sensitive topics the medic & . ice collapse

[CICADASTAR]

Spoiler: warning

tw for descriptions of cold drowning ( shock, hypothermia, etc ) in the last paragraph!

he will need to be pulled from the water! but whoever jumps in — keep in mind the temperature of the water and the risks that come with taking a dive right now

---

the crowd was milling on and the man had watched, hollow - eyed, bitten lipped as they traversed the ice. it had groaned with each agonizing pawstep, a low, screeching whine echoing amidst the fog - ridden river. it was freezing, and he could see it in pinched expressions, watched them pry their pawpads from the surface and knew the bite of it, a raw snap of release from the frozen surface. their camp — woven by paw, patched from the very beginning but its structure the same. nothing but rubble remains, snapped twine and reed, scatterings of stone and shell that had once been dotted about their nests or woven into den walls. their camp was made upon memories and the task ahead seemed.. monumental. his body hurts, despair a physical ache pulsing low within his bones. he wants to stay here, in this stasis. he wanted the ground to erupt, to root him to this spot until the rivers receded and gives them back their home.

home. he’d lived beyond the marshes at one point, but that place.. had not been home. his place was here — his place was amidst the waves, amidst his warriors, strong and hearty and cunning as they were.

they’re moving towards the camp now, and the man still sits, ruins of his home lapping idly at his paws. it taunts him, mimicks the gentle sounds of a corroded shore, waves that had lapped tenderly at the base of his willow now pooling over it’s arching roots and into the place he rested against warm, white - speckled fur — his throat clicks. he nearly wished he had asked the dark tom cat to stay behind with him, if only for just a moment. bony paws curl into the damp remnants of slush and mud underfoot, long claws slipping through sodden, clumping sand and dirt. across the ice ahead, sablekit was likely walking alongside him, head high and curious — her first time from camp. houndsnarl will joke aloud despite their circumstance, laugh as heartily as he had the first time they’d crossed this river, the ray of light he’s always been in the stormy leader’s life. mudpelt will be with his children, ashpaw would be trotting after willowroot’s little ones, wrangling antlerkit, hazekit, poolkit and.. he would cross this river as well, chastise the tabby molly for crowding the nursery, and life would go on. they would build a home — wherever they were.

he would go home, to him.

cicadastar sucks in a breath, ignores the gust of fog that befalls his mouth and floats up into his bleary vision, resolute. he has survived worse than this. the tom stands, stretches too long limbs and after one more glance back, places a single paw upon the ice. it growls just as it had before, caves just slightly beneath the firm weight and.. it was fine, surely. the surface was scuffed, but it had been when they’d come across it — had it always looked so white? he unsticks his paw with the slightest snarl, stepping further onto the ice and its just as uncomfortable as he’d imagined, a slow pull - stick - pry of his damp pads on ice. they would need to send hunting patrols out as soon as they could, what little they had the waters had washed away, leaving nothing but crowfood and rot. with hope, there were already a couple warriors out, his stomach growls and the bite keeps him going. the cold keeps him going, the thought of a nest beyond this frozen landscape. busy, busy, pallid eyes flit down, catches his own gaze and —

a crack.

its abrupt. the ground gives beneath him and he is submerged quicker than he could yowl for help, feels the jagged edges of ice scrape along his flanks as he submerges into a pitch dark as the ground opens beneath him. curls splay to every side of him, swimming miasma of black - white and he cannot see, cannot think past the sudden burning cold that sets every nerve off, singing pain throughout his slim body. king of the water, conquerer of riverlands — one would assume his time upon this pebbled shore would teach him to prepare for this. one would expect him to push up with his hind limbs as he has many times before, twist his body and lift bony, webbed paws to breech the surface that had engulfed him.

instead, he does the worst thing he could have done —

he gasps.

a sudden inward flood of water forces his jaws further open, begins to fill his throat brittle and shockingly cold, freezing his insides and he swallows wildly as if it could help, pushes, but he cant see, cant feel, cant breathe. his throat clicks, tightening to a pinpoint — it feels like the twolegs sharp stick, shoved beneath the plate of his chest instead of spearing his throat as it once had, and hurts just as much. at least the stick had been quicker ; his lung burn in this purgatory, raging fire in his chest igniting by the millisecond and by some grace, he finds which way is up.. but paws hit something heavy, something solid above him. a single paw splays wide from the bottom of the ice and with one last bubble of air from tinted blue, slackening lips, the tortoiseshell begins to float towards the murky river floor.

it had likely lasted seconds, but to the chimera, it may as well have lasted a lifetime.

seven.

− ♱ 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, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• none.

