those bloodsoaked shores ✘ battle aftermath

[SMOKESTAR]

His single eye opens, glassy and unfocused; the temporary camp is in shambles and he does not even need to lift his head to see it-he litter is scattered across the ground, debris coats the entire area of the Beech Copse. They are in shambles, but the water is receeding. Soon it won't matter how destroyed this place becomes because they will be going home. Home proper. The thought of it gives him the energy to raise his head, wincing against the pain lacing from his chest down his stomach, the tension in his shoulders so tight he is almost flattened once more in his efforts to rise.

Cats are crying out, screaming, he hears a murmur like a whisper-a voice cloaked heavy in grief in the distance, caught on the wind and sent tumbling through the tall spires of the trees ringing around them; it sings of loss. It sings of failure. They had fallen, overthrown, he wants to scream into the ground as frustration wells inside of him but the ache is too hollow, the exhaustion too overwhelming to overcome. He finds for once the fight has gone out of him and he surrenders, gives in to the need to let his paws slide out from under him, settle back onto the cool dirt to rest with a gasp of air that strains, bubbles of blood filling his nose and mouth. Smokethroat wants to retaliate immediately, but knows its foolish. Where he lays waiting for the spinning of his thoughts to fade he finds comfort in the knowledge he gave back as much as he took to the tabby bastard before he fell. How he lived, he couldn't tell you, because he would not have sparred the other and he doubted that mercy would be granted him as well. Foolish. He'd pay for not finishing the job. The dark tom sucks in air like he's drowning, before trying once more to heft himself upright and only managing to brace his upperbody on shaking forelimbs. Good enough, he's off the ground, pain glazed brimstone gaze searching the swarm of blurring dark shapes that were his clanmates, trying to count them desperately, trying to see who lay still against the earth and who was not present. Had they lost anyone? Was there dead WindClanners to be tossed into the gorge within their walls? Was Hyacinthbreath still here? Clearly she had been the reason they attacked, they must have targetted her he was sure. His mind is rolling a mile a minute, he can't focus, but he spots what looks like a familiar spotted form nearby and finds himself speaking without thought, "Cada." Where was his apprentice too-where was Iciclepaw...

---

[Ooc]
-For reference this will take place before cats find Clearsight's body!
​

 

[hyacinthbreath]

Ragged breaths left the femme as the fighting stops, WindClan evacuating away from their camp in favor of not losing any more blood. It felt like a loss to her, the way she struggled with that curly-haired tom. Every time her claws would strike out, they'd get tangled in twisted fur and left her open for more attacks. Nonetheless, she was more worried about the injuries obtained by her clanmates the moment her paws were free. "Smoke-" She calls out abruptly, ears swiveling to the back of her head. As she catches sight of him, laid upon the ground with blood bubbling from his nose. She rushes over then, looks up towards him- can see the panic in his gaze. Hyacinthbreath holds her breath steady as to not choke on a sob at seeing her friend in this state. Her chest dripped with crimson ichor, jaw once again bleeding from the freshly re-opened wound. She hoped it wouldn't get infected.

Smokethroat stands up to walk through the crowd and count heads, and Hyacinthbreath nods in understanding. He needed to make sure everyone was safe; Hyacinth would help with that. She'd make herself useful, even though she knew this was all her fault. If she had just.. Let Juniperfrost go, instead of entertaining his antagonizing.. Instead of letting her temper get to her.

