that's a bummer — throwing rocks

[CRAPPIEPATCH]

The terror that WindClan brought upon RiverClan’s temporary camp is unforgivable. A warrior died, so many of their clanmates are injured, and the entire clan seems muted, beaten down. It has been a few days, now, since the raid, and the clan has still barely begun to recover. So many of their clanmates fought with everything that they had… and Crappiepaw had cowered inside a den, too terrified to leap into battle. They cannot do anything now—it is too late to lend their efforts to fighting WindClan. But the moor cats still deserve to pay for their actions.

On a warm afternoon, the stumpy-tailed calico stands at the edge of the gorge that separates RiverClan’s territory from WindClan’s. They are not dangerously close, not at risk of slipping and falling in, but the concern is still there, at the back of their mind. Beside white paws lies a pile of stones, all of them completely average and unappealing in appearance. They toss one such rock over the edge, but it does not come close to reaching the other side. It only falls down, down, down… they blink slowly, reaching for another.
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[ FORTUNE LOVES THE BOLD ]​

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[FERNGILL]

Fernpaw, too, had been of no aid during the fight with WindClan. He'd hid his face, knowing that against Windclanners who truly wanted to kill one of them, seeing it as justice and exchange... he wouldn't have stood a chance. Even in the kindest spar against his father he was floored in moments- against someone who actually wanted to rip him apart, he'd have been shattered like a shell. One day- one day, he'd be a warrior. Capable, strong... someone who could really defend his Clan. But for now...

Lost in thought, it was the scent of someone nearby that caught his attention. The snag of his senses surprised him- not often was he much use at picking up smells, but- when it was a Clanmate, it was a little easier to tell. Crappiepaw, that was- sweeping a stone toward them, and Fernpaw blinked blankly for a few long moments. Were they going to keep it?

"Hey, uh... what's up?" he asked, calling from a few tail-lengths away. It didn't look like a particularly interesting rock...​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

"You two be careful..." He did not like being so close to this gorge, wanted to return to their camp tethered in stones and anchored to the waves; alongside the protective flow of the river and away from this ring of trees that had not stopped WindClan's assault even a little. Smokethroat wants to be out there being productive, repairing dens, gathering, hunting, patrols, but he can't. He is once again confined to camp due to that wretched brown tabby from across the moors and the only thing more infuriating than that is knowing he can not retaliate until RiverClan has recovered. He would not put a target upon them again so soon, they'd lost clanmates, they had many wounded, it had been just an entire ordeal for them this moon and the fact they didn't have their camp was just salt rubbed in the open wound of it all.
"Crappiepaw, what are you doing...just flinging rocks?" He came to a stop next to Fernpaw, a brief nod to the scruffy orange apprentice and then he frowned as he gazed off into the distance to the soft sound of pebbles pattering against stone. "...if you see a WindClanner take the shot."
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[CICADASTAR]

he has a migraine. he does more often than not now, an ever - present pounding in his temples since the night windclan had invaded them. since, they’ve been busy — with buckgait now retired to the nursery, smokethroat and cindershade both tucked away under beesong’s watchful eye, one more chores of restoration falls harsh upon his shoulders. the least injured of his warriors are quickly weighed by overexertion and he is no exception, each step he makes from camp is excruciating. sticks and reed hang from either side of his maw, twine coiling down near the thick ruff of his chest. it’s only by chance he catches sight of the growing group — a swipe of stone tumbling over the edge of the gorge, its splash of contact drowned by the falls nearby. crappiepaw and fernpaw.. both apprentices, but the last he would leave to hover near the pit alone.

the man pivots on his heels, falls heavily onto a side close to smokethroat. he spits the weaving material from his maw, traps it beneath an ivory paw. idly, he begins to fold, delicate paws moving despite how his gaze lingers upon the apprentices. you two be careful.. he hums, adds : “ no closer. is that clear? “ a strict honk, though not unkind. the slightest slip of a paw could send them toppling over, the edge slick and laden with mud. pallid eyes narrow against the glare of sun above — starclan, that hurts, “ in fact — throw one my way, kind. perhaps it’ll knock out this headache. “ or knock him out, one. at this point, he’d take it.

