private TO THE SABBATH / COUNCIL

[CICADASTAR]

as it so often did, newleaf brings with it a torrent of rain. thunder rumbles loosely overhead and he takes it as the coaxing it is. an urge, a purr of agreement from ancestors overhead. no violence, they’d said, voices laden with starlight and desperation. no violence, spread like the creeper vine. one, two, three, four, five. the heavens had been wrong before — honeytwist, cinderfrost, dandelionwish, boneripple. briarstar, emberstar. they’d taken lives as quickly as they’d given them, took lives they didn’t even need ( clearsight — he thinks of clearsight, blue - swirled tragedy. golden eyes haunt his dreams. ) yet she remains. moorland rat, tiny blue molly, either a beast or their master. she’d survived this long. how? by dumb luck? a slightest moment of hesitation, a slip of the paw from above. a near miss. another mistake. perhaps it took a mortal to take the lives of an astray devotee, perhaps starclan’s divine paws could not touch such evil.

cicadastar did not miss. he did not make mistakes.

his mate had taken up patrol duties, his fellow leads taking up the majority of work he did not handle with himself. responsibility seemed to overflow thin paws, slipping through sharp, ivory toes like riverbed sand. how much more could he take? how much more could any of them take — beaten to the stars and back, despite giving as good a fight as they’d been given. the sun rises and falls and with each passing day, they grow stronger, but beesong had yet to give them the okay to leave the confines of their herbal prison. it was no matter. the cinnamon tabby would need to be present — his mind was a cesspit of misery, of fear - turned - rage. rain falls light around him, a gentle haze wrapping around thin, knobby ankles as he trots towards the medicine cat’s den. how his council would respond, he knew little . . but it was the only way. he knew it, knew it deep in his heart — thunder bursts overhead. it is approval.

the mottled leader slinks into their temporary den, head lowering upon his long, thin throat, " you know what this is about. " it’s no lead up, but there was no need, ” the moorlands are a mass grave of walking dead. nothing good has come of letting them sit idly by, itching for a fight. “ the river phantom lifts his head, blinks rapid against the dim lighting. his most trusted warriors still lie healing, but they were vulnerable the more time they lost to uncertainty. they will rest, but as soon as their medic gives the word.. pale eyes flit to the cinnamon tabby, ” not only did they attack us in the night, in our camp.. they stole our herbs. stars at my side, i will get them back or i will take my share from their stock, should i have to pry them from their locked, dead jaws. i have let this infection fester long enough. “ eyes narrow. soon. soon, ” we will be retaliating. “ he has taken it easy on them for moons too long, ” let thunderclan roam the stones for now — i’ve no doubt we can run those mouse - munchers from our land the moment we’ve recovered. my priority lies across the gorge. “

as newleaf thaws the lands, the stones were still too cold for sunbathing more often than not. what prey lie there was nothing compared to the riches deep within their rivers — so no, no. his attention lies on the moors, across crashing waters, roaring falls. nosy, dirt - smelling creatures. he settles simply, perks his ears to accentuate his words, the inquiry that passes fleeting over his bicolored features — thoughts?

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i. @Cindershade @Smokethroat @Snakeblink @BEESONG @willowroot.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

​

 

[Cindershade]

The fierce white light of lightning illuminates the bracken-woven medicine den in a fierce light, near blinding her before dissipating just as quick as it came. Cindershade had silently observed the rolling of thick clouds, blotting out the sunlit rays and blanketing their territory in a cloak of dreary shadow. Thunder rumbled in the distance, like the mighty drums of war and the pounding of her own heartbeat from before. She was still recovering, still healing. But, her wounds had made great lengths in closing—scabbed and itching now. It had taken great self-restraint for her to not scratch at them to relieve it, to reopen the festering half-healed lacerations along her neck and shoulder.
Sheets of rain soon cascaded upon them, the steady sound of splattering droplets pounding hard against the grassy clearing nearly lulled her into a doze. Her solemn gaze grew heavy, the cusp of sleep edging her body to rest until a looming form enters the mouth of the den. She's a bit taken aback at first, eyes blinking rapidly to make out the sharp features of Cicadastar that stood before them. Icy pools bear a wild hatred and rage in their depths, unforgiving and cruel like the ice caps over the rivers not so long ago. He's heavily soaked from the rain, usual ringlet curls and clung desperately to his thin frame. "Cicadastar?" She murmurs, a surprise edging her rasped voice as he enters and settles his sodden frame onto jutting haunches. You know what this is about, he states. The lead warrior nods, her mouth sealed as he begins his declaration, claiming that WindClan had construed enough calamity already. She nods her head in agreement, her glancing towards the others as they all listened to his words. An infection they were, the Oriental described and she shifts within her nest now. Antsy—restless. How she wished her body would recover quicker. How she vowed that she'd not take a loss lole that again, that her own vengeance would be upon her and whoever laid in her wake.

