camp teeth • after the skirmish

[CICADASTAR]

GUTTA CAVAT LAPIDEM : blood. while diluted from the falls it mats onto him in rivulets, supple trails that seeped from the open throat of his — his . . his jaw locks, teeth gritting against eachother in jagged succession. he’d left him in his nest — his nest, a bundle of moss scraped together on the pebbled ground of beesong’s den. the shadow of a tom had slipped from his shoulders soundlessly, had left his side soundlessly, and if not for the blood, he would think the man was sleeping after a gentle arranging. dark maw slightly parted, brow so often furrowed too relaxed, too open. he looks vulnerable, and cicadastar wants to lie there with him, to shield him from prying eyes because he is not soft. he is not vulnerable. the tom lies there, curled unconscious and the bitter scent of herb flicks tentatively at the rage simmering low in his stomach. it’s wrong. this is all wrong, and it was windclan’s fault. over a rabbit — a rabbit. the phantom chokes on a laugh, broken and cruel. venomous.

they would pay for this. should they be called thieves — by starclan, he would give them something to crow home about. cicadastar rubs a rough paw across his cheek and stands, dipping his head to give the lead warrior a delicate lick beneath an ear, pretending his best he does not taste the bitterness of blood beneath him, “ sich ausruhen, come back to me. “ it’s quiet. barely audible, breath ruffling the short ends of his dark fur and he hovers there, just above him. his scent, hidden beneath the spray of falls and iron, he dedicates it to memory — would fate continue to fail him? to force him to live through tragedy after tragedy? would he return to his body, cold, scent drifting away with each passing moment? he had to address the clan, tell them of windclan’s hostility, and no one will be surprised. they will look at him with horror, mumble amongst themselves, he will return to smokethroat and he will be breathless, still. what if he spends his last moments alone? unlike him, the white - speckled shadow would not rise with the morning. he memorizes his smell, commits it to memory, closes his eyes — he could know him by this alone.

after one last, slow bump of his sleek head against smokethroat’s, cicadastar straightens. ( fix yourself. ) he clears his throat, sniffs, lifts his chin towards the stony ceiling. ( fix yourself. ) his tail curls behind him and he is still soaked in blood: in jasperglares, in smokethroats, in his own. he turns and steps out anyway, into the open, into the gazes that are already locked on the medicine den. the tall tom brushes past @willowroot on his way out, comfortingly — whether for them or for himself, he didn’t know. he clears his throat again, “ windclan has crossed our borders and attacked . . they attacked smokethroat over a rabbit caught on riverclan territory. “ hollow. he sounds hollow and he can tell, through the ringing of tinnitus in his ears and thousand - years stare, he can can tell. he’s going to be okay. he lies unconscious, seeping through cobweb after cobweb but he will be okay. he has to. he has to, he fought for that rabbit — belonged to them, it was theirs. regardless of where it had been born, it had fallen into iciclepaw’s claws fair and square, “ if one should be seen a paw over riverclan borders, i want their pelt brought back to me. “ should anyone drag one of their rabbit dung - scented bodies to him battered and bloody, he would look the other way. he wanted them to hurt. he wanted them to starve. the man craved rabbit suddenly, and starclan by his side, he would feast on them soon enough.

cicadastar swallows hard, finally finding a group — apprentices. hopefully being treated by beesong, “ what in starclan’s name did you lot think you were doing? running from your mentors like that — “ they could’ve been killed. they’ve could’ve been. couldve been. his teeth grit again. he winces sharply, drawing in a deep breath — and then his shoulders deflate. beneath the weight of the day, the exhaustion of battle, he caves. his head lowers, then his ears, eyes closing tight. smokethroat. smokethroat would be proud of them. he will be proud of them. cicadastar swallows hard, his throat clicking as paper - thin lids flutter back open. he’s so tired, “ you . . starclan, learn to listen. but . . you’ve all fought valiantly, defended your home. like you should, like warriors. you all did well. this rabbit — “ nature was dwindling but the rabbit iciclepaw had caught — it sits pretty in the remains of their dwindling freshkill pile. “ will keep us fed. let this be a lesson to you all : leafbare is harsh. if we have no food — we have no friends. ” tinged in a growl, his lip lifts, revealing their strained ends.

he intended to make that clear very soon.

− ♱ information visual reference out of character translations ♱ −

• − CICADASTAR ; he / him. roughly thirty nine months old, riverclan leader
  − handsome, lanky black smoke tortie chimera with curly fur and ice blue eyes
  − gay. speaks with a german accent, ages on the seventh, penned by antlers
  
  
• 
• none.

​

​

 

[iciclefang]

╭── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╮​

Rabbit. The rabbit had been the cause of this.

She sits listlessly, wordlessly, pale blue eyes trained on her leader as he exits Beesong's den. There's fatigue in the shadows beneath Cicadastar's eyes, the hollows of his cheeks, but there's something else there, too -- something venomous. "They attacked Smokethroat over a rabbit caught on RiverClan territory."