​

​

 

[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

Before the life he'd lived in ShadowClan's muddy grounds, Hound had known these waters. His world'd been measured by them. Walking along the shores, searching for bits of prey that'd hide in the reeds. His path would take him to each of its ends– the gorge, whose roar he'd been wise enough to avoid even as a wild youth, and down to the twolegplace, the chaos of which he'd learned to avoid just the same. Too much trouble at both, but...here, with the river's waters rushing past him, he'd never met trouble like this before. It'd been home, as safe and secure as him standing between Flint's paws. Never somewhere he can lose his head to, but familiar enough for his heart to slow. He knew Flint. He knew this river.

He knew the stars-damned ice. It's his third tangle with it, and Hound's aware enough to see it as the deadly thing it is. Never something to think of as safe. The others aren't so lucky as to have his knowledge, and try as he might to offer it up to them, his words are rasped and troubled. He's no authority in this clan, and that suits him just fine– but it's this helplessness he hates. Where the words have failed him, the warrior instead places himself as cautious shepherd. Watching the others cross these waters, sitting at a distance to listen to the ice's song. It creaks, and groans, and murmurs a quiet, deadly melody. As it rises to a crescendo, the fur along his spine does the same.

It reaches its end with a crack as loud as prey-bones by the ear. Already his paws are leaping to motion. There's not a thought in his head to his own survival, and he's not seen which cat it was that fell. Doesn't matter a bit to him, anyway. But as he finds the broken ice, he sees dark curls, a familiar tone of fur. Had he the presence of mind to think on it, that might be a relief. Cicada's been blessed by StarClan, that's what they say. He's got lives to spare; he can recover from this. That thought's not quite on his mind now. All he can feel, all he can think, is that he's in some deadly trouble. And as reckless as he'd ever been, Houndsnarl leaps in after him.

All those moons ago, he'd been the one to bring the tom here. It'd been meant as a moment of peace, somethin' shared between the two of them. When he claimed these lands in the divide beneath those looming trees, there'd been a mix of relief and resentment. A moment of peace, turned to a chore. This peaceful place, now to be trampled by the entirety of a clan. But he's glad for it, now. Glad that Cicadastar claimed it, and glad that he'd taught him to swim.

The water bites at his throat and his nose, threatens to pry apart his maw and tries to force his eyes closed, but the chocolate tom fights it at every turn. He's no other choice, lest he join their leader as he sinks towards the murky river bottom. His head shakes underwater, chasing the pain from his eyes, and strong paws kick to take him down. It's a fight against his own buoyancy, made harder in the cold. Failure's not an option, and even as his muscles and lungs begin to ache, he fastens his teeth to the leader's thick scruff, and does all that he can to yank. Towards the light of broken ice, back where he'd come from. Towards air, and life, and new beginnings in this frozen moment.

To new beginnings.

﹥ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES INFORMATION 〙ˊˎ﹤

• ooc: —
• ──── houndsnarl. trans male, he/him pronouns.
  ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
  ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.
  
  ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
• "speech"

​

 

[RAVENSONG]

The dark apprentice always doubted if he really belonged here. He was not wild-born like the great majority of the cats who lived in RiverClan and his deep-seated phobia of the waters did not help him adjust culturally into this context either. Some liked to say that the river gave them life. Ravenpaw only sometimes believed that. On a sunny and warm day, the water would glitter playfully against the light of the sun. The dragonflies buzzed overhead. That was happy.

But the river also taketh what it giveth. It ruined their home, and Ravenpaw had never felt more anxious and uncertain of where he would end up in life. It was just so hard—maybe they were right that a kittypet could not ever become a warrior.

When the ice cracks, his blood runs cold and he bolts forward, paws skidding for safety. With his heart in his throat, he looked back, only to see a flash of black and white fur dip under the merciless waters. His worst fate, attributed to Cicadastar himself. Ravenpaw's breathing becomes haggard and he parts his jaws, ready to call out and warn the others, but nothing comes out. Then Houndsnarl jumps in and Ravenpaw's panic only quickens. The warrior was far braver than the drypaw apprentice could ever be.

"... Cicadastar!" He rasped out. He imagines himself rushing forward to help Houndsnarl pull their leader out, but in reality his paws remain rooted in fear. Pupils dilated, the panic makes him feel like he is floating above his own body and he cannot move.

