be foolish of him to drag them further upstream just to investigate; especially as they didn't know what awaited them. No, another was going to have to be sent once he let Cicadastar know what was happening. "Let's finish up here and head b-" He's turned from the river as Iciclefang brushes past him, following her path forward and stepping lightly behind her to see what she had noticed before any of them had. Distinctly in the soft earth, pawprints of a cat around the same size as any of them; average at the least. The dark tom dips his head, nose nearly touching the slick ground to examine; they were the first patrol out here all day. For this track to still be glistening and undry meant it was relatively new. The realization struck him at the same time something else did, Smokethroat gave a yowl of alarm as a blur of figure darted out and collided into his side with enough force to send him rolling; it was only luck that kept him from being tossed into his former apprentice and instead into the muddy puddle of water near the river's receeding edge. The figure, an unfamiliar cat, kept running so quickly and its appearance had been so sudden that by the time any of them could register it they had already vanished back into the woods.
Smokethroat clambered up from his filthy pool, pelt lathered in mud and his face coated on his good side with it enough he had to raise a paw and wipe a clump away just to see.
"Don't-don't follow..." He sputtered out, what if this was some kind of trick? An ambush? No, better to report home. "...yegh..."
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