"Stop moving, Smoke. Let us count heads. You rest." She meows desperately, though her voice never raises above a whisper. She can hear yelling in the background, wails of agony and grief. It seems almost primal, the way someone shrieks out in pain. Hyacinthbreath's head swings wildly to look for the source. ​

❝ there are wounds inside me, gaping holes of disconnect.
can you drown inside your own body? can you suffocate within this mind? ❞

 

[BEESONG]

beesong watches through a haze of crimson as windclan disappears on the horizon, flanks heaving and adrenaline ebbing to be replaced by the burning of wounds. he hadn't been looking to join the fight... what good is a healer who's injured and wasting their own herbs? but like hell was he going to sit back and let some windclan scum destroy his entire stock.

yet, despite his best efforts, his herbs lay scattered and some destroyed. beesong doesn't have time to see what's salvageable and what isn't. he doesn't even have time to breathe, because his job isn't over. it's only just beginning. cats are wailing, mourning riverclan's loss. the air tastes of blood and bitter defeat as beesong drinks it in with every gasp. how many are injured? are there any casualties? did windclan succeed in taking an eye for an eye? he mulls over what the answers would be, as he whips around and hurries to gather whatever herbs he could find in the disarray.

where is gloompaw? is she okay?

the questions come without warning, and they pause abruptly. gloompaw... they wish they knew. beesong tries to blink away the burning in their eye as they force themselves to finish collecting herbs. they couldn't think about that now. riverclan depends on them, for better or for worse.

the first cat they reach is smokethroat, bleeding from gashes on his stomach and struggling to keep himself upright. the fool... he's always had a nasty habit of pushing himself to the edge. a trait that beesong cultivates in themselves that they loathe in those around them. they breathe sharply through their nose and chew a couple of marigold petals into a poultice, attempting to apply it to the worst of smokethroat's wounds before pressing cobwebs down on it.

hyacinthbreath lingers, though beesong doesn't hear what she says above the wailing. but his gaze cuts to her for the briefest of seconds, a bitter thought welling to the surface like a wound being reopened. your fault. beesong pushes it far from his mind, gritting his teeth. hyacinthbreath had killed juniperfrost in self-defense. the only one to blame here was sootstar and her warmongering hounds... even if hyacinthbreath had once been one of them, she'd risked her life to defend this clan from her old home's wrath.

"...someone, gather up the worst of the wounded and bring them to my den," they rasp, voice scratching their dry throat. "that includes you, smokethroat."​

 

[QUIETSTREAM.]

CO-COMPARSION IS SLOWLY KILLING ME, I THINK I THINK TOO MUCH​

---

this was the only way she could help. she didn't dare go to the battle. they hid, with the kits, keeping most of them hushed and away from the gruesomeness of the yells and screams of their clanmates. they had to do this. the sound of beesong's voice makes their ears twitch before they managed to skip forward, looking around. they all needed help. they needed beesong, but he was only one cat. what more could he do? quietstream closed her eyes for a moment before moving to help cats, trying to hold them up, and help them walk. their ears remained pinned back, as they tried to drown out the worst of the noises. what in the name of starclan had they'd done to even deserve this?
​

 

[Cindershade]

Voices.

They buzz in her ears, far away—echoes. It's faint and undistinguished. Shrieks, wails, cries—it all surrounds her, growing more rampant and reverberates within her cranium. They all mingle together into one octave, all murmuring as she brims the void of unconsciousness. She fades in—then out. They grow louder and louder, pounding in her mind. Everything is so hazy—so out of focus. A flick of her non tattered ear, a sign of life. She rounds to the point of disoriented consciousness, trying to move her own body but it is weighted heavily. Was something on top of her? A lowly groan passes through scarlet stained lips, her throat is dry and irritated, her voice is even more quieted and gravelled than before. "Hmmmph. Ughhhh~"

What the hell happened to her?

