- Jun 8, 2023
- 254
- 51
- 28
.i'll be your calm, —————————
————————— before the storm!.
// tw for bloody descriptions!
It’s dark, and dreary, when Batwing dreams. It is nothing like the time he’s run along the wooden rivulets of tree branches, nothing like the moon hanging over him in the sky. Nothing like his father’s specter peering down at him as he raced against time. No, tonight, he is stuck in his sick-nest with a healing paw, one he sacrificed to give two cats a chance at life, even if one was greatly wounded. Clouds gather above outside, darkening the very light that he so often sought in times of insomnia.
Parts of him were aware his kits were safe. They knew that his mate slumbered in the warrior’s den, curled up and warm, and part of him hoped that she was dreaming fitfully. What sleep he was getting was at winks, and each time he dove down into the ink of rest, it came with dark and twisted dreams. Ones that spelled misfortune of his family, or himself.
And each whisper of evil caused his head to jerk up, unfamiliar surroundings making his heart beat out of his chest. While he eventually calmed, and knew exactly what he was staring at, his body still filled with adrenaline, with a need to escape the very den that was mending his body but not his mind.
He lay his head down once again, a mistake, something he’d dwell upon the following morning sleepless.
It is just as dark as it was outside the den when he settled into the depths of his mind again. He knew it was sleep, yet he was unsure what he was entirely looking at. The fourtrees, perhaps, where a great battle once waged- where it waged again. Cats at each other's throats, the blood soaking into the dirt. The full moon was.. Was it eclipsed? Shadowed behind the dire feelings of all of their hearts?
He was unsure. He felt like a ghost, walking between dead bodies and the war that still raged between the clans. Was it the clans? None of the cats here looked familiar, not with the wounds or rage on their face. He couldn’t tell.
It settled in like thick terror when his vision did turn across a face he recognized. Hazepaw’s unblinking stare settled into his pelt- but it wasn’t unblinking. The normally quiet apprentice had lost his- the wounds upon his face. Batwing’s breath caught, paws stumbling and sinking into the muddy ground, his head bowing down. He couldn’t look.
When he picked his head back up, his kit had been replaced with his eldest brother. The sights he had so desperately avoided thinking about. When he turned, his late sister faced a similar fate. Clawed out eyes, slit throat. Batwing didn’t want to move any further, to thrash against the fate he knew was coming. His mother, then his father, dying to the claws of someone. Who? Who was it? Batwing wanted to scream, to rage, to snap his way through the shadowed figure with their back turned to him.
Batwing would kill them, if it meant seeing his late family, and his current family, avenged and protected respectively.
He started with terrifying thunder arcing across the sky outside. He could hear it, the clap of thunder rolling moments after the flash of light. His heart rate was sky-high, and despite knowing it was near morning, the dusk was washed out by the darkening clouds high above. His paws itched to push himself out of the nest, to crawl to the edge and see the sky before it opened to dump whatever precipitation was on the menu today.
Batwing ignored it, under the orders of his best friend and Berryheart alike. Healing his body came first. Then he’d figure the rest out.
It’s dark, and dreary, when Batwing dreams. It is nothing like the time he’s run along the wooden rivulets of tree branches, nothing like the moon hanging over him in the sky. Nothing like his father’s specter peering down at him as he raced against time. No, tonight, he is stuck in his sick-nest with a healing paw, one he sacrificed to give two cats a chance at life, even if one was greatly wounded. Clouds gather above outside, darkening the very light that he so often sought in times of insomnia.
Parts of him were aware his kits were safe. They knew that his mate slumbered in the warrior’s den, curled up and warm, and part of him hoped that she was dreaming fitfully. What sleep he was getting was at winks, and each time he dove down into the ink of rest, it came with dark and twisted dreams. Ones that spelled misfortune of his family, or himself.
And each whisper of evil caused his head to jerk up, unfamiliar surroundings making his heart beat out of his chest. While he eventually calmed, and knew exactly what he was staring at, his body still filled with adrenaline, with a need to escape the very den that was mending his body but not his mind.
He lay his head down once again, a mistake, something he’d dwell upon the following morning sleepless.
It is just as dark as it was outside the den when he settled into the depths of his mind again. He knew it was sleep, yet he was unsure what he was entirely looking at. The fourtrees, perhaps, where a great battle once waged- where it waged again. Cats at each other's throats, the blood soaking into the dirt. The full moon was.. Was it eclipsed? Shadowed behind the dire feelings of all of their hearts?
He was unsure. He felt like a ghost, walking between dead bodies and the war that still raged between the clans. Was it the clans? None of the cats here looked familiar, not with the wounds or rage on their face. He couldn’t tell.
It settled in like thick terror when his vision did turn across a face he recognized. Hazepaw’s unblinking stare settled into his pelt- but it wasn’t unblinking. The normally quiet apprentice had lost his- the wounds upon his face. Batwing’s breath caught, paws stumbling and sinking into the muddy ground, his head bowing down. He couldn’t look.
When he picked his head back up, his kit had been replaced with his eldest brother. The sights he had so desperately avoided thinking about. When he turned, his late sister faced a similar fate. Clawed out eyes, slit throat. Batwing didn’t want to move any further, to thrash against the fate he knew was coming. His mother, then his father, dying to the claws of someone. Who? Who was it? Batwing wanted to scream, to rage, to snap his way through the shadowed figure with their back turned to him.
Batwing would kill them, if it meant seeing his late family, and his current family, avenged and protected respectively.
He started with terrifying thunder arcing across the sky outside. He could hear it, the clap of thunder rolling moments after the flash of light. His heart rate was sky-high, and despite knowing it was near morning, the dusk was washed out by the darkening clouds high above. His paws itched to push himself out of the nest, to crawl to the edge and see the sky before it opened to dump whatever precipitation was on the menu today.
Batwing ignored it, under the orders of his best friend and Berryheart alike. Healing his body came first. Then he’d figure the rest out.
"speech"