A time for retribution was soon upon them.

Chartreuse eyes narrow, nearly glowing in the dim light as another flash of lightning takes over them before succumbing back to darkness. Cicadastar's accent voice too booming for the rolling thunder to drown out his words. A retaliation he wants, and she finally sits up from her nest to look at him properly as he settles. Cindershade mulls over his words, her own ivory tinted claws tapping at the moss lining of her nest whilst her tail twitched. "I agree." She begins, eyes flitting towards the others before continuing on. "If they want to attack in the dead of night so quickly, let's give them a taste of what it feels like." Brewing rage stirs within her chest, spreading warm licks of flames down her limbs as she spoke. "I've been wondering about something while recovering—and I wanted to bring it up to you all for your advice." She had been scheming for this past few weeks, left to nothing but being trapped within the clutches of her mind. It's possible it could work and give them quite the advantage to seal the deal, albeit it'd take help from a few others and she was not so sure they'd be inclined to help. But they had to try. She clears her throat to ready herself, though she would wait for the others within the concil to speak their minds as well.
​

[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[SMOKESTAR]

Smokethroat’s tail twitched, lashed behind him where he sat with his head dipped and expression sullen; patrols had been dealt with despite the pain in his stomach that clenched tighter and tighter as the wound from the battle finally mended-it felt like he’d eaten something rotten and horrid, that he wanted nothing more than to sleep until it stopped being such a hindrance but no rest for the weary nor the wicked it seemed.
Single sunset fire gaze landed on the wedge-shaped head poking into the den and his tail gave a light twitch of restrained delight that went no further than a faint smile until it faded into one more morose and uncertain; he was here to let his battle cry begin, of course. He expected no less. A brief glance to the side hid the worry fretting at the back of his mind, recalling how he’d nearly let slip to Clayfur his concerns of the tom seeming so paranoid driven and different with each life lost, even those not his own. Smokethroat wanted to bring it up at some point, but he’d never been good with words when it mattered. Instead he withheld a sigh and focused on the matter at paw.
“...I agree. ThunderClan is a little fish in the pond…” But WindClan was a great bottom feeder, sucking up everything it's greedy mouth could until there was nothing left. It had to be dealt with.
If he was meant to temper Cicadastar then the disappointment would be palpable. He had no such interest in snuffing out the flames, he only wanted to fan them to burn hotter because he was in complete agreement that blood had to be paid for what those rats had done. If they liked uneven playing fields so much then perhaps a taste of their own morally lacking strategy would suffice. He wanted the moorland to run red, he wanted their egotistical queen crushed and stamped out like her very namesake and more than anything he wanted Weaselclaw to watch him do it before he ripped both his eyes out and left him to live blinded and alone. The dark tom and simmered angrily for some time, but kept cool and collected outward; his lone orange eye sweeping across the council present and noting the missing gaps in their numbers. Buckgait, nursery bound, disgraced, demoted. Gloompaw missing, perhaps dead, who was to know-their search parties had found nothing of her, not even a scrap of fur. The only reason he was even being as calm as he was presenting was due to Beesong, that their healer did not need more to fret over was obvious and he would not add to it but the scar on his stomach had long since closed and the one now prominent on his chest was just a bitter reminder of their loss and his failure. He’d healed enough, Smokethroat wanted retribution, wanted to whet his claws on WindClan bone.
“Perhaps we take some ideas from their own wretched plans. Did they not have their own intel as to the location of SkyClan’s herbs? Hyacinthbreath could lead us right into their hollow to strip it clean, but what I’d want is most of their able bodied to be elsewhere at the time. If we could pull a large enough border patrol’s attention somehow we could keep them out of the way. We could leave a wound that will bleed for days…”
A glance stole to Cindershade with a careful narrow and tilt of his head, plotting was she? He'd be unsurprised. If there was anyone angrier than him a being unable to retaliate against those moorland rats it was the rosette molly next to him; RiverClan's river moved in a gentle glide but its warriors burned with a raging fire that not even its serene waters could douse. They wanted war.
​