− ♱ information out of character ⟐ visual reference translated ♱ −

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−c−−−⠀⠀king of the rivers.
  m. he / him. black smoke & tortoiseshell chimera with intense salt - blue eyes. a handsome, looming tom bearing patchwork black - silver curls that fall over his slim figure in loose, shining rivulets, broken with white and glossy from his fish diet. descending from a heritage of overtyped oriental shorthairs, cicadastar stands unusually tall amongst his peers, and holds himself with a tragic grace, poised and prim and ever - aware of how he is being perceived.
  
  ᨒ gay, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• none.

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[CRAPPIEPATCH]

Their next toss is interrupted by the approach of another cat, and Crappiepaw turns to face the clanmate—they cannot smell who through all of their sniffles—with wide eyes and tensed muscles. It is only Fernpaw, though, and the calico quickly allows themself to relax. There are no WindClanners on this side of the gorge, not anymore. They hope that is true, at least.

The other apprentice, confusion hanging like clouds in the big blue sky of his eyes, asks what they are doing. Or rather, Fernpaw asks what’s up. Crappiepaw does not throw the rock that they have just picked up, instead setting it back on the ground, nudging it as an offer to the tabby-striped tom. "Hope a WindClanner comes too close," they say by way of explanation, once again turning wide eyes upon the other apprentice. Urging him to take a shot of his own at the other side of the gorge.

The ragged figure of a night-dark lead warrior blots out the night next, and it is Smokethroat’s turn to be fixed with unrelenting green eyes. He echoes the question of Fernpaw, only worded differently, and the calico nods. "Flinging rocks at WindClan," they respond to his queries, a smile breaking upon their white-furred muzzle. They are not even reaching the other side of the gorge, but if they could… oh, the havoc they would wreak upon WindClan’s warriors!

Another cat joins them near the gorge, and his form would be recognizable even if Crappiepaw were not of RiverClan blood. Cicadastar cuts an intimidating figure, even as run-down as he seems. Both Smokethroat and Cicadastar seem to share the same sentiment—they should be careful. The leader tells both he and Fernpaw, in no uncertain terms, not to get any closer to the edge. "Clear." Crappiepaw is not stupid enough to disobey Cicadastar, even as exhausted as he looks. They wonder how much the dappled tom has slept recently; should they fetch him some comfortable feathers for his nest? Surely he would appreciate such a gesture, although it may not actually help him to sleep more.

Kind, Cicadastar calls them when he speaks again, and they squint curiously at the older tom. It is another of his strange words, and they do not know what it means. But he invites them to throw a rock at him, for the sake of relieving him of his headache. An order from their leader; Crappiepaw does not think twice about obeying. "Okay." They grab for another rock, weighing it in their paw. It is neither heavy nor sharp—certainly enough to contend with a headache. Then, without any further dramatics, they toss the stone in the leader’s direction.
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[ FORTUNE LOVES THE BOLD ]​

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[BEESONG]

unlike the warriors and apprentices of riverclan, it is not beesong's duty to charge head-first into battle. a healer should not unsheathe their claws unless necessary... they are there to glue the broken pieces back together, to mend what windclan shatters time and time again. as much as he may hate it, he is too important to riverclan to put his life on the line. but even with this philosophy, beesong comes out of the fight injured. windclan is not above sending one of their own to destroy and pillage herbs... then again, there isn't anything that windclan seems to be above doing for their own gain.

and, damn those bastards, they'd managed it. birch sap, feverfew, chickweed, and a willow leaf had been ruined beyond salvation. but beesong had made sure that the scum who'd laid their claws on his herbs—who'd been willing to leave potential patients, potential patients that could be kits and queens and elders, without medicinal remedies— left with wounds of their own to nurse.