Her limbs stir a bit more, muscles screaming in protest for her to lie still—to rest. But she can't. She has to move and tear herself away fully from her subconscious, slowly rolling her body over onto her chest. The movement instantly has her dizzy, nauseated, and wanting to wretch anything that was in her stomach, bile and all. She feels as if shes been kicked in the head by a horse and somehow managed to live. The voices still ring out around her, this time slowly pinpointing into different sounds. Various tones, words, syllables. It pieces together in her mind, bit by bit as she rouses farther into the real word. Jolts of throbbing pain pinpoint to the right side of her cranium, it's heat burning the side of her face. What the hell happened to me? Her thought process remain foggy, unable to process the correct information to piece together the events that transpired to her getting knocked out.
Cindershade finally braves it, finally opens her eyes and the moonlight hurts. She squeezes them back shut, wants to backpedal into the darkest hole she could find. Now's not the time. So she tries again, slower this time, finally opening her gaze to the ensemble happening within their home. As if she had taken another hit to back of her head, it all comes back to her at once. WindClan had invaded their home, pillaged their dens and attacked in the dead of night. She had fought with Tigerfrost—that bastard must've dealt a final blow to her head. Both lead warriors had exhausted themselves to the point that they could hardly stand, dealing blow for blow in a chaotic dance of tooth and claw. The sides of her neck are torn to ribbons, still bleeding slowly as it seeps down her shaded form. Her ear is torn, the feeling is unnatural and it stings all the same. Crimson ichor smothers her black form, matting once glossy fur with a mixture of dirt. Her belly and chest are coated in it, but no wound resides there. It seems it wasn't only her blood that dried onto her body, but also Tigerfrost's. He came to find out her strength, her will, and her ferocity. She remembers tearing into his hide more than once, leaving gashes that would scar him for life. Just like he's done to her. Anger flares through her as she thinks of him— She had almost had him, had went to deliver the final blow—

But she failed.

He had one final burst of energy, connecting to the side of her skull and slamming her hard onto the blood-soaked clearing. Leaving her there to die and bleed out, but he wasn't so lucky. She lived. Hazy eyes slowly trace acorss the clearing and a pit in her stomach churns. Were they still here, lying in wait? Was there more coming to try and finish them off? They had dealt a second wave of WindClanners, would there be a third? Her heart begins to drum against her rib cage, a small wave of fear settling in her gut—a fear she could not rid herself of. A fear that she had failed her clan and failed to protect them. The rosetted molly begins to move, stretching rigid limbs and hauling herself to a sitting position. Again, she feels dizzy; as if caught in a whirlpool and unable to escape the current. She nearly falls back over, hanging lopsided before catching herself. The warrior can hardly hold her head up, but she does anyway and fights her own vertigo. "Where—where are they? Where's WindClan?" She pants out finally, her voice coming in short bursts. "They'll—They'll be coming back! We have to be ready—"

Tldr; Sorry it's long! But Cindershade is badly injured and coming back from being knocked out from Tigerfrost. She's still bleeding pretty heavily and is trying to get up but she's uh—got a concussion and is very dizzy.
​

[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[DARTERWING]

(=^･ｪ･^=))ﾉ彡♡ — Darterwing is far from severely wounded. Especially in comparison to her limping and bleeding out clan-mates all around her. The guilt of a warrior swells up inside of her, as foolish as it was she wishes too that she shared their pain and conditions. She got out with several scratches while they lay on the ground, could she have done more…? Had she not fought hard enough?

Darterwing represses her insecurities, no, this was silly thinking. RiverClan cats needed strong warriors to hunt and protect the clan, she should be thanking the stars that she got away with a couple of gashes.

Darterwing is padding around camp now, trying to gauge the wellness of those she crosses paths with. She stumbles into Quietstream. who had been in the nursery protecting the young, she too is helping whoever she can. ”Is everyone in the nursery okay? They didn’t break through- did they?” StarClan if any of their kits had been touched… she frowns, not even wanting to think about it. Shortly after the warrior answers her the sounds of a distressed Cindershade call out. The poor she-cat can hardly get up onto her paws, but she has a point… How can they be certain yet another ambush won’t come? They tricked them into victory once, why wouldn’t they again?