 

[Snakeblink]

MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————​

Thoughts brew in Snakeblink’s head like a storm, echoing the savage weather that rages over them. Rain batters down on his back as he slithers after Cicadastar; even though he’s drenched to the bones, he’s too preoccupied to pay it any mind or notice his own shivering. He’s not fool enough to ignore the meaning of this private gathering: this can be nothing but a war council, and the distant din of battle already (again, so soon after—) fills his ears at the thought. Still, he says nothing, blindly following his leader into the temporary medicine den.

His eyes are intent on Cicadastar’s bicolor pelt until the shadows swallow them both. As usual his eyes refuse to adapt to the dim light, but Cicadastar easily plays the role of beacon in the dark. The star-lit white of his pelt guides Snakeblink to the heart of the den, and he limps but doesn’t stumble. Bright flashes of light illuminate the den in bursts, throwing everything in sharp relief: the shining wetness of rain-slick rocks, the long shadows and burning eyes of figures crouching among the moss of hastily-made nests. Then the light recedes and Snakeblink is left blinder than before, waiting uneasily for the rolling growl of thunder that follows in its wake.

The air smells of wet fur, the dirt-like tang of old blood, and the bitterness of herbs. Underneath that medicinal scent linger that of the wounded and their caretaker: if Beesong is hard to find among the cloying floralness of the herbs they work with, it’s easy to pinpoint Smokethroat from the acrid anger that clings to his frame.

Cicadastar’s voice rises in a low rumble that he has to strain to hear past pounding rain and the occasional roll of thunder. He speaks of retaliation, of revenge, of stolen herbs to be regained, and Snakeblink lets his eyes gaze sightlessly at the near-absolute darkness as he focuses on keeping himself still, his expression neutral, his ears alert and immobile. They see him better than he sees them, he knows, and fears letting his doubt show on his face. He is not squeamish, cringing away from shedding blood… but they have already lost Clearsight, many of their best warriors wounded, some nest-ridden. Mounting an attack feels—

Not foolish per say: they cannot afford to let Windclan see them as weak, not when they already descend upon Riverclan territory in all impunity. But it feels risky, and Snakeblink abhors the thought that there is no better solution — that there will be more wounded yet, perhaps even more dead, and that they have no other choice. Like a pinned cat, they must risk to tear their throat open on the teeth circling their neck in an effort to throw off the attacker keeping them down.

He will not speak against Cicadastar; will not plead for restraint no matter how much his coward’s heart begs for it. For loyalty’s sake, he will play along — hoping, at the same time, that Willowroot will do what he’s too afraid to and curb their bloodthirsty enthusiasm.

What they need is to be smarter than Windclan, to make up for their disadvantage. Thankfully Cindershade speaks of a plan — and she is a sneaky one, bent on stealth and covert attacks, exactly what they need. Smokethroat’s seething voice brings his own ideas— and weaknesses.

”They might not be so foolish as to fall for their own tactics,” he muses quietly, looking at what he can see of Smokethroat profile — a golden eye reflecting lightning, a smattering of discolored fur like ghostly remnants. ”Beside, Sootstar leads an army, not a clan: better to hit them with all we have rather than divide our forces. We may be better served by a more covert strategy.”

