- Aug 9, 2022
- 689
- 327
- 63
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Outside it began to rain heavily, a great torrential downpour washing away his blood and sending the spiraling carrion birds flocking to shelter nearby; where they would wait there for him.
The cavern betrays its dull gray exterior and blossoms into pools of sapphire and cobalt within, the shimmering stone at its center illuminated faintly by moonlight overhead, a trickle of the sky spilling downward from a hole at the dead center of the stone’s peak. The flash of blue halts his steps briefly, jolts him in surprise as the color of salt and ice flicker dazzling over his lone orange gaze. The dark tom is blinded momentarily by it, breath hitching. He’s going to die. Blood sloughs from the deeper wounds, but it is the one delivered by Weaselclaw’s son that he knows to be the true source of his slowly trickling away time.
Smokethroat had dragged himself upward to stand after they left, barely managed to make his way into the mouth of the cave as the sky opened up and the scent of his own blood spread outward before fading. He hit the wall, stumbled, never before had he experienced such a pain - the creeping claw of death sinking in. He could barely see, could barely keep upright.
He has never been here before, nor did he ever think he would be but what a place to die. So close yet so far, the irony is not lost to him. Smokethroat had long since decided he would most likely die before his mate, before his leader - it only made sense. A leader had nine lives, he tastes copper and he clenches his jaw, nine lives to lose compared to one. Yet he fought tenaciously for this last one, he had to at least try. Even if he bled to death in StarClan itself, even if he didn’t make it - he couldn’t just lay there for the crows to pick at him. He couldn’t just fade away without warning. The image of Ravensong coming to the highstones on their moon-lit gatherings without knowing what WindClan was doing made his stomach twist in horror. They’d kill him, they’d kill all the medicine cats…he had to try.
A glorious death in battle would no longer be his fate, not any longer; the river ran red that day but he had made a vow. Live and breath for RiverClan, the same words spoken in an arid and accented tone above him the day he had been named the River King’s right hand. A position murmured among his clanmates as expected in many ways, of course he would pick his mate, of course he would choose the cat most willing to obey him.
The air inside highstones is still, stale, suffocating - he wishes he could only obey. There was comfort in conformity that he had never grasped before. There was safety in complacency.
He’d been a fool. He still feels white hairs through his teeth, singing, blood spray in his throat - he’s drowning. He leaves a winding crimson trail in his wake, shudders violently as his body fights him for rest that he refuses it.
The deputy huffs, shakes himself from the memories and lowers his head down and collapses onto the ground by the stone, his side rising slowly-faintly, he stretches out his neck to touch it with his nose. Nothing happens. His eye grows heavy and he closes it with a tired sigh. So this was it then, fall asleep and never wake up. Bleed a pool to reflect the sky above around this monolith of a crystalline structure. At least his chances of making it into StarClan were quite high if he died at their door.
A cold wind blows and he opens his eye; alarmed.
It takes a moment of silent staring to fully rationalize where he was, shimmering white fields so pristine the color hurts his eye - makes him recoil at the ethereal sea sprawled out around him. As he moves the ground shifts with him, foam lapping up his limbs and sides, frothy like the tumult river and he finds at its heart a row of cats backlit in star shine so bright he only sees luminous outlines that halt him in his tracks.
This was StarClan. Had he died or had he made it-he feels…alive still, somehow. A pulse catches in his throat. Had he dragged himself from the depths? Would he live now just to die with a life to spare? He doesn’t know. The faint sting of pain over parts of his body that looked no different from how they usually did seemed like an echo…he’d made it.
To think he would be here, not as a spirit passing onward but as a cat to receive nine lives. He’d never wanted this but it was a burden he had accepted when he rose to stand at Cicadastar’s side. A possibility he never wished to humor but acknowledged all the same. His heart aches and he wonders which of these looming figures was his mate, wants to call out, but he finds himself wavering - voice lost. Something instills in him silence, his urge to speak smothered in awe. His head feels light, he was on a time limit…
Outside it began to rain heavily, a great torrential downpour washing away his blood and sending the spiraling carrion birds flocking to shelter nearby; where they would wait there for him.