Iciclepaw flinches as though she's been struck. But no, she wasn't in this battle. Despite being the catalyst of someone getting maimed yet again, she'd been sent back to camp like a three month old kit. She tosses a furious glare to the medicine cat's den, her scowl etched deep like claw marks into ice. You old fool. You better not die.

She wraps her tail around her paws, nodding to Cicadastar's words. "I won't be sent away again," she says. Though anger burns in her cold blue eyes, her words are measured, flat. "The next time a WindClan cat shows their face on our territory, I will not let them leave with their fur intact."

What does she have to do to prove she's capable? Her ears go back, jetplaned, but she says nothing more. Smokethroat had needed help, but she could have taken either one of those stupid WindClan apprentices. She could have taken both of them! To say nothing of the idiot WindClanners themselves...

She shifts her gaze to her white paws, expression bitter. Next time, she won't be cast aside. WindClan will suffer, and she will partake in every second she can.

- ,,​

​

 

[apricotflower]

"What - ack - happened?" Apricotflower meows, incredulous, to the bleeding and ragged patrol that returns to camp. The dots connect in her addled mind when she sees the rabbit - StarClan's starry rears, those WindClan rabbits are mean, aren't they? The connection is so incorrect that it causes her to huff with amusement, one which quickly sends her coughing enough to leave tears in her eyes. It's not in answer to her question but Cicadastar pipes up near immediately, and the warrior's ears flatten against her head. WindClan's warriors did this? To Finchpaw, to Smokethroat? Over a rabbit caught on a territory not even their own ... Apricotflower's hackles raise defensively.

"That's ridiculous." She mutters, mostly to herself. "As if WindClan wouldn't catch a water vole on their territory, or a fish if they could."​

ooc ✧ info ✧

•  
• ✦ apricotflower, warrior of riverclan
  — no apprentice.
  ✦ 24 moons, she/her
  ✦ fluffy white and ginger cat with gold eyes. big scar on her left shoulder, little scars on her paws.
  ✦ bi, single. @ on discord for plots.
  ✦ "speech" — thoughts

​

 

[BEESONG]

with smokethroat situated into a dock-lined nest, and the bleeding slowed- slowed, not stopped. beesong doesn't want to peel back the myriad of cobwebs to clean the lead warrior's gouged neck properly and treat it, too afraid that the bleeding would resume its previous intensity. instead, he focuses on smokethroat's eye... what's left of his eye- nothing. there is nothing left. the windclan bastard had ripped it clean out, leaving behind a bloody hollow in the lead warrior's face. the healer worries with the inside of his cheek as cleans the blood from smokethroat's face and applies a poultice of marigold to the wound, held together with a swathe of cobwebs.

over a rabbit. there is blood on his paws, all over him, all over smokethroat, over a rabbit. his friend is lingering over the precipice of death, struggling to stay afloat. this is what windclan is capable of. when had his paws started shaking?

they don't want to leave his friend's side. they want to watch each rise and fall of smokethroat's flanks, to be reassured that he's still alive. but there is a job to do- others wait outside of their den, bleeding from scratches nowhere near as deep as smokethroat's. theirs are only a small trickle in comparison to the river of blood that had burst from a dark-furred throat. but they bleed nonetheless, a deadly siren's song that a healer could not avoid.

he follows cicadastar from his den, silent. what is there to say? beesong couldn't reassure his leader that smokethroat would return. he could do nothing, except plaster cobwebs over a wound that is too deep for the price of a rabbit and pray that starclan doesn't take him. the medicine cat is a liar if nothing else, but false words of comfort would only be a waste of breath in this moment.

he brushes past cicadastar and willowroot with his head lowered.

as beesong begins the tedious routine of cleaning wounds and wrapping them in poultices- they have no marigold left. fuck, what will they do, with leaf-bare only just beginning?- cicadastar clears his throat. a curled ear swivels back to listen, but beesong's eye does not leave their patients. and they're glad that cicadastar would not see the rigidness of their jawline, nor the increased shakiness of their paws. the leader speaks with a pronounced hollowness, though there is an underlying threat.

if one should be seen a paw over riverclan borders, i want their pelt brought back to me.

the voice sounds too much like him, phantom-like in beesong's brain. and it's stupid, he knows it is. because cicadastar is not him, but the snarl rips through the healer in all of the same ways. a thorny vine wraps itself around his chest, pain blossoming within as breathing becomes a chore. the cold wind nips at him, yet he does not feel chilled by it. he's too hot, all of a sudden. sweat beads on the pads of his paws. but they do not slow. instead, they hurry. keep working, his mind hisses. laziness would only invite trouble.

their work becomes sloppy, half-chewed poultices slathered quickly onto cuts and slapped together with cobwebs. but their mind is elsewhere, now. on the growl in cicadastar's throat, the veiled threats behind words spoken with more venom than an adder's fangs. all that they could think, is that they need to finish quick and leave quicker.​

 

[Harry Styles]

A S H P A W.

Ashpaw approaches, ginger fur ruffling in leaf-bare wind, eyes wide and frightened. Smokethroat had been dragged home—and Finchpaw, too, though at least Finch is alive. Smokethroat might not stay alive. Smokethroat's white spots are all stained red. Smokethroat left a smear behind him in the sand when they brought him home.