​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Smokethroat is well adapted to the waters, horrid as they were right now, the river had a mood that was predictable enough if you were observant but it often had a tendency to leave you surprised as well. Lowering your guard here was never wise, even if it seemed as though the ice had trapped its churning wrath underneath. He was foolish, idly thinking of warm nests and newleaf, an occasional glance to the kittens roaming past him to ensure none wandered too far or went comically sliding away. He almost doesn't stop walking when the he feels the world beneath him shudder, it takes a second longer to stop and turn back in confusion, so overtaken by his thoughts its like he's blind.
It takes him a moment to realize what happened. A quiet blink of that one sunset-colored eye and Cicadastar was gone in a crack of thunder. Perhaps it was the shock of the suddeness that stills him, leaves his limbs rigidly under him and claws gripping the slick surface underpaw. The world seems to teeter in slowmotion before it crashes down and realization is a wave of horror in one brutal pang through the chest. No.
"CADA!"
He is often not one for anything but formalities and titles, professional as always but the sheer anguish that folded over him like a blanket of snow shredded his composure in a second, torn asunder like teeth to hide.
It is Houndsnarl's tabby form that moves first, while he is turning to make sure the splintering crack of the ice did not move further inward where it might shatter beneath the paws of other cats. Sometimes he wishes he could be selfish, ignore the world around him for his own wants and needs and let them flounder without guidance at all. On the streets he was his own knight, his own king, but here..
His head whips around once again to follow the splash, the impact, the sudden stillness that dredges fear up into his throat; neither the leader nor warrior were anywhere in sight and he is clambering forward on uneven strides to the edge, seconds from diving in himself and the world around him be damned.
The breath that escapes him is ice shards, gasping panic as if he had been drenched himself as the brown tabby head bursts up from the waters and moves forward, mottled fur clamped between teeth. Smokethroat moves alongside Ravenpaw to reach out, almost desperate to get a grip on the patchwork of storm colored fur being dragged onto the ice and he pulls hard and then keeps pulling, motioning for the apprentice to continue doing so as well; away from the ice that splintered and shifted beneath their weight still. For as much as he wanted to throw himself over the cold form to force warmth back in frigid veins he knew better than to do so here.
​

 

[CLEARSIGHT]

---

➵ Cicadastar goes under and Clearsight does not know yet that a life has been lost beneath the murky waters; instead he thinks, fucking stars, if no one pulls him out, he could lose every life down there.

He'd fallen apart when nine became eight, still moved to save Cicadastar's apprentice, still helped get the patrol back to camp, but spent the night drowning in grief. He had screamed, when that arrow found its purchase. That was a different season, though, for both of them. These days they are not as close; there is nothing ... additional sparking between the two toms.

This time it is Smokethroat who screams.

Clearsight is still half-frozen from digging through the rubble of the apprentices' den, dragging Mudpelt's kids and his own Gillpaw from a watery grave. Soaked and shivering, his head swivels toward the place where Cicadastar just stood — where Houndsnarl is already jumping in.

Smokethroat moves and Clearsight runs alongside without thinking, signaling @GILLPAW to follow, aching paws carrying him across the ice. When Houndsnarl's head breaks the surface, Cicadastar in tow, the blue tabby's heart leaps. Thank the stars — there's a chance.

Smokethroat's snagged Cicadastar by the scruff just moments later, but they're not out of the woods yet — one warrior's strength won't be enough. Cicadastar is not small by any means, and both cats are waterlogged, the weight of the river pulling them under, and Houndsnarl must be fading fast by now. Clearsight joins Smokethroat's efforts, digging teeth into Houndsnarl's scruff if he can, helping the lead warrior to drag the pair back onto the icy surface. "C'mon," Clearsight grunts around clenched teeth.
​

---

& we've all got battle scars ✗ ​

// ic opinions​

 

[iciclefang]

Cicadastar had waited for the rest of his Clan to cross the frozen river before he'd attempted to embark himself. Iciclepaw is safe on the other side, listening to the creaking and groaning of the ice beneath her leader's paws. Every movement he makes has her on edge -- once he makes it across, their entire Clan will be safe, and everyone will be fine.

It's not to be. One moment, Cicadastar is making his way toward them. The next, he's vanished with a soul-shattering crack! of the icy walkway. It gives way beneath him, and he plunges directly into the frigid waters below.

Her gasp is strangled in her throat, choked with horror, but she cannot speak. She knows the terrors of near-drowning, but there is no one who can help Cicadastar -- who would survive that icy plunge into the depths of the river, who could even try?

Houndsnarl, the heroic fool, shoots into the opening in the ice, disappearing into wintry dark depths just as Cicadastar had. She hears Ravenpaw's startled cry, Smokethroat's scream of terror. Panic fizzling, she leaps to their rescue, Clearsight and Smokethroat doing their best to pull Cicadastar and Houndsnarl onto the ice.