beesong doesn't like the gorge. they don't like being near the gorge. not only is the putrid stench of windclan's border a good way to give themselves a stress-induced (and anger-induced) headache nowadays, but the drop into raging currents and sharp stones would mean certain death if one fell. it sends a rush of fear down their spine when they hear the thundering of the water fox-lengths and fox-lengths below. however, with how close the beech copse is to the gorge... they don't have much of a choice but to cross paths with that part of the territory as of late.

riverclan couldn't move back into their old camp fast enough.

today, he finds crappiepaw garnering a crowd near the gorge. a pile of stones lay next to them, growing smaller and smaller as the calico tosses one after another over the edge. smokethroat and cicadastar has already given a voice to the concern for crappiepaw's safety, so beesong doesn't comment on it... or maybe he doesn't speak up because cicadastar's presence has always had a way of making his tongue too heavy to form words.

their ear flicks forward, and they manage a snort at crappiepaw's response. throwing rocks at windclan... beesong does not condone violence very often, if at all, but after all of the blood spilled by windclan's claws... the moor-dwellers deserved a concussion or two, at the very least. but, deserving or not, beesong doubts that crappiepaw could throw a rock hard enough to make it across the yawning gorge.

however, crappiepaw could throw a rock hard enough to hit cicadastar. the towering tom cracks a joke about relieving his headache with a stone to his skull, and whether crappiepaw takes this as a serious invitation or just a convenient excuse to launch a rock at cicadastar's face... beesong isn't sure, but whichever it may be, there is now a rock hurtling right towards cicadastar.

all beesong could do is watch with wide eyes. they don't know whether they should hope that the rock strikes its target and knocks cicadastar out to give crappiepaw time to run, or if they should hope that the rock misses so that maybe crappiepaw's punishment wouldn't be as severe.​

 

[FERNGILL]

At a duo of instructions- to employ carefulness, to not get any closer- Fernpaw found himself shrinking even further away from the edge. If there was that much seriousness in the voices of Smokethroat and Cicadastar, two toms who likely had a lot better to do than tip off a couple of loitering apprentices, then he didn't want to risk even a scrape. Still, bulging eyes watched the movements of Crappiepaw's collecting as they claimed they were taking aim at WindClan.

Fernpaw's expression set into a strange-looking but markedly mischievous smile- his hopes had joined his colleagues in that they'd pelt any moor-dweller with stones in tandem if they dared wander over. They deserved it- for everything they'd done, they'd feel the wrath of all of RiverClan. Until he was a warrior, flinging stones at them was perhaps the only way he could contribute. One too-big paw scuffed a stone, one that tumbled over the wetland and tipped pathetically over the side of the gorge.

"M-missed," he murmured good-naturedly, and set his attention back on the gathering cats. Beesong, now, too- who'd arrived just in time to see Crappiepaw take Cicadastar's small comment about knocking out a headache at complete face value.

Particularly obviously, Fernpaw visibly winced at the sight of a pebble flying right toward the leader's face. Had he not been so worried about losing his balance, he might have shrunk to the ground to cover his eyes.​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[dovethroat.]

They were RiverClanners. Dovepaw had always assumed that they had grace in their agility, their ability to traverse both land and sea. Of course, they were not as fast as, say, WindClan scum cats, but they had skills there. Whatever it was he considered essentially "RiverClan", throwing rocks was not exactly part of that.

But, seeing the direction Crappiepaw was throwing them in, Dovepaw decides he can't be too mad at the gesture.

Further from the lip of the gorge than the rock-throwing culprit, Dovepaw watches with thinly-veiled interest. Finally willing himself to speak at least once, Dovepaw manages a mumble. "I'd r-rather th-they j-just f-fall in." He says softly, voice quietly angry but clearly trying to have fun. This was fun, right? People had fun like this, Dovepaw told himself.

Any sort of attempts at levity, though, faded when Crappiepaw seemed so careless (or perhaps covertly revolutionary), to throw a rock directly at their ruler (granted, he had asked). Watching with eyes so wide they looked like they might fall out, Dovepaw froze where he stood—several steps away from the rest of the apprentices.

[⋆]​

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