- Dec 17, 2022
- 438
- 114
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tw for descriptions of child death; cw for panic attack / trauma response symptoms
racconstripe's actions in the great battle haunt him. what are his practices after a particularly horrible nightmare?
racconstripe's actions in the great battle haunt him. what are his practices after a particularly horrible nightmare?
The sky is blank but for an all-seeing moon, unblinking ivory eye casting light like judgment onto a forested clearing. A tabby strides past cats who are twitching on the floor. Bleeding and gasping. Crying for help. He does not see them. They are on their way to whatever pitiful darkness awaits them after death. His eyes are near-black, unseeing with adrenaline and the light of battle.
They are focused on something. A tortoiseshell queen from the opposing colony, her pelt bristling and her fangs gleaming with saliva. "You brutes would drive us out of your homes, and for what?" Her claws unsheathe. Raccoonstripe can smell her terror as well as he can smell the death perfuming the night.
"Because you don't belong here," he answers her, the same as he always does, the same as he did. His attack on her is swift and without mercy. His teeth flash wet and silver in the moonlight, and he grips her by her scruff. She is smaller than him, but she uses all four of her dangling limbs to slash haphazardly at her attacker.
He can feel the sting. He can feel his blood greet the humid hot air. Raccoonstripe does not stop, though, nothing stops him -- he will kill his opponent, he will drive these prey-stealing kittypets from their forest --
And then, as there always is, there's teeth fastened into his back leg. He drops the tortoiseshell, rearing back to hiss at the cat who quivers before him, bravery and terror emanating in waves. A cat who cannot be more than seven or eight moons, ginger pelt spiked like the tortoiseshell's. Raccoonstripe does not see anything but an enemy of his colony, a cat who steals fresh-kill from the mouths of his family, of the kits who cry for meat in the middle of the night, and he's quick to strike.
The dying queen screams behind him. The ginger cat dangles by their throat, torn to the bone, laid bare. Blood fills Raccoonstripe's mouth, over and over again, over and over again, and he's choking, belatedly realizing he's killed this cat who has barely left it's mother's flank, killed them right in front of their mother, and her death rattle follows her scream.
When he awakens, it's flushed with nausea, and for a horrifying moment he knows his mouth is filled with blood. He rises from his nest on stiff legs, pushing past the other warriors. Staggering into the moonlit clearing, Raccoonstripe heaves. Nothing comes out, nothing but a mouthful of overly-salty and overly-metallic saliva.
He trembles. Has the dream become more visceral since the dogs, since ShadowClan? Raccoonstripe lifts a white paw to his mouth and brushes away the lingering moisture.
Breathe. Breathe. He forces himself to exhale and inhale. The moonlight blankets their camp. He casts his eyes to the star-filled sky, forcing the fur on his back to lie flat.
StarClan, forgive me. I would go back if I could. I would change it if i could.
He cannot, and he's come to accept this -- or has he? Raccoonstripe straightens, his limbs ceasing to tremble, but the haunted expression in his eyes remains.
They are focused on something. A tortoiseshell queen from the opposing colony, her pelt bristling and her fangs gleaming with saliva. "You brutes would drive us out of your homes, and for what?" Her claws unsheathe. Raccoonstripe can smell her terror as well as he can smell the death perfuming the night.
"Because you don't belong here," he answers her, the same as he always does, the same as he did. His attack on her is swift and without mercy. His teeth flash wet and silver in the moonlight, and he grips her by her scruff. She is smaller than him, but she uses all four of her dangling limbs to slash haphazardly at her attacker.
He can feel the sting. He can feel his blood greet the humid hot air. Raccoonstripe does not stop, though, nothing stops him -- he will kill his opponent, he will drive these prey-stealing kittypets from their forest --
And then, as there always is, there's teeth fastened into his back leg. He drops the tortoiseshell, rearing back to hiss at the cat who quivers before him, bravery and terror emanating in waves. A cat who cannot be more than seven or eight moons, ginger pelt spiked like the tortoiseshell's. Raccoonstripe does not see anything but an enemy of his colony, a cat who steals fresh-kill from the mouths of his family, of the kits who cry for meat in the middle of the night, and he's quick to strike.
The dying queen screams behind him. The ginger cat dangles by their throat, torn to the bone, laid bare. Blood fills Raccoonstripe's mouth, over and over again, over and over again, and he's choking, belatedly realizing he's killed this cat who has barely left it's mother's flank, killed them right in front of their mother, and her death rattle follows her scream.
When he awakens, it's flushed with nausea, and for a horrifying moment he knows his mouth is filled with blood. He rises from his nest on stiff legs, pushing past the other warriors. Staggering into the moonlit clearing, Raccoonstripe heaves. Nothing comes out, nothing but a mouthful of overly-salty and overly-metallic saliva.
He trembles. Has the dream become more visceral since the dogs, since ShadowClan? Raccoonstripe lifts a white paw to his mouth and brushes away the lingering moisture.
Breathe. Breathe. He forces himself to exhale and inhale. The moonlight blankets their camp. He casts his eyes to the star-filled sky, forcing the fur on his back to lie flat.
StarClan, forgive me. I would go back if I could. I would change it if i could.
He cannot, and he's come to accept this -- or has he? Raccoonstripe straightens, his limbs ceasing to tremble, but the haunted expression in his eyes remains.
[ PENNED BY MARQUETTE ]