Their weight, she thinks, will be so much heavier, waterlogged -- and Cicadastar doesn't seem to be moving. Deadweight? She thinks, attempting to stifle the thought as she locks her jaws onto Houndsnarl the way Clearsight has. She pulls with all of her might, hoping they can safe at least one of them...​

[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]​

​

 

[HOUNDSTRIDE.]

The world around him's muddied black, even as his head breaks the seal of frosty water. His lungs drag in all that they can with desperate yet shallow heaves, never enough. Each inhale gasped back out between shuddering, clattering teeth. It must tear at Cicada's scruff– even like this, lost to a half-death, he does not let him go. Some of what he'd told him all those moons ago floats across the front of his mind. "It won't swallow you up," he'd laughed, splashing in sun-warmed shallows, sending a small current up towards the leader's– no, not the leader's, his friend's face. "Keep your wits about you an' you'll be just fine."

Hadn't crossed his mind to teach him of leafbare's bite. Maybe it was his own foolish mistake that'd cost his friend everything.

As his eyes blink away the remnants of stinging water, he can only make out the shape of paws and legs. The feeling of teeth buried into his own soaked fur. Water still streams down from his pelt, out of his ears, dripping down his muzzle and back into his eyes. Without the energy to shake his head and clear it, he can only suffer with eyes squeezed shut. At least every blink clears his gaze, and more of their bodies come into mind. He can see the patterning of Iciclepaw's legs, Smokethroat's white toes. And still before him, Cicadastar. He tries to fight to his paws, fails just to land on his belly as his jaws finally go lax around his fur and immediately turn to grooming their leader's pelt. "Get him warm and dry," he demands, nearly nonsensical with the gravelly rasp of his sore throat. "There'll be no comin' back from this otherwise."

﹥ˏˋ〘  OOC NOTES INFORMATION 〙ˊˎ﹤

• ooc: —
• ──── houndsnarl. trans male, he/him pronouns.
  ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
  ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.
  
  ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes. lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride. hound's notable features include his impressive height, the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.
• "speech"

​

 

[FERNGILL]

He'd thought it would be all fine. Doubtlessly, because it would be cruel for it not to be, right? They'd already been ousted from camp, had dens collapse, had... his hoard washed away. It felt deeply, irreparably unfair for something else to go wrong. What forces would want things to go wrong? He wanted so desperately to believe in good karma- and most of the time he did. But Cicadastar was good, he was kind, he was caring. He was always a positive sight, someone tall and strong and leaderly, someone loved and someone to be admired. Fernpaw had always aspired to turn out something like the leader, along with a whole host of other cats.

This... wasn't fair. That sudden break in the ice, soot and blizzard plunging into the depths, the blur of Houndsnarl's dark-oak pelt leaping forward in a heroic act. Fernpaw felt as if roots had grown from his oversized paws, fastening him to the ground- and that he had to tear through those anchors to toddle forward, a little closer. He wasn't strong enough to pull- to help, like Iciclepaw was doing. And Mudpelt had said to stay away from the swelling river, despite his talent for swimming.

It would be nice to be a hero- wonderful, even. But all that he could do was let the words "Oh n-no," tumble from his lips in a shivering stutter. Bug-eyes wide, the disproportionate apprentice struggled through his fear to stumble to Houndsnarl's side. He was so cold- he could feel it just standing near him, and- and Cicadastar...

"You need to, to be dry too," he urged, trying to carry forward the good will he knew that Houndsnarl deserved. Smokethroat would go to Cicadastar, probably. Fernpaw had not enough muscle to haul... to haul someone unconscious, but maybe- maybe he could attempt to help Houndsnarl to his feet. All he could be was a tiny support, but if he could help, if he could help just a little bit...​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[CICADASTAR]

tw for graphic depictions of a drowned body ( but hes fine ), water emeto, and he is going into hypothermia & in shock, as well as developing frostbite along his lip and eyelid ( for @BEESONG and @GLOOMPAW )

death is silent. he knows this now, despite the jarring circumstances of a life already stolen — he opens his eyes to what he could only assume was starclan’s murky dusk. there is no panic in him, not even as he watches stardust drip from his luminous form like water, pittering to the ground only to dissipate amongst the too - saturated grass. he blinks slowly. the clearing is large, surrounded by swaying flora and fat, low - hanging fruit. a single, wide ray of light illuminates him, spotlight amidst this silent haven and as his eyes adjust to the dim light he can see the swaying reed move, can finally see the swirling pink - blues of glowing, curious eyes. a starclanner.

she is a young molly, constellations dotting the length of her swaying pelt, torbie fur brimming with each color of twilight. maturity shines in her luminous gaze, too much for her youthful appearance. how had she gotten here?

how had he gotten here? he couldnt remember.