He shakes his head, both to clear his eyes of droplets dripping down his forehead and to clear his mind. ”We are strongest near the river: this is where we should face them. Let them come to us instead — on our own terms. If only we could get our paws on one of Sootstar’s own brood…” But no, she must watch them as keenly as one of the hawks that haunt their skies. ”But their medicine cat was on our shores a mere few days ago. He’ll be back soon enough to bolster his herb stores; grab him then, pull him on our side of the border, and they’ll have to come face us at the heart of our power.”

Lowering his head, he adds, ”But I can see how that would be… a gamble, and requiring much patience. I’m curious to hear what you had in mind, Cindershade, if you would.”
​

——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely ​

ooc. information.

• 
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 37 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

​

​

 

[CICADASTAR]

they reacted accordingly. they do not draw back, recoil at the idea, and it is all the mottled leader needs. plans latch into his skull, horrible claws sinking deep into the recesses of his mind. the wind outside howls and it ruffles his soaking fur, rivulets of bicolored curls shaping into ringlets as pale eyes found single orange. him first, as pitiful as it was. he searches his face, the expression calm and void of emotion one could easily tell. the lack of anger, or weariness, is enough. despite scanning his mate’s features, it is cindershade that had spoken first. dark molly, verdant eyes aglow amidst the dimly lit medicine den and he finds her, gaze lidded. i agree. i agree, i agree. unsheathed claws sink into the sand underpaw, gouging small holes in the ground he made note to cover before departing. lets give them a taste of what it feels like. he nods, slow and sure. theyve got it. there was no dousing of flames, no placating. they wanted this, they did. his paws itch, exposed claws glinting in the briefest burst of lightning splitting the sky.

then, smokethroat speaks. hyacinthbreath. his expression nearly lights, shifting fractionally in the murky dark. the tom stands in his excitement, head low to account for the height of the den, ” yes — yes, of course. “ this was it. why he had taken her in, given her a place amongst his ranks. information. an advantage. the former lead warrior of an enemy clan, exiled and striked out. dishonored, “ she could lead us right in. i knew — ha! i knew she would prove useful. i knew it. “ his body aches still, but adrenaline pulses beneath his skin, fast and burning. they asked why — why! this was why. giddy indignation, it sparks the fur along his spine to bristle, pallid eyes too - wide. he breathes deep, fast through his nose.. hyacinthbreath. hyacinthbreath. oh, he could already imagine the look on soot’s face when the silver molly leads them in. murderer, so - called. she would have another chance in their camp and he hopes she does it again — hopes she tears the pelts from her enemies in the name of a clan that harbored her in their stead. a clan that questioned them, threatened them, for her.

it’s then that snakeblink speaks. a word of caution, monotone and void of the same vengeful desperation. they may not be so foolish. energy boils down, simmers in his chest, " not foolish, no. sootstar is overconfident. her camp has never been attacked — as far as i am aware, it has always been her doing the attacking. " an ear twitches, teeth gritting in his jaws. he was right, raising good points, but the phantom feels himself rationalizing, synapses rapid fire, ” she leads a pack of dogs, raised to scrap — keeps her mutts in line with violence, it’s normal over there, ja? think of that ugly striped thing, the one with the white face. always looking for a way to stand out to their rat leader. who can be the cruelest amongst the cruel? “ the man growls, finally settling down onto thin haunches in the loose curl of smokethroat’s tail. the proximity.. his body warms despite the bite of wind, swirling stormclouds swarming the sky just outside the mouth of beesong’s den, ” they would come running at the first smell of blood, never resisting a fight. smokethroat is right. distracting most of their able bodied, their fighters, so to say.. pulling them towards the riverside somehow. “ his voice trails, lone droplets of water slinking through the tightly - wound weaving overhead and onto his muzzle.

the man shakes his head, dislodges the dampness that collects over thin bicolored fur, ” i wholly believe it would leave their camp open for a second wave to attack, for us to make out with enough herbs to make up for what they’ve stolen. they underestimate anyone but themselves, they’re too bullheaded to think of a dual attack. “ from them, from skyclan. more. they would never recover from their attacks, herb - less and festering like the open wound they were. if even one windclanner perished, it would have been worth it. he mentions sootstar’s brood, and his ears perk, slitted pupils flicking towards the sleek - pelted tabby. his dear friend, his trusted council member, it would be nice. “ it sounds hollow. eyes far away, thoughtful. it would be nice. she had missed the gathering moons ago to birth her litter, they were surely of apprentice age now, yes? he didn’t bother to search his mind for her announcements a moon past, the mere thought of that night clouded by an aching throat and wild, indignant rage.

