development swim that lost river to me .. tribute

[S A B L E T U F T]

can we leave it behind? — The flow of time was ever relentless, leaving behind days upon days to memory. For a while it was a struggle, twisting and adjusting to so much change, still remembering the taste of blood on his tongue. The warmth of it sinking into his paws. They were expected to move on and like any good soldier Sabletuft did his best to follow command. In the days that he still had Rye it was easier. A shared nest to keep him safe from what greeted him in his sleep, but then she had to be taken too, and he was left alone.

The dark tom swallowed hard. His thoughts weighed heavy like a thick mud he couldn't claw out of. The faces of friends lost and victims made were a haunting plague he couldn't run from. Trapped beneath the anger, the guilt, the thrill. He had made a vow to keep his claws free of blood. To maintain his teeth clean of the taste for as long as his lungs had air. He had done well with his vow, too. The fear of meeting the faces of those he harmed in his sleep had tamed the bloodthirsty beast into a cat teetering the brink of snapping once again. It wasn't sustainable by any means, and the longer time went on- his surviving friends moving on -Sabletuft had grown comfortable again.

He grew comfortable and broke the vow he had made not just to himself, but to his mate. His final promise to her and now not even that had survived.

Sabletuft sighed as he finished the simple setup. A row of crow feathers stood neatly, lined along the stream that cut through from the Thunderpath. Each a symbol for the friends he had lost in the Great Battle and thereafter. Losses that had followed them through every season. Each feather was weighed down with a stone to keep them in place. One such feather was joined with a stalk of wheat, in honor of his lost mate. The wind kicked up and the feathers rose like curled claws towards the stream.

Not a single word uttered from the tom as he sat on his haunches and gently dipped his head. A silent testament, and perhaps even a request for forgiveness for the promise he had broken. A plea for absolution, for now that he severed the vow he knew there was no point in keeping it alive. ShadowClan may have need for him again and he would not neglect his expectations.

Sabletuft found little hope his Clan was in the good graces of their indomitable StarClan and even less that they would look upon him with mercy. He thought, bitterly, that if he had succeeded this long without their star-blessed guidance, he would continue to succeed without them. He would do well to protect the marshes where StarClan did not. — tags​

 

[SHARPSHADOW]

† It's a reminder of unpleasant things, whatever this was. Sharppaw would rather not attempt to pick apart what he was thinking. With some of ShadowClan– such a thing was destined for failure. Sharppaw was still learning how it worked. Perhaps he should've adjusted by now

To her, its not difficult to think of the tunnels; the soggy place that ShadowClan had huddled in not too long ago, waiting for yet another tragedy to pass. If Poppypaw were still here, she'd probably barrel right through Sabletuft's display, disrupting whatever.... this was without a second thought. Maybe she'd practice her hunting crouch on the feathers floating down the river. Sharppaw wasn't like that, though.

Even if part of her wondered what this was about; even though she wryly thinks of what the lead warrior could be doing besides drowning feathers in a stream. She watches him through the frog in her maw. Even she has managed to do something more useful today, she thinks with a note of... something.

Sabletuft could probably catch up in an instant, though. It's nothing special. And now he's been stood here awkwardly for too long not to say something, but she could not question him with anything more than sincerity. That was how the world worked. Sharppaw shuffles his paws. " What's this for? "

OOC † IN THE MIRROR 07.07.2023

• OOC: excuse her judgmentalness
  
•  

• SHARPPAW: brother to Rookpaw. Mentored by Smogmaw
  —— he / she , no pref , icked by they prns ; fine with gendered terms ( tom, molly, etc... )
  —— currently 13 moons old. warrior ceremony delayed due to lackluster progress.
  
  anxious, antisocial, paranoid. Sharppaw is a creature living in constant fear. Most thoughts are irrational, but consistent in that they are borne from pessimism and generalized anxieties.
  — In an era of assessing what has set him back and figuring out what he wants.

​

 

[S A B L E T U F T]

can we leave it behind? — // of all the ppl in shc to judge for this im dead

An ear twitched, angled backward as he caught the approach of another. He doesn't feel a rise of defense or bristling irritation like he expected (a surprise even to himself), instead he... hopes. He had hoped that whoever it was behind him would indulge in their curiosity and prod him as his Clanmates loved to do. Poke questions for answers that he otherwise would have kept to himself. On normal days, the toms muzzle is a wire trap, waiting for pressure to spring and dig into. He can't bring himself to behave the same in this moment.

The direction of the wind changes, and he is able to decipher exactly who it was. Sharppaw, Smogmaw's shadow. The tip of his tail flicked idly against the damp earth, a knowing sign of Sharppaw's presence. After a few agonizing moments of silence, she treats him to his wish.

"It's for me." Sabletuft began, shifted aside in case the other wanted to peer closer. "For the friends I unfortunately lost between the Great Battle and after. I think about them all so often, it feels wrong to talk about them sometimes." Burning umber rested on the wheat paired feather. "So I've made tribute to them, and hope they will forgive the silence I gave to their memory."

Sabletuft fell quiet again, finding comfort in the gentle peace. — tags​

 

[mottlefox]

Mottlepaw doesn't think they've ever lost someone important enough to constitute a memorial like this. They've been separated from their parents long enough now that they barely remember them. Even if they keenly remember the yellow eyes of their littermate, there are times where Mottlepaw wonders if the murk in their kit-memories has blurred their own reflection into someone it's not. Even in ShadowClan they've been lucky, not particularly close enough to Poppypaw or Snailcurl to mourn them as anything but fallen Clanmates.

Keen eyes sweep over the row of feathers as Sabletuft explains the meaning of the memorials, lingering for a moment on the one with a stalk of wheat attached. Then they lift towards the scarred tomcat with none of her usual lighthearted irreverence, instead replaced with something a bit more grounded. More sombre, more present. This moment is quiet, and it should stay that way. When they speak, there's none of Sharppaw's judgement, but the two apprentices seem to share a similar curiosity:

"I think that's nice, Sabletuft. If you ever wanna talk about them to someone, keep their memory alive, tell me. I'll listen."​