“ again? “ he knows the answer. he doesn’t know why he asks it, doesn’t know why it feels pleading upon his tongue. he would not suffer the same fate as shadowclan, and the feeling is — frantic. his chest ticks up, swallows hard against the petulance that rises in his throat. again, again. he would die again, and again, and again. did he truly have nine lives? were there more? would he be forced to watch his clanmates, his beloved, die and stay dead? he thinks of pumpkinpaw, for once allows himself, of peachpaw, of the lives lost. martyr, would things have been different if he’d not chosen the river? the man moves to stand and stars drip from him quicker now, pool from slick curls and to the ground. his face is gaunt, slicked fur and bold cheekbones. he is scared.

the molly looks at him for a moment, a tender pity meeting the soft edges of her eyes. she dips her head.

again.

---

starclan could not mince the briefest touch of rot. blood pooling away from extremities, cooling his already - freezing limbs to the touch. pallid eyes are even paler, glazed over with riverwater that runs along his lower lid until dripping from drooping whiskers. he is a vessel, staring ahead to nothing, unbreathing. his tail is unfurled, splayed wetly out behind him, thick fur beginning to coil back into ringlets as they dry — the only movement upon his water - bitten body, drenched and bloated. after a moment, a drip begins about the corner of his gaped mouth — blue - back lips slack and cracking at the edges with cold, frostbite already beginning to eat at the thin skin. slow at first, a steady pool of murkiness puddling beneath a sharp cheek.

it looks as if he were breathing out, sternum deflating as the water begins to pick up, pouring from his mouth until his throat clicks, an almost - cough rattle and he is awake again — in a panic, sucking a breath in and it is too soon, chokes him again until he lurches, expels the rest from his mouth and nose. his lungs convulse, rejecting the remnants of fluid from his chest by force. claws dig into the soil where his paws are lain, hooking him into place, breathing in a garbled breath only to cough it out once more, projecting froth and spit across the melting snow. agony again, fleeting as life shoves itself back into him, synapsis firing and shock working to numb his mind. the trauma of life, he finds, is just as bad as death. he can smell his warriors, can smell smokethroat and ravenpaw where they move to pull him and — and..

he’s in pain. his mind fleeting and its obvious, despite the way his face twitches to conceal it for a moment — fix yourself. his face turns into the mix of mud and slush below, matting the alabaster of his cheek and he writhes, before a harsh shuddering begins to rattle his form ; the strength to move his limbs, to curl and preserve himself becoming near impossible with each passing moment. starclan can only bring him back, and he finds as cold sets further in, he is losing mobility. its incapacitating, thin and starved as he was ; water slicks his fur to angular ribs, even more visible as the water weight recedes. he is drowned and jutting, confusion hazing the murky blue of his eyes where he is pressed to the ground, “ hurrs.. “ hurts. his voice is slanted, weak and awkward from his too - thick tongue. pupils roll, flexing against the light, alarmingly out of sync, “hmn. “ nonsensical. home.

his scruff aches, his shoulders, though he could not tell the difference between hound’s grip and the pulsing soreness of his body. he is large, even more so sodden as he was — weight had slid hound’s teeth along the sides of his neck and it is open, light trickle of blood diluted pink amidst the water. he sees him through the bleariness, sees him drenched as he was and perhaps it was the confusion, the panic that has begun to ebb back into his chest. the scene melds, reality hazy amidst his aching head and now, the tabby does not shake. he is not splayed across from him, chest fluttering just as his was. he is not dragging his way to him on his belly, thick fur matted to the bulk of his body, mouth open on a rough pant. the rake of his tongue is familiar and tired eyes slip low over frozen blues with it, thin and cracking with the same bite that eats at his maw. his mind floats and he is too tired, too suddenly. exhaustion seeps into his marrow, seeps into his very being, chest fluttering with the urge to keep breathing, keep breathing —

they are lounging. the sun is high and the rocks are warm, mud no longer clumping at the base of his too - long limbs. his fur is wet and the feeling is bliss, sun layering down upon their bodies. the shadows never had felt like home, had they? in his minds eye he is there, coiled loose near him and the slip of his tongue through damp curls is met with the gentle incline of his head — sloped muzzle tipped up, drying amidst the sun and his dear friend, a purr slipping from his throat. greenleaf had not been kind to them ; hunger bit at their bellies but the fish swim lazily underpaw. his head does not hurt, and his limbs stretch. he can hear hound speak, can’t make out what he says amidst the rushing in his ears, pulsing blood. in his mind he is resting aside him and the scent that falls over his senses is not one of terror, but comfort. in reality, his breathing is shallow. a pulse sluggish but present, weakening with the cold.

in both, he purrs, pain croaking the sound from his throat.