was he so low to target her children? reeking of horseplace and damnation, a bloodline already cursed. would it matter? starclan had sent their sign — desecrated. would the stars thank them, for ending them before they began? the lead continues, however, and cicadastar finds his gaze snapping up. their medicine cat? the man blinks, chuffs beneath his breath before shaking his head briefly, ” no, not a medicine cat. starclan would never forgive us, and we will not stoop to windclan’s condemnation. “ the moors had kept their own medicine cat prisoner for how long? no.. no, that would not be them. his eyes return to the dark molly just as snakeblink’s does — covet and stealthy, his ears crane forward, almost leaning forward in attention, ” what is it, cindershade? “

˗ˏˋ 𓆩  OOC ✟ VISUAL 𓆪 ´ˎ˗

• i.
  
• ˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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, mated to smokethroat. smells like wet stone & moss.
  ᨒ speaks with a german accent. 43 moons, ages every 50 posts.
  
  penned by antlers​
  
  
• 
  
  
  
• "speech"
  

​

 

[willowroot]

( ☾ ) they have had absolutely enough of medicine den meetings. it's not that they loathe the smell- quite the opposite, they find it soothing, but the number of times they have been called to take part in a hissed conversation within the den is only growing. they grow weary of stooping beneath hastily woven branches. still, it seems to be necessary once again, and so, once again, the charcoal femme follows their leader into the den. sitting with tail wrapped tightly around their paws, willowroot lets their emerald gaze flick between each as the conversation begins. cicadastar bursts with pent up anger, muscles rippling like waves under his smooth coat as he bargans and barters, proposing all out war. his proposal is met with rousing success, bloodlust and fury coating the tongues of fellow leads as they add to the cacophony of twisted plots. all the while, the queen sits, silent, noting each word, filing them away in their brain.

"sootstar is not an idiot," she finally murmurs, tufted ears angled towards cicadastar as she hums thoughtfully. "at least not in terms of battle strategy. starclan damn her, but that molly can think on her paws. there is no doubt in my mind that she is even now preparing for an inevitable retaliation. to pull the same move she herself used on skyclan only moons ago is going to be risky." she blinks, tips her head towards riverclan's medicine cat. "there is also the issue of our injuries. beesong has used many herbs this past moon. is it wise to retaliate so quickly, when their stores are not yet refilled?" she'll raise an eyebrow at her earthen friend, as if prompting his input. "hyacinthbreath will be useful, yes, but she is one of the only advantages we have right now. i want blood as much as any of you, but we must be smart."

she is no war-mongrel, thriving in the crimson of battle, but neither is she a coward. windclan has risen and riverclan must deliver vengeance. "i would like to hear beesong's opinion, and your idea, cin." she will tighten her tail around her paws and blink towards the rosetted femme. ​

( THE LIGHT YOU GAVE ME )

 

[BEESONG]

cicadastar comes into his den like the thunder crashing overhead, all curled lips and gnashing teeth. beesong is already on edge from the storm— loud, booming sound with lights flashing pull unpleasant memories from the dredges of his mind— but cicadastar pours kerosene onto the fire. with fury dripping from every syllable, the cinnamon tabby has to call upon every last ounce of willpower not to flinch away or cower. you know what this is about, and beesong doesn't know which tragedy this is about, because riverclan has seen so many in such a short span of time. windclan, clearsight's death, thunderclan. at the very least, he has a guess... but he nods, keeping his distance from cicadastar and his tongue dutifully in line behind his gritting teeth.

they are not left guessing. cicadastar confirms what they feared, that windclan is a blight on the land that needs to be exterminated. the concept of war has never been one that is easy for beesong to swallow; not when they were a soldier in the pine colony, and not now, as the healer of riverclan. peace is something that their inner child longs for, but the adult that they are now knows better. use words before weapons, in an ideal world, but sootstar would not listen to words. she can only speak through violence. however, to go to war so soon after losing not one, but two battles in the past moon? it seems like a foolish move, even for cicadastar.

