spots on your heart

If StarClan was warmth then surely hell was coated in ice. The forest opened up before him, drew him into its endless hunting ground and he stepped forward with intent to find prey to bring home.
Fishing was not on his mind currently he craved the adrenaline rush of pouncing upon something in the open; the chase. How did one get in the mind-state to kill? The sound of silence, the urge to commit violence, blood pumping, it was all a thrill. Resilience. The tired light of the moon illuminated all, casting everything in a faint glow. The wind whispers could not be heard, but the watchful eyes of nocturnal birds were sign enough that the forest was alive. The crunch of leaves beneath agonized pawsteps. The chase. The struggle. The hunt. Just like his big cat ancestors he, too, had grown callous to it all. Frosty breaths reverberated off every surface, rattling his lungs like a cage. The rise and fall of his chest, the subtle cadences of the wind rushing against his flattened ears. Moon-drunk monster. It would be leafbare soon, he dreaded the coming cold with his short fur, but at least now with RiverClan he was in a nest surrounded by other cats; warmth would come.

Smokethroat moved like his namesake, noiseless and almost invisible, back into the camp after a successful hunt with a pale white bird hanging from its wing from his jaws and he dropped it on the pile unceremoniously. It was about daybreak now, he could finally see the signs of the sun rising in the distance and with them a flash of white upon his dark pelt that he at first thought was a feather from the dove he had caught until he raised a paw to it. The dark tom scowled as he examined the fur of his lower chest, almost dipping under to his belly; sitting back on his haunches and pawing at the flecks of white now there. Another spot. He had not had a white spot spring up since the ones that clung to the corner of his eye, he had thought perhaps their appearances had stopped but now he’d been proven wrong.
"...ugh, you've got to be kidding me..."

Redpath had been sitting outside the warriors den when Smokethroat returned. She was having one of those days where she just. Woke up with energy. So when she spotted Smokethroat, she figured she would go say good morning.

She trotted over to him and tilted her head at his chest where he was touching. Was he hurt? Wait. There was a spot. A new spot. A heart shaped spot.


"Good morning, Smokethroat!" She greeted him with a smile.

She had to work up to letting him know his spot was cute. Couldn't start off too strong.


Daybreak was among them, and a soft chill from the wind pricked into Frostpaw's fur and she shivered slightly, leaf-fall had now come upon them, meaning that the weather will become cooler and prey more scarce. Fluffy tail swishing as she noticed her mentor walk in with a dove and quickly got onto her paws to greet the tom, a gentle warm smile upon her maw to greet the tom when even she noticed the small white patches that seemed to begin popping up on his fur, chuckling lightly she comes to stand near her mentor. "Did you fall into a pile of snow? Oh...wait... maybe some feathers?" she begin to gently tease the other, a gentle swish of her tail as a warm look glittered in her bi-color eyes.

"You're growing more spots" she said, pointing out the obvious but, hey, she has never seen anyone's fur do such a thing and she wondered silently as she aged that the same thing would happen to her as it was to Smokethroat. Hopefully not, and perhaps it was her fault that he was gaining more white spots, a sign of aging maybe for the tom or the stress his own apprentices placed on him. "Man if I knew you would break into white spots when you were stressed I would've tried better" she teased. Her gaze flashed towards Redpath with a warm greeting in her eyes, enjoying her brief moment of teasing of the lead warrior.

− ♱ ABOUT : the tortoiseshell tom enters camp, dark mottled figure pushing through the reed curtain with curls sleek, droplets of river water hanging precariously along their bicolored coils. he was known for his sleepless nights, now — amongst those closest to him, seeing him arrive with the break of dawn was fairly common. the sky was just beginning to light with blushing hues of yellows and pinks, eating away at the darkness of night and giving into a stream of brilliant ivory. the canopies overhead dapple him in daybreak, ever - moving willow branches a cascade of light as he lifts his head to take in the scene. it’s only then that he notices a gathering — a still amongst the early - morning bustle, amongst splitting yawns and groggy eyes. a shadow of a tom settles grumpily against the warriors den, surrounded by a russet molly and frostpaw, who is teasing him already. there is a small feeling in his chest, one he does not yet identify — but it brings him forward, ivory paws leveling him up alongside the apprentice, pallid eyes following her own amused gaze.

there was another spot. he was around the man enough, knew the feathered edges of his coat enough not by feeling, but by sight — the time he’d spent analyzing those around him, his attention was often pulled towards the dark felidae. he would call it a curiosity, perhaps because he was his lead warrior. perhaps because there was no other name for it, that he knew. this spot was shapen . . particularly. it’s obvious when his eyes lock on, dark maw twitching against a smile before he bites the inside of his cheek, bringing a paw to cover his muzzle and cough into, as if it would hide the edge of laughter that still seeps from his tone. he clears his throat, “ frostpaw, leave — “ another smothered laugh. he looks away, “ leave your poor mentor alone. i think it’s . . “ he looks back, finally letting a grin dance fully over his maw. he does not have the resilience redpath seems to, “ i think it’s cute. fitting.

  • CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty seven months old, riverclan leader
    − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and icy blue eyes
    − gay. speaks with a thick german accent, former marsh cat, penned by antlers

  • none.


"Goodmorning, Redpath..." His tone is stilted and he frowns, having noticed the she-cat's mismatch gaze dart briefly to his chest and he lowers a paw and shifts a leg forward so the spot is no longer as visible. He wasn't often self-concious but the spots were something he was still adjusting to. They had started without warning as he got older, beginning with a white dipped paw Moss had insisted was something he stepped in and scolded him for being so careless until they both realized it was his fur simply changing colors. She had not apologized, of course, that was just how she was but she had taken a more sympathetic tone when they found the speckling around his eye next.
Frostpaw's approach and following joke was met with a raised paw and a light and gentle swat on the head for her sass, "Frostpaw if I got these everytime I was stressed I would be a solid white cat by now in this clan, StarClan forbid..." It did make him briefly wonder if perhaps the spotting was correlated to something? He'd eventually realize it was just something that happened, but for now the idea they appeared for a purpose was interesting.
His thoughts drifted listlessly at the sound of paws approaching and a noise he was unsure of until he glanced over and spotted the monochromatic patchwork pelt of their leader and he felt the insides of his ears burning once again as it registered to him it was a laugh.
"Cute????" The word bursts from him almost explosively, confusing ringing in his head-he'd never been called anything of the sort before and he wasn't sure if it was meant as a mockery or not; but he highly doubted he was being insulted so much as just...teased. Everyone in this clan teased him, pricked at his nerves to get a reaction knowing it was a mixed bag given his absolute inability to express himself like most cats.

"What do you mean fitting..." It was shaped somewhat like a heart...of sorts? He supposed? But that was not exactly something associated with himself. Heart was a characteristic for a cat with kindness, sensibility, care. Not to say he didn't care, but his was a strained sort of care that mingled with protectiveness and uncertainty.

She laughed a little. Yeah, stress does make you white, huh? She wondered if she would ever go white from stress. She certainly had been through plenty of it, though maybe not to the extent Smokethroat did.

She gave him a big grin, her tail flicking side to side. "It's cute, it's true!! Cicadastar says so!" She said. It was even better that Cicadastar called him cute. She thought for a minute about what her leader meant by fitting though. Maybe.....

"Maybe it's a manifestation of how much everyone loves you." She added.