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

• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ CICADASTAR⠀⠀−−−−−−⠀⠀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, courting smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 40 moons, ages on the eighth.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
• none.

​

​

 

[willowroot]

( ☾ ) breath seems caught in the smoke woman's throat as ice crackles beneath countless tufted paws. she stands huddled next to her mate, counting each warrior and apprentice as they cross. breath catches with each safe arrival until it finally only their leader remains, hunched but proud, a lone figure across the abyss. he takes one step, two, and he seems like he's home free. intelligent crystalline eyes flicker from his own paws to those awaiting him, awaiting their leader. when the ice cracks, there's a painful spike in her chest, burning hot, yet sending chills spinning throughout her body. cicadastar plunges into dark water and chaos breaks loose. a silent cry rips from willowroot's maw.

houndsnarl is quick to act, and before she can even comprehend darting in after him, the earthen toned tom has launched into the river and is struggling to bring his leader to shore. a quick count tells the lead warrior that her kittens are all safe, and she will leave poppyfrost's side now, racing down the bank to join smokethroat. her friend has torn apart, and she can almost hear the beating of his heart from where he paces, locked in fear and anguish. as cicadastar emerges, limp in houndsnarl's jaws, willowroot is quick to follow suit in clearsight's actions. muscles pull taught in her neck, teeth sinking into the mottled fur of the man, and together, his warriors pull him to safety.

letting go, willowroot speaks up, nodding to houndsnarl. "lick his fur up, it'll dry quicker that way," she recommends before turning from the body, scanning for any sign of their golden medicine cat. she brushes gently against smokethroat for but a moment, and a memory flickers through, of one day not so long ago, similarly close to the river. a missing apprentice, anguish in her own heart, and his steady warmth. silently she had promised to repay him one day. now, as his beloved drips, lifeless on the crusted snow, she knows it's time.

she takes charge, looking for buckgait all the same, for their deputy has more authority here. "i need two warriors to warm up houndsnarl, and any able others to aid in any way they can. where's beesong?" verdant eyes flick wildly through the gathered group. ​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )

 

[BUCKGAIT.]

MY NAME IS BRUTUS AND MY NAME MEANS HEAVY ✧​

she's drawn to the gathering of felines, making room until she has realized what had happened. she's not surprised cicada is here, the so-called leader seems to find himself getting careless with his lives. one would think that someone supposedly star-blessed would have better luck. she recognizes the signs of his death, the moments of the snare blinding her for mere moments. the scarring of her face still stings at times, when she thinks of it. sometimes, she wishes she left him there.

houndsnarl is not one who is star-touched and blessed with more lives than just this one, so her concern heightens for him. "fern and cara-willow are right. cicada will be fine, you need to get warmed up. " she wishes she could compliment the tom on his bravery and quick thinking, but she also wants to scold him for the recklessness. in truth, there was little he could do aside from let cicada suffer in the cold, or pull him out himself. she knows better than to start something when houndsnarl had already risked so much. so the molly lets herself close in around him, letting cinnamon and dark brown fur mix. "good thinking, caraway." is all she can mutter towards her faux sister.

she's attentive to houndsnarl, but he shouldn't be out here. "houndsnarl, me and caraway can take you back to the warrior's den, it'll be warmer in there. we can get beesong later, or he can come to us, but you shouldn't stay out." her voice is authortative, leading little room for complaint or refusal. he doesn't need to worry over cicada now. "you were very brave, now let your clanmates care for you." her words drop to a mere whisper, a small praise. she hopes it's enough, as the deputy nods her head towards willowroot. inviting them to help her get him somewhere warmer and comfier.

​

 

[BEESONG]

the trek across the ice had been a necessary evil, beesong knows. fresh memories of ice splintering beneath smokethroat's paws, a frantic rush to bring the lead warrior to safety... it haunts the healer's mind, imprisons his breath within aching lungs, as he watches each clanmate cross. carefully, carefully, as if each paw step could be their last. it could, he knows. one wrong move, one hasty decision, and they could plummet into icy depths.

beesong tries to remain hopeful, but with every groan of the ice, he recounts the herbs he'd salvaged to hide the scent of death.

they insist on being one of the last to go; whether it was out of fear-born procrastination or a need to make sure that their clan crosses safely first, beesong didn't know. maybe it was a bit of both, but they try to tell themselves it was the latter. once the time has come for them to set out over the ice, they cannot focus on anything outside of their own pawsteps. one foot in front of the other, walking as if they are on a tightrope, reminding themselves over and over to not unsheathe their claws despite how tricky it is for them to balance. if it wasn't for the bundle of herbs they carried, they're certain that their own lips would've been bruised and bloody at the end of this journey. one wrong move, they remind themselves. over and over, a rhythm by the time their paws grace the other side.