the lead warriors are eager to voice their approval, the claws that glint in the flash of lightning overhead begging for retribution. ideas on how to carry out this violent justice are thrown back and forth, ringing in a curled ear almost as loud as the thunder. beesong could spare no such excitement for bloodshed, but he hums, hesitant and only brought into existence to seem agreeable to his leader. willowroot, however, voices his private concerns. his herbs have suffered already from the previous battles. beesong glances over his tensed shoulder at his storage, breathing heavily through his nose. he knows that there wouldn't be enough for a war right now, as it is. but is there any point in trying to reason with cicadastar in this state? the river's king wants to taste moorland blood, and what he wants, he takes.

but willowroot directs the attention onto him, and he's caught in the spotlight.

"...willowroot is right," beesong begins, choosing every word carefully as if the wrong one would bring them harm. "i can't stop you, cicadastar. but i have to warn you; if riverclan goes to war now, before i've had the opportunity to replenish what has been taken... there won't be enough to properly treat all of the wounded. cats will be at a greater risk of infection, and ultimately, of death." beesong narrows their eyes, watching cicadastar to gauge his reaction. "if that's a risk you're willing to take, however... i won't object." oh, but they want to. they don't want more bodies to prepare for burial. cicadastar, however, has an authoritative presence that ties their tongue for the worst. they fear the death of their clanmates, but they fear cicadastar's wrath more. so they force an impassive expression, dipping their head to cicadastar to try and hide the tension in their rigid jawline.​

 

[Cindershade]

She remains stationary during their meeting, rigid and stiff as if a gargoyle sat upon them. The only indication of movement was the slow trace of luminescent eyes, giving each member of the concil her undivided attention. The mention of Hyacinthbreath was named quite often, to lead them into the heart of WindClan and shred it from the inside out. Smokethroat, a warrior forged in scarlet ichor and hellfire, wants to wipe them clean. He mentions first to drive their most able-bodied vermin out of the sanctity of their bracken woven walls. To then lead another patrol in, ransacking their herbs and leaving them scarred like the very ones upon her council's chests; like the very one Weaselclaw so kindly bestowed upon the half blind tom beside her. She met his eye briefly, nodding at him in agreement before another voice interjects. Snakeblink, another looming figure beside Cicadastar, a silhouette in the darkness despite his ivory pelt whose eyes were alight as another flash of lightning spreads like tree roots across the sky. Cindershade listens to his suggestion, and this sitrs a darkness inside of her. Slithering reptile he was, his name fitting, as the lead warrior suggests to bring them back to their land. To use what they knew best to their favor: the river itself. The rosetted woman couldn't help but feel the tips of her dark lips twitch into the finest of smiles; though the darkness swathed her closely and revealed nothing to her corraling clanmates. A covert operation could work, but we'd need a big enough distraction to bring all their warriors out. It would fit within her own idea that had yet been spilled, but she took mental note to use it for when she would speak again.
Cicadastar now nods heavily in agreement about the river, glacial eyes brimming with anticipation. She could feel it in his wording, see his jaw grit as everyone spoke. Then he speaks of the 'warrior with a white face' and she freezes, pupils contracting to thin slits akin to a vipers. Ivory claws slid from their sheaths, gripping at her feather-lined nest as Tigerfrost slithered within his psyche; glowing molten eyes and that grin. That putrid grin that she just wanted to tear off his ugly face and leave teeth and a barbed tongue exposed for as long as he lived. Thunder rolled again in the distance, this time closer, as if in favor to her grim thoughts. "I will split him down the middle." She growls, her voice below a whisper. It was no idle threat, but a promise—a declaration of a vow she had seared upon her scorched heart. A droplet of water falls upon her forehead then, driving her to stir within her nest to shake it off. The roar of rain grew louder, with winds sending it sideways. It brings her nothing but joy, that and all this talk of revenge makes her own self excited from it.
Willowroot is next to speak, their not quite pessimistic words earning a twitch of ivory whiskers in thought. They leaned more of on the idealistic spectrum, grabbing Cindershade by the tail to pull her out of her talk of glory and gore. They made sense. Sootstar would be expecting a retaliation, for she was not only overconfident but paranoid. Sootstar knew Cicadastar well enough, enough to know he wouldn't take a raid like that laying down. There'd be another battle on the rise, and RiverClan was angrier than ever at so much treachery thrown at them. Her tail twitches, listening as Willowroot then brings up the topic of herbs—Beesong had not replenished their stock as of yet with so many injuries. It certainly would be a risk. But, perhaps they could start beforehand. Surely, with them in the middle of New-Leaf and Green-Leaf on the rise, there'd be enough? Her eyes fall to the cinnamon healer, listening to their words as they aired on the side of caution. Her blackened lip twitches once, as if a thorn prodded at her side. It was irritating, but they were right. Would sending their warriors with such a low stock of herbs, would it end up being a suicide mission? The molly opens her mouth to speak, waiting as Beesong finishes and their singular gaze sweeps over their own herb store. "If this plan were to succeed, perhaps we could take theirs." Sne begins slowly, her barbed tongue clicking over the back of her incisors. "Or, we could gather a patrol to help you restock—we could take the time and prepare."
Silence falls upon them all, and now their gaze rested upon her expectantly. She drew their curious stares like a moth to a flame, eager to hear what she had to say. Cindershade suddenly feels the weight of then all, baring down upon her shoulders. She hoped her plan would draw an agreement of sort, it could definitely play a big part within it. The lead warrior shifts, straightening herself and met their eyes with her own. "So, we need large enough distraction to draw out Sootstar's hounds, but without sparing so much of our own warriors. What better distraction than that of her exiles?" Her head begins to trace from one to the other, waiting for anyone to interject before moving on. "I say we gather her exiles together from Two-Leg Place, and if they agree—which I'm certain they will; we can have more warriors who know the lay of the land to mount a big enough attack. They could help distract, acting as if hunting upon their land and drive them to the river—where one patrol would ambush them. Then—another patrol could slip by, to swarm into the remaining rats within their nests. We can outweigh their numbers, we will not be blind-sided with paws that have traversed the moors. I'm sure any type of revenge upon that witch will have them itching to draw blood." And with that, she could concludes her idea. Cindershade stands firm through it all, silently waiting for anyone to speak their minds.
​