”I’ll go survey the outside of camp, make sure they don’t came back… If they do, I‘ll let everyone know.” Darterwing looks to Cindershade, to Smokethroat, to any other authority figure in sight for a nod of approval. For now she stands at the dark-furred molly’s side offering a shoulder of support, though she wonders if it’d be better Beesong comes to her. — tags​

 

[CICADASTAR]

their camp is decimated. spatters of blood and fur are scattered over the sandy clearing. his body aches, but tight muscles keep him low to the ground, all sharp edges and jutting bones. blood douses the monochrome of his pelt, curls torn and tufted haphazardly from his body. compared to the majority of his clan, to the battered state of his lead warriors, he is relatively uninjured — only shallow cuts and stings, bruised in his back where he had dislodged the dirt - smelling warrior that had distracted him long enough for an apprentice to come to weaselclaw’s rescue.

smokethroat had yet to wake despite shallow breaths. he’d been lain protectively over him since scorchstreak had drawn her claws to his throat — a mishap on his part, a stupid mistake. if he has delivered the killing blow, if he’d only bitten down on that damned calicos neck when he had them pinned. when she was howling beneath him, dribbling blood from the ribbons he’d torn into her back, it would have been so easy. if he’d only finished it then, could he have gotten weaselclaw? could he have put that mange - ridden moorlander to his grave, finished off what his beloved had started. it would have been revenge, then. before he’d layered himself over the black tom’s supine body and felt the shallow pulse of breath fluttering against the underside of his ribs. before the molly had given away his state, still living. would he have ended tigerfrost’s life, as well? his rage has spread, mourning for a life not yet taken, grief red-hot and blinding. if they’d not known his weak point, by some miracle had not singled him out — how had they known? was he that obvious?

the only good windclanner is a dead windclanner, a mantra. a back in forth, tick - tick - tick of thought, swirling in his mind like a leaf from a tree. the only good windclanner is a dead windclanner. the moorlands were a cesspit, an open grave full of dead - eyed cats easily mistaken for overgrown carrionplace rats. the tabby’s alabaster face had been painted in crimson and that was how it should stay, expression forever twisted into agony. he wanted to go now. he wanted — he wanted, the biting need to storm their territory and pick them off one by one, before they had the chance to gather themselves and lick their drooling wounds. pallid eyes stare down at bloodied paws, clumped with viscera that would run the river pink. how many windclanners would it take for the dilution to yield? how many would it take to darken it red, throats seeping into the depths, floating beneath the bridge they had taken towards their temporary camp? he wanted to go, to drag them by the scruff to the gorge and listen to their howls taper once water finally floods their lungs.

cada.

smoke - laden and gruff, a tone like the pebbled shore, gravelly and tinged with pain. it breaks him from his stupor, leaves his head spinning as his mind struggles to catch up with the sudden break. it’s like breaching water — coming up for air, startling him to the present. his head shoots up, thousand yard stare narrowing to focus on his mate. he is trying to lift, trembling visibly in stocky, well - muscled arms. beesong is already moving towards him and it’s that which spurs him most : a violent lurch upward, nearly skittering towards his mates side to reach his side. the don’t touch, don’t touch that wells in him is feral, burning in his vocals, but he knows beesong has to. they have to touch him. they have to, “ smokethroat. “ their own language. his tone is heady, spoken through a click of his throat. he says nothing but his name but it is more, rides a breath of relief heavy enough. perhaps formal to the untrained ear, but is was his name. he would carve it into the trees around them, engrave it into every twig, slice it into the ground until all he knew was his name. it had been a solemn silence he rested in, so frozen in stasis — but smokethroat was alive. he was alive, and he was struggling to lift himself, stubborn as a bullfrog. a good sign.

he swallows hard, lowers his head to sniff gingerly, half expecting the too - familiar reek of infection to be hidden deep beneath the thick iron scent. it isn’t there. not yet, his mind supplies, ever helpful. there is blood bubbling at his nose, a trickle at the curve of dark lips. beesong is coming, maw full of herbs he fights not to twist his nose at.