beesong hadn't even realized they'd been holding their breath until they let out a quiet sigh through their nose, and turn back to watch the stragglers. cicadastar brings up the rear, taking careful strides across the ice...

crack!

the sound of shattering ice echoes all around him. beesong is frozen, watching his leader disappear beneath the frigid water's surface. it feels as if he's been submerged, himself, cold terror running up his spine. he has never cared for cicadastar like he does some of his other clanmates. but the worry is ever present, a broken record inside of his heart. and it is throbbing. beesong does not want to dress yet another body for burial, and he does not want to urge yet another clanmate to take their dose of goatweed. the screams from willowroot and smokethroat already have him trying to recall how much goatweed he even saved from the flood. would it be enough? is it ever enough?

no, beesong doesn't think so.

the reckless part of beesong urges them to dive in after cicadastar, but the rational side of them resists. if they fail, if they go down with cicadastar, riverclan would be left without a proper medicine cat. gloompaw is nowhere near ready for that responsibility, not yet.

houndsnarl is the one to take the plunge instead. foolish, beesong's hypocritical mind cries. another cat who could potentially be lost... but riverclan needs cicadastar as much as they need beesong. the healer rushes down to the bank, hot on smokethroat and willowroot's heels, the bundle of herbs clutched like a lifeline. by the time he reaches the shore, houndsnarl is hauling a limp cicadastar from the icy waters. unbreathing, unmoving, staring ahead with that familiar glaze in his blue eyes. dead, his brain supplies, moments before the smoke revives. cicadastar jolts with a gasp, choking on the water pouring from his mouth and nose. he slurs something beesong cannot understand, but the healer isn't worried about answering. he's hyper-focused on examining cicadastar, searching for what starclan didn't fix; the skin on his lips and eyelid turning blue, the haze of confusion in his eyes, the trembling of his limbs. in shock, certainly... and most definitely entering hypothermia. there seems to be a shallow wound along his neck, as well, but that is the least of beesong's worries right now.

"listen to willowroot," beesong urges as he drops the bundle, sifting through its contents and thanking the stars when he sees the white petals of chamomile. he would try to pry open the leader's mouth and trickle the juice of chamomile past his frostbitten lips, before massaging the leader's throat to encourage him to swallow. buckgait's advising houndsnarl to warm himself, but her voice is little more than a buzzing in beesong's ear, tunnel vision set on the shivering smoke. cicadastar is fading again, pulse weakening and breaths growing shallow. he fears they're losing him a second time. we need to get him warm, now. it's the best that beesong knows to do for the shivering, frostbitten leader. completely helpless, outside of his realm of knowledge; he could fix the cut and the shock setting in, but what else could he do for the rest? and how the hell is he going to manage it, in the middle of the territory with nowhere to take shelter?

urgency growing in restless paws, beesong does the only thing they could think of; an action that they would never consider otherwise, but desperation breeds within them as cicadastar struggles to cling onto life. the healer drops themselves next to cicadastar and presses against his soaking form, swallowing a hiss at the sudden chill, while an unpracticed tongue roughly grooms his fur in the wrong direction. it's one of the most uncomfortable things beesong has ever done, they think.

you better live, after making me do this, you bastard. their mind snaps, agitation festering in the crevices of their anxiety, though they do not dare to speak the thought aloud.​

 

[GLOOMPAW]

The crinkle of ice, heavy shatter like glass. Screams. Gloompaw's mind was nothing in the moments she moved, scampering across the ice on unpracticed paws, the solid frozen form of her enemy-mother barring a speedy heed to call. By the time she snapped back to reality, Beesong's tiny form was there, trying to warm Cicadastar's fur, and she was sliding at them. Up close, he was every bit of a corpse Peachpaw had been, except somehow it was more mortifying to hear his slurred, quiet attempt at words.

"CICADA," the apprentice howled, though she didn't realize her mouth was moving. Time was a series of snapshots, body on autopilot, and the next time she came to reality she was there, close enough to hear the nearly-silent purr. Her heart jumped rapidly at the sound of pain, a thrashing beast in her chest.

It was dangerous -- too dangerous. The waters. They could kill as much as they provide. Gloompaw felt her claws try and grip at the ice, but the frozen layer gave no comfort. So unforgivingly cold. Ruthless.