The cavern betrays its dull gray exterior and blossoms into pools of sapphire and cobalt within, the shimmering stone at its center illuminated faintly by moonlight overhead, a trickle of the sky spilling downward from a hole at the dead center of the stone’s peak. The flash of blue halts his steps briefly, jolts him in surprise as the color of salt and ice flicker dazzling over his lone orange gaze. The dark tom is blinded momentarily by it, breath hitching. He’s going to die. Blood sloughs from the deeper wounds, but it is the one delivered by Weaselclaw’s son that he knows to be the true source of his slowly trickling away time.
Smokethroat had dragged himself upward to stand after they left, barely managed to make his way into the mouth of the cave as the sky opened up and the scent of his own blood spread outward before fading. He hit the wall, stumbled, never before had he experienced such a pain - the creeping claw of death sinking in. He could barely see, could barely keep upright.
He has never been here before, nor did he ever think he would be but what a place to die. So close yet so far, the irony is not lost to him. Smokethroat had long since decided he would most likely die before his mate, before his leader - it only made sense. A leader had nine lives, he tastes copper and he clenches his jaw, nine lives to lose compared to one. Yet he fought tenaciously for this last one, he had to at least try. Even if he bled to death in StarClan itself, even if he didn’t make it - he couldn’t just lay there for the crows to pick at him. He couldn’t just fade away without warning. The image of Ravensong coming to the highstones on their moon-lit gatherings without knowing what WindClan was doing made his stomach twist in horror. They’d kill him, they’d kill all the medicine cats…he had to try.
A glorious death in battle would no longer be his fate, not any longer; the river ran red that day but he had made a vow. Live and breath for RiverClan, the same words spoken in an arid and accented tone above him the day he had been named the River King’s right hand. A position murmured among his clanmates as expected in many ways, of course he would pick his mate, of course he would choose the cat most willing to obey him.
The air inside highstones is still, stale, suffocating - he wishes he could only obey. There was comfort in conformity that he had never grasped before. There was safety in complacency.
He’d been a fool. He still feels white hairs through his teeth, singing, blood spray in his throat - he’s drowning. He leaves a winding crimson trail in his wake, shudders violently as his body fights him for rest that he refuses it.
The deputy huffs, shakes himself from the memories and lowers his head down and collapses onto the ground by the stone, his side rising slowly-faintly, he stretches out his neck to touch it with his nose. Nothing happens. His eye grows heavy and he closes it with a tired sigh. So this was it then, fall asleep and never wake up. Bleed a pool to reflect the sky above around this monolith of a crystalline structure. At least his chances of making it into StarClan were quite high if he died at their door.
A cold wind blows and he opens his eye; alarmed.
It takes a moment of silent staring to fully rationalize where he was, shimmering white fields so pristine the color hurts his eye - makes him recoil at the ethereal sea sprawled out around him. As he moves the ground shifts with him, foam lapping up his limbs and sides, frothy like the tumult river and he finds at its heart a row of cats backlit in star shine so bright he only sees luminous outlines that halt him in his tracks.
This was StarClan. Had he died or had he made it-he feels…alive still, somehow. A pulse catches in his throat. Had he dragged himself from the depths? Would he live now just to die with a life to spare? He doesn’t know. The faint sting of pain over parts of his body that looked no different from how they usually did seemed like an echo…he’d made it.
To think he would be here, not as a spirit passing onward but as a cat to receive nine lives. He’d never wanted this but it was a burden he had accepted when he rose to stand at Cicadastar’s side. A possibility he never wished to humor but acknowledged all the same. His heart aches and he wonders which of these looming figures was his mate, wants to call out, but he finds himself wavering - voice lost. Something instills in him silence, his urge to speak smothered in awe. His head feels light, he was on a time limit…
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There is no order for these outside the last one planned, so feel free to post!
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Smokethroat
—⊰⋅ Deputy of RiverClan
—⊰⋅ He/Him
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
—⊰⋅ Black tom w/vitiligo & one orange eye.
