to dust or to gold || twoleg dog attack

Sep 11, 2022

//ayo cw for canon-typical injuries and fear of death

➵ He's not assigned to a patrol this evening. But fucking stars, he needed something to do.

His day had been lovely, but still anxiety thrummed in his chest, urging him to do—something. Get up, move, stay alert.

Clayfur had fallen asleep beside him earlier, drifting off while they shared tongues in the afternoon sun, brown tabby fur resting soft against blue. When restlessness started to prick at Clearsight's paws, he'd slipped away, nudging Clay into a more comfortable position as he did. He was seized by the urge to wake him, just for a moment, a quick goodbye—a kiss and murmured affection.

Clearsight brushed it aside, not wanting to disturb his love's rest.

That had been... an hour ago, at least. He's been prowling the territory alone, half-heartedly hunting, but mostly just walking; hoping to clear his head.

If they'd been upwind, he'd have caught their scent soon enough to run. Or maybe if he'd been less distracted, more himself, he'd have noticed anyway—he'd have heard them sooner, or caught sight of their movements and bright colors from afar.

Instead he hears and smells too late—the stench of twoleg and something less familiar—the sound of something massive crashing through the underbrush, two sets of yowls ringing in his ears. Clearsight whirls around, ears twitching, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound—fuck, which way does he run—but he hardly has half a second before a beast is bounding out of the reeds, wide maw showing off gleaming teeth, a dog.

The twoleg kit's dog.

Shit. Shit. Clearsight tries to turn, to scramble away, claws digging into the dirt for traction. But the dog is fast—faster than its master, and faster than Clear.

A heavy weight crashes against his back, and a sharp cry of pain is ripped from his throat as he's slammed into the ground. He barely feels the sting of the hound's claws against his skin, so rattled by the impact.

And then that second yowl comes closer—his heart nearly stops—if this is one of the grown twolegs, he's dead.

He's going to die.

He struggles in the hound's grip, but it growls (a playful growl, not that he'll recognize it) and digs in harder, wet nose snuffling at his neck. Clearsight grunts in pain, eyes shut tightly, and thinks of of little Gillpaw, brave and eager. He thinks of kind Willowroot, gruff Smokethroat, playful Coast.

And Clayfur. Stars above, Clayfur. Tears prick sunlight eyes and he prays that if there's a body left to find, it won't be Clay who finds it.

Heavy footsteps shake the ground and the yowling comes closer—

And then the pressure is gone.

Clearsight gasps for air, staggering to his feet and taking off in the closest thing to a sprint he's capable of. He makes it a few fox-lengths, taking cover in a patch of reeds closer to the river, sinks to his stomach—risks a glance back and finds that the hound's been recalled to its master. The twoleg kit.

Clearsight shuts his eyes and sags with relief.

He stays hidden in the reeds until the twoleg and its dog leave, shuddering with relief when they turn away from the direction of camp. He has no idea what they'd have done otherwise. He mutters a quick prayer of thanks to the stars and turns his attention back to himself.

The sun's last rays catch on red liquid that seeps from his shoulder, puddling on the ground at his paws. Clearsight blinks blurry eyes, his vision fuzzy with shock. Blood. He's bleeding.

It doesn't look like... much blood, does it? Not a dangerous amount. (Not a body's worth that leaves icecap eyes empty.) Still... some though. Definitely some. Yeah.

Stars. That was—that was awful. He should... he should go back to camp now.

But maybe he'll just take a second first.

He's already lying low to the ground, half-hidden by the reeds. He slumps, lying his head on his paws, blood trickling down his side and adding to the red stain on the ground. He'll be alright, he'll be fine, he just needs—just a second.


& we've all got battle scars ✗

// tl;dr the dog nabbed him and he got an owie and now he's just kinda lying there bleeding (in his defense, shock is a hell of a drug)
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Distant yowling and dog barks brought him forth, his brows furrowed in distinct confusion- only for him to stumble across a bloodbath. "Loverboy..?" his voice catches in his throat, blue eyes widened in surprise, in shock, in.... He scrunches up his nose as the scent of blood finally hits him like a bomb. Thats when the severity of the situation hits and her friendly little act drops.

"Hey, man, stay awake for me," she gurgles out as she rushes over, attempting to hold his head up with her paws. "Oh, geez, loverboy, you took quite the hit," he babbles out with a twisting stomach, trying his best to keep himself composed in situations like this. Why had it been him to stumble across this? He swallows and for a second he swears he can almost taste the blood on his tongue.