She didn't know what to do. Dropping beside her mentor, she looked to them, eyes wide. Should she help? Should she go with Houndsnarl to assist him? Gloompaw began to copy Beesong, despite the strangeness of it, grooming his fur vigorously, trying to jumpstart the chilled blood beneath. If needed, she could be sent to where help was needed most, but right then the stillness of Cada terrified her. Would he lose another life if they did not succeed? In between licks, she begged the drowned leader, voice raised on the ledge of a sob, "Stay. Please."​

 

[WASPRATTLE.]

Any sort of expedition, he would approach with excitement.

Sullen march it may be, the circumstances of which, only brought sunken faces and teary eyes. He did not blame them, nor, necessarily considered himself different. It is jarring, unpleasant, certainly. More than just the dens had gone. Strange emptiness claws at his chest. Not so long; not too long has he been here. Perhaps that makes it less to him, or perhaps that makes it even more. Ever since he'd ran away, he hadn't the chance to be in one place so long. Perhaps that made this better, perhaps that made this worse.

Wasprattle ignores it, the gnawing, compromises by thinking of the wonders he would experience. The painful prick of dragging paws across ice, still new and wonderous indeed. To move somewhere else, but still be tucked amongst the people that make it home, he would nearly consider this a blessing. It will get better.

His gaze is elsewhere, the ice cracks. He thinks little of it, smallest of splinters. And then water gushes. And then they all scream.

Fallen, his brother has fallen into the ice. He cannot see him anymore. His jaws are snapping underwater. And Wasprattle is still. He does not know when he'd unsheathed his claws, but they grip at the freezing ground, now. Wracked with a chill, the skin along his spine is taught. Nearly, he can feel the River's freeze himself. Rolling over him in glacial waves; wracking through–

All of them, all of them scream, and he wants to along with it. But his maw is sewn shut. Perfect posture, he remains stood straight. Perfect space between his limbs; a tail that hangs low and still. Perhaps he clenches his jaw. Maybe his eyes are wide and gold. Maybe his legs threaten to buckle, he sways along with the rippling of the waves. Freezing death. His heart seizes. Suddenly, he is small. Not again, please.

He is free, he is out. Quickly– of course it is. Because the care his clanmates give is unmatched by many. Love, he has seen it; has heard of it on his travels. How could he not?

It is wrong. It is horrid. His brother purrs, pained. His face is bitten with frost. Staid, still, as Beesong arrives. Star-bound, a healer chosen; wealth of knowledge, had he not? They would help. And oh, Wasprattle wants to as well. He steps forward. Once, twice, his lips part with a never-said offer.

He's going to be sick.

Wasprattle bites back a hiss. And he's still, once again. He will not last here. He holds his breath. "Excuse me." It's spoken to no one in particular. Double meaning, silent plea, and simply for him to get by, without upset. He slides past the rest of them. He makes way for somewhere. Anywhere, away from here. He regrets so much.​

ooc translations

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[SMOKESTAR]

"Don't go-don't-" There is a whisper of something, mumbled and incoherent in the mottled king's throat as he's lain across the ice alongside the brown tabby who had dove in to save him and Smokethroat wants to shout at him to stop trying to speak while at the same time desperately wishing he would.

He imagines being dropped in the cold waters feel similar to how he does in this moment, chilled with horror and uncertainty but it crackles as heat floods his system with impunity-his fear is swallowed by fury; hot, scalding, burning like the cold of winter. Beesong is there and he reacts on impulse with a flash of white teeth and orange eye skewered with the shadow of a slit; defensive.
There is a sound in his throat that he does not allow to escape, choked back down in waves of panic and horror and for once he is not thinking logically nor with any sense of reason; he is feral, wildfire, spreading and burning anything that comes near him, touches him, looks at him. It was with a snarl so vicious he's less cat and more carved obsidian, jagged and edged and with that he finally catches himself midgrowl in Beesong's direction because he is too close. Fur bristles, flattens, settles, he feels cold suddenly and the burst of primal outrage that had threatened to burst from him seems to dull.
Pull it together.
Claws sheathe, breathing steadies, focus-focus-focus. Buckgait and Willowroot are tending to Houndsnarl, he's fine-he'll live, he's fine, he'll leave-he hates the horrible surge of irritation he feels at all the cats present, not even the smoky pelt of his fellow lead warrior can soothe him from the fact he felt seconds from splitting into pieces at a moments notice. A combination of hunger, every stressor that had piled on since leaf-bare began and now the cold had the audacity to take from them like this. He was going to war against StarClan, he could feel his hackles threatening to rise once more.
It is only because he has tucked himself opposite the cinnamon healer on the spotted tom's other side that he is even able to hold himself together, lower to the ground where he doesn't feel the sensation of floating in his own mind so strong he wants to retch but he refuses to leave.

​