the mottled phantom instead attempts to brush the bridge of his sloped muzzle against smokethroat’s cheek, careful to avoid the injuries that drip horribly through short, dark fur, “ listen to hyacinthbreath, lie and let beesong do their job. “ a murmur, firm despite the edge of tenderness it holds. there was always a tenderness there, a soft spot he cradles close to his chest — a tenderness windclan had scraped out of him, hollowed out and used to protect the mange - ridden creatures soot called warriors. they were no more warriors than the rogues that skirt their outlands, a band of ragged, pitiful beasts she tried to shape into clanners. they never would be. like the many that had left her in disgust, they would as well. starving hounds will flock to whoever feeds them well enough, and her hills would run dry soon enough. the former lead of windclan stands nearby, one of the first of many exiles, one marred already by her claws and who had put a windclan trespasser rightfully to his death. she had fought valiantly, defended her newfound home twice now — had fought alongside them thrice, claws splaying at the scavenging windclan scum that had infiltrated skyclan’s camp. she is close, and pale blue eyes flit to her briefly.

hyacinthbreath. the catalyst to all this — but if she had not taken the tom down, what would have been done? he would have taken from them, prey if not a life of his own. what had he been planning? windclan didn’t need a reason for violence, they’ve shown ; he could have been scoping for their attack for all they knew, and was stopped short. soot had claimed she pulled him across the bridge, but it was a pitiful excuse. why would she want to do that? why would she have wanted anything to do with the scum that lie just beyond the cobblestone path? why had he been alone, even for that brief moment where his clanmates could not save him? it was all too suspicious — and she is frantic now, worried over the battered tom lying bleeding beneath their medic’s careful paws. it doesnt seem to be an act. she is battered, over-exerted, and his attention turns back to the gash that layers his mate’s chest. it would scar, some sort of sick play on the mark that stretches over hyacinth’s chest. mangled. beesong is there before he can say more, is moving at speeds rivaling his namesake. busy, busy.

it’s then that cindershade awakes, and his ears perk, attention snapping upward at the groan she utters. darterwing is already moving to her side and he is thankful, grits his teeth as her voice lifts, “ we sent them running. they’ve fled back to their handler with their tails tucked. with any hope, they’ll bleed out on the way back. “ he growls, claws still unsheathed beginning to dip into the blood - spattered sand underpaw, “ they attacked us in the night over a trespassing fool. “ he snarls, whips his head around towards the warriors that mill about their damaged camp. no, they wouldn’t get away with this. they would not. they’d gotten away with too much, for far too long. it was time for them to get what they deserved, “ they attacked us while we slept, but riverclan will never fall to the paws of such disgraceful mutts. ” they wouldn’t be back so soon. they’d sent nearly the same set of warriors to skyclan, sent them whimpering home too. they relied on only a few bloodthirsty dogs. next time, they’ll go to them.

his gaze finds cindershade, “ so rest. “ perhaps it’s ominous, but he does not elaborate. instead? he clears his throat, “ you all fought well — you all did the best you could, windclan knew well they couldn’t win a fair fight against us. they have abandoned their honor just as the stars have abandoned them. “ his voice lifts, “ juniperfrost knew the risks of stepping paw over our bridge. he got what he deserved, regardless of who dealt the blow. ” you would all do the same for this land. you had all better hope you would do the same.

blue eyes flit towards darterwing as she speaks, lasting only seconds before his head pivots away, an ear twitching in acknowledgment, “ go, check. take the least wounded with you, secure the borders. i want any lingering hare - munchers killed, pick them off if they fall from their fleeing herd. “ he had so much to do. starclan, where to start? his paws are bloody, tacky with drying viscera. he had so much to do, “ i need a headcount. round up the apprentices, quickly. “ his voice is sharp, pointed and cold. he would not put it above those pathetic beasts to take shots at their young, and his gaze finds quietstream amidst the babble. they seem calm enough, and darterwing asks what he intended to — they didn’t break through, did they? surely not. no.. no, they would be frantic, “ the queens — is buckgait alright? “ she was pregnant and showing, and it was very possible that windclan would have no respect for the unborn nor the one carrying them. he didn’t like the molly, plain and simple, but her kits were of riverclan blood. as untrustworthy as she was, she carried their future generation.

− ♱ 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.