Smokethroat left Cicadastar crying. Ruthless river king, their luminary, bright and vicious; he cried like he had nothing left. Ashpaw has cried like that before. She didn't know Cicadastar could.

The little ginger tabby feels sick, blinking back the images of the lead warrior lifeless and bloody. She's seen that much blood on someone before, but only in death. She... she doesn't know what they would do if he... if.

She sits down next to Iciclepaw.

The girl doesn't say anything. She doesn't know what to say. Promises and feel-better-words won't mean anything, and someone like Iciclepaw will know that.

She leans to one side, intending to rest her head on Icicle's shoulder. Her tail flicks around to settle behind the little calico, curling around her in protective comfort.

She's silent through Cicadastar's tirade and commendation, and for a few moments after as the words sink in. She wonders how they'll make it through this season. She wonders who will die.

Iciclepaw speaks, violence promised brittle and flat. Ashpaw has started to think that might be Iciclepaw's version of crying.

She listens.

"You... you were amazing," she says softly. "You got him help. You got the whole clan to come."

"I think you saved his life."

"I will not let them leave with their fur intact," says Iciclepaw; Ashpaw swallows, her throat aching with unshed tears, and says, trembling, "Good."

​

—— " i found gold in the wreckage "

✦ ooc ✦ character information ✦ recent events

• ooc text goes here
• - 6 month old orange tabby with green eyes
  - apprenticed to lead warrior willowroot
  - happy-go-lucky, mischievous, hardworking
  - very friendly, but defensive of riverclan!
  - "speech"
• - disclosed being physically and emotionally abused by Spiderfall, who was exiled & who then killed her best friend
  - spent a couple months depressed
  - returned to ic/ooc activify

​

 

[Redpath]

Redpath was full of nothing but hatred and malice. It only abated for a short time as they hurried Smokethroat back to camp, but as Cicadastar started speaking, it returned.

Those disgusting little bastards nearly took her friends life. Those pompous, snakehearted little bastards. She was seething, and she couldn't stop.

It was uncomfortable. She wanted to stop. But her thoughts wouldn't stop going to dangerous places.

She wanted to kill.

She wanted to watch a Windclan cats life slip away, right through her claws. The thought excited her.

It frightened her.

When did she become like this? Silly question, she knew when.

But did she have to continue that path?

Yes. It was clear to her now. Her enemies were those that threatened her friends, family, and clan. These overlapped, her clan  was her friends and family.

And she would kill for them.

There was nothing wrong with killing her enemies if it meant keeping her clan safe.

She had but one question.

"Are we going to retaliate?"

Stars, she hoped so.



​

 

[Snakeblink]

The smell of blood hits Snakeblink before he enters the camp, and he closes the remaining distance at a run. He carries no prey; the failed hunt at least leaves his teeth free to bite into any enemy—

But there’s nothing, only the scent of Wind clinging to a few bloodied clanmates. Stars, they look rough. Snakeblink’s tail lashes from side to side, adrenalin with nowhere to go leaving him shivering with nervous vigilance, his fur standing on ends. Guilt settles in his throat, stealing the air from his lungs. He couldn't have been there to help, but he should have. He makes his way closer to the patrol, giving Beesong a wide berth lest he distracts the healer, and catches the tail-end of Iciclepaw’s calm threat. Looking at the wrecked expression on Cicadastar’s face, he understands the urge, and feels his savage desire for retaliation echoed in Ashpaw’s approval and Redpath’s question.

Still, a quieter, more strategic-minded part of him makes him say, ”We can’t afford an all-out war. Not in Leaf-bare.” Especially not with Smokethroat looking like he has one paws among the stars already, and with Willowroot awaiting kits… This skirmish has weakened them when they’ve never needed to be stronger.

​

ooc. information.

• 
  
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 35 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

​

 

[RAVENSONG]

His muscles aching from a particularly hard training session with his mentor, Ravenpaw was trying to rest by the apprentice den, gnawing at twigs to stave off his hunger. It was ridiculous how it had came to this. His temper was frayed, and he did not know how much longer he could take. Ravenpaw was not particularly strong.


He looked up when the patrol arrived, cats hurrying toward the medicine den. His ears angled forward, trying to parse what was happening. Eventually he pulled himself up and approached the growing crowd. When Cicadastar appeared and explained what had happened, his heart dropped. Not only could he starve to death this winter, but he could be killed or gravely injured simply for attempting to hunt. The realization bites at his skin and he finally, finally feeling something more than apathy for the other Clans, particularly WindClan. His tail lashes against the ground, pleased with Cicadastar's words. He wants to smirk at the scolding of the other apprentices, but it does not seem like they will be punished much. Cicadastar calls them warriors and envy gnaws at Ravenpaw's stomach. His mood is further fouled by Redpath's question of retaliation. He agrees with Snakeblink.

"Don't want to stoop to their level," He murmurs, trying to be seen as noble and honorable, but in reality, he just does not want to die.​