"YOU!" his voice is frantic now, strained as he whips to a stunned warrior who had stumbled upon next. "Get Beesong, now," he wastes no time with nicknames. Rosemary has been dropped from his tongue for Beesong. He watches as the warrior runs off and he takes deep breaths to stabilize himself. "Hang in there, alright? Things are gonna be alllllll good." he tries to force a smile, attempting to press down on any major wounds he could find and had the paws to handle. His hearts going a mile a minute.


Gillpaw's supposed to be in his nest, he knows this well.

But, the black and white tom finds himself restless. Not for the reasons that he was restless not too many nights ago - excitement over becoming an apprentice keeping him awake - but rather, something else. Something worse.


Nightmares of the strange noises that had been ringing through RiverClan's territory. Nightmares of Ashpaw getting hurt again. Nightmares of everyone else getting hurt, too.

So, he sneaks out the way Ashpaw had shown him, snowy paws walking along the river. Though he is tired, he stays alert, for any noise would be a reason to race back to the safety of camp.

Gillpaw is yet to hear a noise, though, something else soon hits his senses - the smell of blood. The tom's eyes go wide. Someone was hurt! His pawsteps speed up, frantically searching for the one who was hurt. He needed to make sure they were okay! He needed to make sure he could get them to Beesong!

His pawsteps stagger to a stop when he finds the source of the smell. Gillpaw doesn't know what he was expecting, but he knows he wasn't expecting to see Clearsight in a pool of his own blood. The sight is terrifying - Gillpaw isn't even sure if he's alive.

"C-Clearsight...?" he squeaks out, hurrying forward to try to see if the warrior's okay, if he's still breathing, "Clearsight!"

He's so focused on his mentor, that he almost misses Coast. That is, until the warrior whips around and shouts at him to get Beesong. He hesitates - he wants to stay here with his mentor! But, Clearsight needs help, and Gillpaw knows help won't come unless Beesong is alerted. So, the tom nods, racing back to camp as fast as short legs could take him.

"B-Beesong!" he shouts as he barrels into RiverClan's camp, "H-Help! C-Clearsight! He... H-He's hurt!"

He hopes Beesong hears him. Clearsight couldn't die. He just couldn't.
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Stay awake for me, and paws on him, holding him up? Clearsight attempts to shift away. "I'm fine," he assures her, though it might've been more convincing if his voice were steadier. Then there are more words that blur together in his ears. Her familiar singsong keeps him present, at least.

Then there's Gillpaw's scent, Gillpaw, his little apprentice—he can't be out here, not while Clear's hurt, what if there's danger? Clearsight needs to get to him, but then Coast is shouting and Gillpaw's running and—

A flash of urgency, nearly anger, has Clearsight struggling to his paws, slipping on the bloodied grass. "Don't—shout at him—that's my k-ki—"

He cuts himself off with a hacking cough, and blood dribbles from his mouth. That can't be good. The blue tabby slumps against Coast, leaning on him. "I'm... fine," he repeats, in case Coast is worried. He doesn't want to worry him.

Gillpaw has already run, going for Beesong. "I'm fine," Clearsight repeats. The wound in his shoulder might be deeper than he'd first thought. It's certainly bloodier. But he can move alright, he can, he's just resting.

& we've all got battle scars ✗

// ive decided that clear has mild bruising in his lungs and probably a concussion ... plus the claw wounds in his shoulder

he'll be fine tho trust him

Stars above, dark below. He was going to rend every two-leg into pieces, carve his war cry into their flesh through sharp teeth and ebony blades. Were he even a little like he was in his youth he would be making a warpath to them now to deal with; but age had granted him the wisdom of understanding when even he was outmatched. They have sticks of fire that cried with the sound of storms, dogs at their heels and murder in their eyes. Even he wasn't so reckless, but it certainly was a struggle to keep his paws planted here rather than race to the place he knew their den rested and cut a swathe through their unfurred hides.
Smokethroat appears alongside Coast, his eyes burning in silent fury as they move from Clearsight's bloodied form to Gillpaw rushing back to camp with swift abandon; what a good kid, what a fast child-he'd being Beesong in no time. Despite this, he moves opposite of the other dark cat to the tabby's free side to offer his own shoulder; wedging the blue tom beneath the two of them where he would be able to stand easier.
His nose dips down into the swilled patterns of watery blue fur to the gashes there, frowns as he realizes they might be deeper than they look at a glance, but he's no medicine cat and all he sees is blood.
"Easy does it." They would need to keep even more of an eye out now if the dog was being left to roam free without its two-leg guard or tied fast with slim silver wires. It was almost suffocating in RiverClan now, knowing every outing had the potential to end in disaster.