[ SILENCE IS DEAFENING ]​

 

[Snakeblink]

MAYBE I'D BE A SAINT IF I WEREN'T ————————————​

Snakeblink's plan is waved off, which is hardly a surprise. For all that Starclan's good opinion means little to him, those like Cicadastar who owes them a few lives already have a vested interest in keeping their starry audience content. He has no such qualms: he may love the dead, but he won't hesitate to displease them if he must to protect his living kin.

Willowroot urges caution, as he expected, and he tilts his head in silent support of her point. Beesong is more open in their censure: his warning has Snakeblink's fur raising on ends. He frowns down at his paws – claws flexing unseen against the cold ground – as the reality of their dwindling stores settles, heavy, on his mind. He would welcome the chance for revenge, but not at the cost of clanmates' lives. Never that.

Then Cindershade voices her idea: using Sootstar's exiles, many as they are, against the cruel leader. Smart – and safer than relying on Riverclan warriors alone. It's a good plan, a clever and cautious one, that he wishes he had come up with himself.

”One must wonder how we might convince the exiles to participate,” he hums, turning towards the source of her voice. Lightning flashes in the distance and faintly illuminates the dark, elegant traits around her gleaming eyes.

”What can we offer them, in exchange of risking their lives against former comrades, friends, and relatives? What price are we willing to pay for their help? Sootstar has loners fighting her battles, but she has welcomed them into her clan, fed them and protected them. Are we willing to do the same?”
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——————————————————————————————————— so god damn lonely ​

ooc. information.

• 
  
• — Snakeblink • he / him. 37 ☾, riverclan warrior
  — a sleek, skinny tabby with long ears and a scar over his right eye.
  — gay, not actually evil, penned by @Kangoo
  
  
  

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