sensitive topics SUCH A PRETTY GARDEN — open

He had made his escape from the suffocating confines of camp, ducking out of the hollow without a word, trekking out onto the frozen moors and taking his place upon one of the rolling hills. There was much—too much—to think about. Even the fact that he was soon going to become a father was being actively overshadowed by the sense of dread that sat like a stone in his stomach. What future would there be for his kits?

Possibly, very possibly, death. He thinks of Sedgepounce being swallowed by the river. He thinks of his mother's cold husk. He thinks of the empty, soulless stares of his clanmates that had met their end over the seasons — Juniperfrost, Weaselclaw, even recent slaughterings from the battle against the rebels. He thinks of the rogue that Sparkspirit had killed. He thinks of the way Sootstar had sliced Larkfeather's belly open and swiftly ended her agony with a chilling crack.

He thinks of the injured rabbit that he had found near the Thunderpath, desperately clinging to life as it hobbled toward safety. Snakehiss had tossed it back into harm's way then, twistedly observing as a monster trampled every last essence of life out of it. Maybe Snakehiss finally knew what the crippled rabbit felt like; helpless and scared, beaten and bloodied from all angles, just trying to make it to the other side where things would perhaps turn out okay... and Sootstar was the one who would lob him back onto the road to meet his end.

Or... maybe it wasn't Sootstar, after all. Maybe it was he who had sealed his own fate.

He could not truly pray; the others would sooner have his head than confide in the starry cats that Sootstar had long since abandoned. He only gazes upon the stars now, hoping that StarClan is powerful enough to read minds. Silverpelt seems dimmer than usual tonight, though faint specks of light twinkle in the reflection of his eyes. At first Snakehiss had been so certain that he had made the right choices, that he could someday reclaim WindClan for his ancestors, but now that Sedgepounce was gone... Would StarClan forgive him, or was it too late?

  • ooooop this turned out kinda rambly. still open for replies though!
  • 71016142_9rYADptBxGUs9zn.png
  • 1_by_sixbane_dgpveht-150.png
    SNAKEHISS
    —— he/him; deputy of windclan
    —— bisexual; mates with berrysnap
    —— long-limbed black tom with green eyes, a small white chest patch, and a notable bite mark on his right foreleg
    —— "speech", thoughts, attack
    —— link to full tags; @ on discord for plots.
 
In the absence of a proper mentor, Ghostpaw has taken to following her father around, black pelt standing out like a forgotten drop of midnight against the floods of grass. She prefers to venture out by night; she doesn't care about chattering with the other apprentices or sharing tongues or building a cozy nest. These are things for cats who are weak, who'd rather settle for these small creature comforts than a true destiny, and Ghostpaw isn't weak. She trails @GRANITEPELT wearily through oceans of prairie weeds, interrupted only occasionally by rabbit warrens ready to twist her paw. At least it isn't so painfully bright, so itchingly clean, by moonlight.

"Snakehiss," the young ex-ShadowClanner greets politely. The layered ruffles of spikes around her neck drift slightly in the wind, softening Briarstar's inheritance as she watches the deputy with blue-black eyes. She does not trust Snakehiss. She does not trust any of them, really. Not Juncopaw with her poking questions or Sootstar with her foaming rants. Ghostpaw stiffens. Not that she cares, anyways, and she gives her father a passing glance before she replies. He still seems discomforted by her presence. "Watching Silverpelt?"


"speech"

 
( )  Snakehiss is out late tonight. He's quiet, blessedly, eyes fixed skywards. It reminds Shrikethorn of long-gone times when the clan still felt like a clan, when they would gather to pray. She cannot help but to join him. The little wisp from the marshes is here too; Shrikethorn can't say she likes her very much, but then she doesn't care for most of the remaining cats. Watching Silverpelt? comes the polite question of the apprentice.

"It's been quite some time since I've seen anyone look to it," Shrikethorn comments, not unkindly. She was a devout cat once, and she is still. She has not prayed in far too long. Her mother's watchful eye has made certain of that. She cannot imagine the bratty little deputy holds any love for their ancestors still. He hardly seems to hold opinions outside Sootstar's own. Her voice brims with dry amusement as she continues. "Hoping to pull the stars from the sky, perhaps?" That would certainly please their leader.
74701060_9q7jeRpuNlkPdZT.png

  • //
  • ˏˋ • ☄ SHRIKETHORN. WINDCLAN TUNNELER. SHE / HER.
    19 MOONS & AGES ON THE 1ST. PENNED BY SATURNID.


    A SMALL WHITE MOLLY WITH ASHY GRAY PATCHES AND PIERCING YELLOW EYES.

    SOOTSTAR xx FLINT. LITTERMATE TO SOOTSPOT.
 
His mate had knelt before StarClan’s altar in silent prayer, had shared dreams with phantoms long-gone who walked onward in circles on silvered paws. Granitepelt had always been somewhat in awe of her power—until he’d bloodied her and left her for dead in the snow, after which he’d discovered that his paws had always held more power than hers. Than StarClan. His victims watch them now—Ghostpaw with his bleeding eyes, Tornadopaw with hushed breath, Poppypaw falling eternally into the gaping mouth of a beast. Starlingheart, green-eyed and soulful, her single eye misty with tears unshed.

StarClan is of no consequence to us anymore,” Granitepelt mews calmly to Snakehiss and Shrikethorn after the she-kit speaks. It’s still strange to have her here—now she is two ghosts, both the spirit of a cat who’d thrashed beneath his paws and of a cat who’d shivered beneath him, twisted in pain. He looks upon her face with only a passing glance, unable to linger too long, unable to see all that blooms beneath her lovely dark-eyed exterior.



, ”