​

​

 

[Pinepaw]

"nothing but pain on the edge of a knife"​

Cindershade was awake, finally. Pine had been waiting for his mentor to come to consciousness since Windclan had fled. When she wobbled into a sitting position, the young tabby immediately rushed to her side to help her stay upright. ”I’m glad you’re okay,” he mewed to her, showing his care by supporting Cinder’s larger body with his own. Her blood seeped into his fur, but he didn’t care. Cindershade was alive, and that was what mattered.
​

✦ ★ ✦​

 

[DARTERWING]

(=^･ｪ･^=))ﾉ彡♡ — Darterwing nods, happy to have her leaders approval. Though she detests killing after seeing her clan-mates wounded and half-dead all around her, she would be happy to sink her fangs into any stray WindClanner’s remaining in their territory. ”Any healthy warriors with me! We must make sure the territory is safe, you heard Cicadastar!” StarClan knows she’d need all the help they could get to ensure the land was now safe. The monochrome molly hurries out of their makeshift camp and begins to scout the land.

//out! Would make a thread for fun but since this is very retro now imma let it lie! Still this flavor text was fun— tags​

 

[Redpath]

Redpath lie on the ground unconscious. Covered in wounds with a dislocated leg, she couldn't stand to be awake anymore from pain and blood loss. She had fought as hard as she could, she didnt even know if she won her fight or not. everything was a rage crazed blur. She had pushed herself beyond what she could handle, just to land a few more blows on Jaggedoak. And now, she lay on the ground, beaten and bloody.

She still breathed, body taking respite in it's limpness. It wasn't an easy rest, but it was something. Her fate wasn't in her paws anymore. If she died defending her clan, so be it. She would haunt Windclan from beyond the grave. If she lived, she would still haunt them. Maybe kill a few in an act of revenge. She would never forgive them. Even in her slumber, she craved their blood.

She wouldn't be happy until the land and river ran red with Windclan blood.
​

 

[hyacinthbreath]

She can feel the eyes on her as she moves, Darterwing's command that any healthy Warriors come and join her. Hyacinthbreath turns to bow her head to Cicada, expression schooled into one of stoic anger, before she turns and rushes after Darterwing to join the patrol. If needed, she'd kill another WindClan cat- she hoped she'd never have to unless it was Sootstar herself, but she would. Her loyalty had been proven in these moments, but she needed to prove that it wasn't a mistake to take her in. Hyacinth wasn't a mistake. She was a RiverClan cat, dwelling by the lapping aquamarines. Just like everyone else here was.

"Coming!" She shouts after Darterwing, disappearing into the fronds. He wouldn't regret this. He wouldn't. She couldn't afford to be thrown out like she had been before by the Queen of the Moors. ​

❝ there are wounds inside me, gaping holes of disconnect.
can you drown inside your own body? can you suffocate within this mind? ❞

 

[willowroot]

( ☾ ) exhaustion permeates every aching muscle of the shadow furred femme as she bounds back from where windclanners have fled, destroying their meager camp wall in the process. anger still sits hot in her belly, not satiated despite the beating she gave to the hare-runners' deputy. his blood lingers on her tongue, cloying iron scent thick on her lips as she takes in the scene. debris from destroyed dens flies everywhere, along with sickly dark crimson pools, blood of enemies and friends alike already drying in the cool night air. willowroot's scratches and bites sting, but not as bad as the wounds she sees around her. cicadastar drapes himself protectively over smokethroat, darterwing and hyacinthbreath disappear out into the marshlands, and cindershades bursts out with cries of confusion as she awakens.

the lead warrior makes their way over to her fellow, offering a shoulder for the wounded to lean on. "cin, you've got to rest. come, let me help you to bee's den," she coaxes, only a tinge of worry leaking into her tone, even though she feels it permeating her entire body. "you all fought well," she raises her voice now, "let beesong help you! i will hunt each injured warrior down myself if you don't report to bee yourselves." it's a fierce declaration of love to her clanmates. ​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )