sensitive topics USED TO BELIEVE I'D CHANGE EVERYTHING [ ✶ ] ACCIDENT

[Graypaw]

Tw : death

There are few constants in Graykit's life, the river, the sky, hs family, his friends. Among that group of kits reared in the nursery together is Streamkit. Light blue gray-tabby fur that reminds him of his namesake flashes in the corner of his pale green eyes and he lets out a laugh of pure mirth as he dodges yet another attack from his outstretched paws. "Hah! Missed me again!" he taunts. In only a short couple of days, he would be renamed to Graypaw and he would stake a claim to a place in the apprentice's den alongside his littermate and cousins. Alongside Eveningpaw and Cloudpaw. The excitement makes his limbs buzz with a newfound energy. Energy that he pours into this play-fight.

He's gotten good at these mock spars. All the adults said so. But more than that, he could feel it. Strength. At six moons old, Graykit is long limbs and strong shoulders, he can think quickly, can see the moves the other kits throw at him before they happen. He'll be a good fighter one day, with the right mentor he hears someone murmur softly nearby. His ear flicks, but he gives no indication that he's heard it as he rounds once again to face Streamkit. "You're going to have to try a lot harder if you wanna pin me!" he calls out, an attempt to trick him into attacking first.

It works.

He jumps at him and at the same time he moves, he does too. He reaches out with alabaster paws in order to intercept and for a moment, the pair are locked together in a tangle of forelimbs and snapping teeth. Then he gains the upper paw, he shoves with all his strength and watches as the other kit falls backwards, eyes open wide in panic, in shock. Except, something is wrong. Streamkit lets out a pained cry and then stills. He watches, frozen, as his eyes roll, as his head flops to the side like it is just too heavy for him to bare any longer. "Streamkit?" he says softly, legs trembling as he wills them forward.

Movement. His hungry eyes flicker to it like a moth drawn to a flame and the hope he had felt that Streamkit was okay sputters and dies like an ember extinguished. The smell of iron permeates the air as blood trickles from behind his head. "No no no no no" already tears are filling his vision, and his chest twists with a motion that makes him nauseous. "Help! Somebody- Iciclefang- Help! Please I- I didn’t- he- I- I’m sorry. I’m sorry- please" tears trail through his cheek fur now and crimson stains his paws as he crouches by Streamkits side "Streamkit, please. I’m sorry Streamkit it was an accident I’m sorry please wake up please" but he doesn’t move, and he is not sleeping. His eyes are wide open, glossed over and pointed towards the river. Hes gone.

// @STREAMKIT but no need to wait!
The cause of death was from impact with a rock to the back of Streamkits head when he fell

( ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ) I can feel you leaving

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  GRAYKIT RIVERCLAN KITTEN ; HE / HIM
  LILYBLOOM X LAKEMOON BROTHER TO SNOWKIT
  

  A plush coated kitten with a pelt marbled in varying shades of gray and white. He has dull green eyes and a tall stature. Most of his personality can be described as carefree though some also say that unmotivated is a more than apt term. His trust and love is easily won through praise but he will do little work to receive it.

  ✶ easy in battle + no formal training
  

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[CICADAFLIGHT]

Damp fur clings to the broad plane of Cicadaflight's back as he steps into camp, head hung low and with a pair of plump greenleaf fish in his jaws to show for it; one of them he lets settle atop its glittering fellows on the fresh - kill pile. The other stays pinned between exposed fangs, coating his tongue with a tantalizing taste—but it's not for him, he fully intends to tow the trout over to the nursery as a sort of parting gift to Iciclefang, who should be freed from its confines relatively soon, and their unspoken ritual of his prey - bringing ending with her stay. Heavy shoulders shift with each plodding step, crooked tail dragging behind him, sand clinging to hanging tendrils of black fur.

The quick motions of Graykit catch his eye, and he pauses in his journey for a moment, body a crooked line as he stands with his forepaws pressed close and watches the kitten - spar for a moment. They're a tradition around the nursery, one that's a little bittersweet for him—it had been that first childhood spar that threw the first pawful of dirt for the rift between him and Sandpelt, after all. Sometimes he wonders what it would be like if that'd never happened at all; would he be . . . friends with the tan - furred warrior? Or had they always been destined to clash, to never see eye to eye, some bizarre inversion of star - crossed lovers? Was that a thing, star - crossed enemies?

Somehow he's not very fond of this trail of thought and he flicks tufted ears as if it were an irritating fly, watching as Graykit calls a teasing provocation to his sparring partner, Streamkit—Cicadaflight glances away for just a moment, instinctively searching for a cinnamon - sand pelt—and when he looks back everything starts to go wrong. The pair of kits lunge forth simultaneously, silvery forelimbs locking together as the sound of small teeth snapping can be heard—Graykit gets the upper paw in their grappling—Streamkit goes flying backwards, baby - blue eyes snapping wide—there's an awful crack and a kitten - cry and then Streamkit goes limp, crimson splattering out behind his silver - twined head in a small halo, trickling downwards.

Cicadaflight knows it in an instant, even before Graykit takes up an awful panicked cry—the glossiness of the kit's blue eyes, so animated and full of promising life only a moment before, and the way his small body falls wholly limp in a terrible way that should never, ever be seen on a kit. Streamkit is dead—and for the suspended moment in time where Graykit cries out for someone, anyone, Iciclefang, false memory superimposes itself over the scene of tragedy. Suddenly, horribly suddenly, it is not a gray - marbled pelt hunched over silver—no, black and white bows over soft freckled tan, dripping salt onto a limp body, begging him to wake up.

Oh, StarClan, he thinks faintly, and the reliable sturdiness of his muscled limbs goes weak as water beneath him, weak as the limp roll of Streamkit's small head on his neck—for Streamkit is dead, dead in a kitten spar—something that happened every day—every generation. He had been an avid practitioner of it, brought it beyond childhood into apprenticeship, letting the cold fury in his veins bleed out into Sandpelt's flesh, the kind of brutal ruthless grappling that could have—that should have—ended in the death of someone, just as Graykit's more innocent strength. Dead in a play spar. Oh, StarClan, his mind burbles faintly, weak as thawing ice over rocks, that could have been me.

That could have been Sandpelt, comes a more awful realization, and his duotone eyes find the smaller warrior nearby, boring into him for a moment—as if to assure himself that the cat he so loathes is still present, is still walking this earth with those infuriating cream paws. His swallow bobs harshly in his throat, still half - lost in memory, unsure of who it is that kneels in the timeless tableaux of tragedy, a mimicry in kitten - fuzz and milk - teeth, and for a moment he thinks whatever lingers in his empty stomach might climb back up, as if the acid slick along the back of his throat were some sort of penance, as if spilling his guts now might serve as some awful unspoken apology.

Would that be better or worse? he thinks, and then his heart plummets coldly into his belly in the feeling he'd come to recognize after Cicadastar's grim burial, after Lichenstar's solemn announcement. . . . Why am I sad?

Then his better mind seizes the thoughts with bared claws and shoves them back under the surface, and he's moving, the trout dropped thoughtless and left to pick up sand on the ground behind him. Strength retakes his limbs, pulling him forward on instinct as if to confirm what he already knew. Teeth come together with a harsh click as he kneels by the body for a moment, one heavy paw reaching to gently jostle Graykit, shaking him slightly as if to wake him from a nightmare—stars know Cicadaflight wishes it was. " It—It's gonna be okay, Graykit, it was an accident— " he stammers hoarsely, as if his choked words might console the tearful kit, and he wonders if he's lying between gritted teeth when he says, " It's not your fault. "

A moment's glance confirms that there's no turning back from this—that Streamkit is already gone, but he rises shakily to his paws anyways, trying to think of what to do—what can he do, now, before a crowd inevitably gathers. He wants for a moment to spirit Graykit away from the awful reality of the bloodstained sand, but he knows he can't do that—finally he lurches away from the sobbing boy and towards the silvered bark of the willow, yowling hoarsely, " Lichenstar! Hazecloud! "

When at least one of the two emerges into his field of vision, Cicadaflight winces, swallowing thickly as he realizes now that his hackles are up, curls spiking into spires along the gnarled lines of his shoulders. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to think—but at least one of them surely must, and they can tell him what it is he can do, what he should do. The warrior rasps in panicked summary, " Come quick, please, there's—there's been an accident. Graykit and Streamkit. "

When he turns back, returns to the growing crowd at the scene, his off - hued eyes are fixed firmly on Sandpelt.

OOC : TL;DR – Cicadaflight tried to console Graykit for a moment and then ran to fetch Lichenstar and Hazecloud before returning to the scene.

☆

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[lichenstar]

✦˚.✦˚✦˚✦˚ ✧ ˚✦˚✦˚✦.˚✦

CLAIM THE BURIAL I SEEK IN DREAMS FLOWING RIVER CEMETARY ✧

• cw; ptsd-related flashback, kit death [marked by *]
  
  Every morning that cloudy fur drifts along the breeze to seek enlightenment is a day spent in transfixed horror.... They have no reason to suspect that ill will shall find them the moment Moonbeam departs but there is a gnawing, nagging feeling that twists in their belly saying otherwise- it squirms uncomfortably, steals away their appetite, murmurs in hisses in their head. It's going to happen. But what is 'it'?
  
  Cicadaflight's presence amongst the roots of the willow den stands as a phantom of tragedy.... His voice seems to crack to say their names at all. A feeble thing, like a lamb bleating fearfully in the jaws of a wolf. The lynx point's gait is quickened by urgency, meeting him at the mouth of her den with maw drawn close to his ragged-toothed grimace before drawing around his side to see what the fuss could possibly be about. Graykit's wailing is grating, made shrill by panic. "There's been an accident..."
  
  Out of habit, river-ripple eyes glower up towards the sky; an accident.... Did StarClan even allow for those? What power did they actually have other than to sit by and watch and give half-baked bits of advice when it suited them? The frustration is justified she thinks but simmers quickly to think of who all are amongst those stars- they could not possibly will such things to happen... Not to the clan they once lived in and loved in. Fate is the cruel mistress and StarClan plays the scapegoat most often.
  
  *The young boy howls for Iciclefang, caterwauls his apologies feverishly... Lichenstar moves to investigate only to be caught off guard by the vagueness of her warrior's report. An accident.... did not begin to properly cover it. A too-still body of silvery fur is enough to steal the breath from her lungs- seized by an agony of memory, another too-small tom-kit, wrapped in her arms in the snow. Her limbs feel frozen and stiff, the air suffocating in its milky, minty scent. It is winter again. And there are too many eyes... so many eyes staring at that dead little boy, baring their teeth in disgust behind their pitiful stares. It could've been prevented.... they'd made a stupid, reckless choice and had lost him for it. Everyone knew it... everyone knew it.... everyone saw it.*
  
  *Her paw-steps are sluggish, timid... hesitant... stuck on a pair of baby blue eyes that held no sparkle in them anymore. "...Please... don't be angry..." It's said again, hollow-toned and sick to her stomach. Someone brushes against her and in her surprise, she blinks... and it isn't her son laying on the ground anymore, blending into the chilly weather as it covers him. Streamkit... This is Streamkit.*
  
  She draws in a sudden breath, as if she'd spent all that time drowning, pulls away to look for Moonbeam- She's not here... The weight of the circumstances grow more heavy with each passing thought. Looking towards Graykit, who is beside himself as he insists that his friend must wake up, the words run dry. What do you say in this situation... it was an accident, but an abuse of strength in a child too grown to still be in the nursery. (It's a law now... a code....) He would've been an apprentice for three entire months, had this been a few seasons ago- that had been RiverClan's way for far longer than not. Trying to be rid of that thought is a grapple- one that draws up a flame of fury, being whirl-winded by an empathy that doesn't perfectly match this situation... but it's close enough.
  
  *"Someone get Graykit... away from here- now," her voice is sharp, fracturing with the torrent of mixed emotions. "And keep him away... from his younger den-mates...." Accidents happen.... but this was a dangerous one. He'd be an apprentice soon enough, would be among peers that could hold their own, would be more attentively supervised than by one molly juggling five kits... That would... would have to be good enough. "I.... We...." What were they meant to do...? It wasn't like she knew how to dress a body for its final farewell... would they just... sit here and wait for Moonbeam's arrival once the sun-set? Did they move it to the medicine cat's den, to be stared after by Robinheart for hours on end?*
  
  "Need to... move him..."
• about
  
  speech hex code ✧ #6368A5
  
  ooc notes ✦
  tagging ✶
  penned by tieirlys
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[iciclefang]

The kits in her care are apprentice-aged now, too-big, too-rowdy for the nursery. Iciclefang is in repose outside of the den that has been her home for many moons now, her tortoiseshell brow smooth with nonchalance. The sun bakes her rippling pelt; it gleams from bright blue eyes. The nursery's inhabitants are rough-housing, big-pawed and rambunctious, but she thinks nothing of it — and her eyes are everywhere and nowhere at once.

When Graykit's cry pierces the air, her eyelids peel away from their sleepy center. "Help! Somebody — Iciclefang — help!" She's not heard this note in her nephew's voice before, this fear embedded like bone in fresh-kill. She pushes herself to her paws as rapidly as she's able to, the sleep melting from her expression. "Graykit? Graykit, what's the matter?" She isn't the first to find the situation — regrettably, Cicadaflight is, and he runs to find Lichenstar and Hazecloud, kicking up plumes of sand as he races away.

StarClan, no. Iciclefang's eyes lock onto Streamkit, feeling the warmth leave her body. It's as if a wall of clouds has blocked the sun from RiverClan's camp. She shudders as if she's cloaked in shadow. What have you done? It's an uncharitable thought, but it's one she cannot corral in time before it's unleashed into the world.

The little gray tabby lays limp. His eyes are wide, expressionless, glazed.

Streamkit is gone.

"What —" She stumbles, lost for words. Stars, they'd all been playing! They'd been playing, and she'd dozed for moments, and — and she'd lost them, she'd lost them — "What happened, Graykit? What —" What have you done, but she cannot say this, she cannot lay that on his shoulders; even in her near-hysteria, she knows this —

"Someone get Graykit away from here now," Lichenstar rasps, her consonants sharp as seaglass. "And keep him away from his younger denmates."

Iciclefang's gaze flicks to her leader, lost, dark. Keep him away from his denmates? Just where do you propose we put him? Her lips shrink back from her teeth, but not out of anger — only out of sheer emotion, out of the weight that burdens her now, that burdens her kin.

She wants to shriek. She wants to beg StarClan to take it back, to put Streamkit's soul back into his tiny, lifeless body, but — that prayer has never worked for her, has it? And it will not work for Graykit now.

Stiffly, Iciclefang puts her paw around Graykit. She leans forward and scruffs him, as though he's much smaller than he is, and attempts to drag him backward. "Move away," she commands through his fur. "Do not look anymore. What's done is done. Streamkit is..."

Streamkit is gone.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs to her kin, her blood, to the kitten her sister had entrusted her with. I'm so sorry I wasn't watching you. I'm so sorry, Lilybloom.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Iciclekit . Iciclepaw . Iciclefang, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 26 moons old, ages realistically on the 17th.
  — mentored by Smokestar ; mentoring Pinepaw ; previously mentored Cicadaflight
  — riverclan lead warrior. mudpelt x icesparkle, gen 2.
  — former mate to Stormywing ; current mate to no one.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  sh tortoiseshell and white she-cat with ice-blue eyes. confident, capable, proud, dry, conceited, condescending, distrustful.
  
  

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[robinheart]

Robinheart feels awkward spending more time than needed in the medicine den while Moonbeam is in ThunderClan undergoing her training. On those days she tries to rest near the nursery to keep an eye on her kits, soaking in the blazing greenleaf heat and counting down the days until her full return to the nursery. The tortie has found somewhat comfort in the medicine den after residing there for quite some time, but she hesitates to call it her home knowing soon enough she’ll be back in her true home - surrounded by her children who have been doted on by Apricotflower.

It is a day unlike any other. Robinheart reclines somewhat near Iciclefang, though her citrine gaze drifts to the medicine den to ensure no one enters while it is vacant. A sense of duty towards the medicine cat who has cared for her keeps Robinheart vigilant - no herbs or remedies would be squirreled away on her watch while the white moggy was away. It is most unfortunate that her self imposed duty kept her from witnessing an accident waiting to happen. A kitten spar gone wrong. Maybe if she had been watching she could have reminded Graykit to be gentle - to be mindful of his size. Surely she’d be seen as a party pooper, a squasher of fun, but… things might have gone differently.

The kitten’s cries chill her to the bone. He begs for Streamkit’s life, pleads and sobs, stumbles over explanations of it being an accident. Robinheart stumbles up onto her paws, her hind leg buckling from the momentum. She withholds a hiss, her face momentarily knitting in discomfort before relaxing into concern. Once stable on her paws again she approaches the scene warily. She is okay at hiding her outward emotions but inwardly the queen panics once she sees exactly what Graykit had done.

She panics because that could have been any kit in the nursery. Where silvery pelt lays slowly soaked in crimson ichor could have been pelts of ivory or blue or red. Logic dictates Graykit would not have sparred with a much younger kit but a worrisome queen does not always abide by logic. A kit has lost his life and it was at the paws of his own denmate.

Robinheart cannot look at Graykit. She will not sully his features with the thoughts of murderer. It is better that Iciclefang cares for her ward. The tortoiseshell lead warrior will meet Graykit’s needs with familial love - something Robinheart cannot offer the boy. Instead she looks to Lichenstar. So many emotions swirl within twin suns.

Concern for Graykit, heartbreak for Streamkit, fear of one of her own kits getting hurt or having their lives taken in an instant, confusion over why StarClan would allow this to happen in the first place.

“The medicine den?” She offers under her breath, ears angling back ever so slightly. “I-I can ensure there will be no… no prying eyes until Moonbeam returns,” the queen continues. Her stomach is in knots at the thought of housing a kitten’s body in a place she has made her temporary home. But it was the best option, right? Or at least the least traumatic option they had before them. “I can help you move him.”​

[ penned by kerms ]​

 

[shellpaw]

it’s the wailing that attracts her attention. it jerks her chin from her paws, bleary eyes fixing on the sway of nursery curtain from warriors darting near. it’s a sudden shrill screaming, a pearl string of apologies that lift her to small, pale paws and ushers her near. a kit was hurt, she ascertains with a growing pit in her belly, parting the sedge with her nose, a kit had probably fallen, scraped its nose, and the one who’d pushed him crying for it not to tell. only kit games, what was the worst that could happen in this den, plush and lined with fresh soft moss? if anything, she would pass the visit off as grabbing pinekit for a swim . .

but the air is thick when she enters ; the first thing she sees is robinheart, stumbling upright and locking sideways on her bad leg. she rushed forward to her side, bypassing hesitation born of her nosy, peeping approach. her maw opens to ask if she’s okay, but bicolored features are scrunching in pain and looking elsewhere. past her, as if she isn’t there, and shellpaw finally turns — sees streamkit, lying prone. there is a trickle of vibrant blood running from too small jaws. shellpaw, before she can stop it, heaves a little. a strained grunt, pivoting her neck to the side and burying squeeze - shut eyes into robinheart’s shoulder.

stars alive, she thinks, whispers, prays for nothing and everything in the same whirling thought, stars alive. streamkit was too small to be that still. graykit, too small to be so doused in tears and snot and desperation. lichenstar is there, suddenly, responding to the horrible screaming, the awful piercing cries of a child. of accidents and a sudden introduction to death. they say to get him away from his younger denmates and there is a sudden, slack - jawed revulsion that cuts her eyes towards her mentor ; as if it’s his fault? her mind supplies hotly, screeches in a tone that still only reaches a tense, feathery timbre. as if he would do it again if he had the chance?

her jaw clenches, looking away lest the disappointment in ruddy eyes become clear. robinheart is offering solutions through teary eyes, and shellpaw inhales a shaky breath as she watches iciclefang pull a distraught graykit away. when she breathes out, it is shaking, ” i can help you . . “ prepare him, she cannot finish, but hopes the point gets across well enough. it was a queens job to prepare a body, after all, and iciclefang would be . . indisposed. if she was lucky, she could remember which of moonbeam’s flowers to put in the resting nest ( they were sharp, fragrant ones . . to cover the smell of death, she’d heard once. she supposes that makes sense. ).

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐘 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ° 𓇼 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒

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  SHELLPAW 𓆉 SHE / HER. SEVEN MOONS OLD, APPRENTICE OF RIVERCLAN, MENTORED BY LICHENSTAR ; SMELLS LIKE SALT & RIVER BLOOMS. HAZECLOUD xx LICHENSTAR, NIECE TO SMOKESTAR. PENNED BY ANTLERS ----------------- ° ❀ ⋆
  frail alabaster molly with lilac striping and watery amber eyes.
  
  she is pallid ; platinum splotched with ribbons of dovey lilac curls, wisped ends like memories of a distant shore and plush enough to conceal the juts of malnutrition beneath. tufted elderdown fur conceals a body worn fragile by tumultuous youth, too thin in some places and round with baby fat in others. her face is short - muzzled, framed half mast by eyes coined rheumy, rosen amber. the anemic cold pink - purple at tender paws and nose tell a lifetime of sickness, further made obvious by the feathering weakness in half - whispered tones.
  

  CHRONICALLY ILL ; prone to wheezing, nose at a constant drip from longterm illness - induced nasal polyps. not contagious.

  
  

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[LAKEMOON]

.·:*¨༺ ☾ ༻¨*:·. Her kits apprentice ceremony was on the horizon, and Lakemoon had spent this last moon feeling equal measures of excitement and bewilderment. For her, these last six moons had felt like a breath, expelled in a heartbeat. Though, she was sure Iciclefang felt differently. In between her daily responsibilities, Lakemoon still tried to catch a moment of her kits time when she could to gauge their preparedness, offer advice and support where she could.
The fish in her jaws weighs heavy as the silvery warrior enters the camp, the commotion not having yet registered as she makes her way towards the fresh-kill pile.
It’s the voice of Cicadaflight that steers Lakemoons attention towards the scene as the fish slides from her aching maw, but it’s the hunkered, anguished form of her son that sends her striding over, narrow azure optics falling onto the bleeding body of Streamkit. Thud. The tabby’s heart drops into a pit of ice.
“Graykit-” The scarred molly begins, but her bark for her kits attention is cut short as Lichenstar and Iciclefang arrive, the latter diving into action without a blink. Voices buzz, and Lakemoon keeps her gaze steady on her son, if not to stray to Streamkit. He was just playing.
Lakemoon knew the feeling the taking another’s life, of letting her claws tear open the flesh that kept someone’s soul safe. This was different, though. This was entirely different. Lichenstars order to keep him away from the younger kits earns a lash of Lakemoon’s tail, but when she moves it is only to fully reach Graykit. Coming to Iciclefang’s side after the calico would move him away from the gruesome scene, her feathered tail whisks to sweep loosely around the queen and her kit, Robinhearts and Shellpaws kind offers to aid Streamkit buzzing in the background, tying knots in her belly. “I’m here.” She finally rumbles, voice eerily hollow, “let me, please.” Lakemoon would near plead, please let me try to be what Lilybloom can not. With Iciclefang’s blessing, Lakemoon would move to extend a forepaw to her son, “Graykit, come here.” Gravel-grained voice is softened as much as she can manage.

‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎┌── SMELLING LIKE A BONFIRE ⋅ ࿏ ⋅ LOST IN A HAZE ──┐‎

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  LAKEMOON ☾ she/her, warrior of riverclan, 27 moons.
  ⭃ lanky blue tabby with low white and navy blue eyes and a slightly twisted right hind leg. A large facial scar stretches from her right brow to her left cheek, and another crosses at her chest and stretches down the length of her stomach.
  ⭃ daughter of Tempestmoon && Lilypad ࿏ sister to Wolfwind ࿏ mate to Lilybloom & mother to Snowkit, Graykit
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by Noor ↛ @toyangel on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

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[FERNGILL]

If there was one sickening truth in the world, it was that everything awful always happened so quickly. They were the most terrible of accidents because they slammed into you with the force and suddenness of a lightning-bolt. Bearing the blow was never the hardest part, though; it was the aftermath you had to bear. Through the erupting chaos, the brave face that all the warriors tried to put on while staring down the barrel of something horrible, an accident that should never have happened, Ferngill forged forward- he grouped with Iciclefang, with Lakemoon, with Graykit.

Streamkit, Streamkit was dead. Ferngill felt awful, awful that he couldn't look at the poor kitten, stolen from this world too soon. They'd only been playing, just playing- how, how could this have happened? It was just a game, and now- now, Streamkit's face would dwell foreve behind Graykit's eyelids, the same way the silver Windclanner's shrinking face stayed etched in his.

Keep him away from his younger denmates- Ferngill felt a twinge for what a decree like that might spark in Graypaw, even if he could not fault the turmoil Lichenstar was likely facing right now. Graykit was not a whirling danger, wasn't something that couldn't be controlled- "He didn't mean it," Ferngill croaked out miserably, but it was barely audible, drowned in the din. An emerald eye found his nephew's face, sorrow written there- he was ready to accompany him somewhere, somewhere else.

They'd been playing, playing- something innocent, something pure. Ferngill couldn't bear to think of Streamkit now, confusedly finding his way to StarClan, guided by likely-distraught spirits. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done- but at last he bared to look at Streamkit's still form, and let sorrow sprawl within him fully. "It's..." It's gonna be okay, he wanted to say ... but he couldn't. "I'm sorry." A whispered echo of his sister would do, then.​

✦ penned by pin ✦​

 

[hazecloud]

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The wiry curls of wispy gray fur have grown even more unruly now with the layer of salt spray over her coat. The waters had been her commonplace now, hardly present within camp for longer than pauses between patrols and the wind down in the evening. Hazecloud had imagined her leave from the nursery so differently, to be beside Lichenstar like air to a birds wings. Far more inseparable than before, never letting more than an inch between them for long.

It's different now, though. She is not just some warrior, or RiverClan pawn for more territory. She is a commander, a council member, an authority she never sought to possess before. And now she is expected to wield it in a manner she had never trained for. Hard decision for herself were easy to make, finding her own struggles far simpler but she had not extended even that sort of expectation onto her younger journeymates. When she was the oldest of them to travel through the mountains, no presence of a lead warrior to guide them, they had functioned together as equals.

Though... now most of them that had attended were now on the council.

The quiet calm of her private hunt came to a close as she returned with her catch for the pile, only to be confronted with shrieks of panic, the calm ease falling into disaster.

She heard her name beside her mates and rushed forward, standing opposite of the molly as they arrived to see-

Something she never wished to face again.

[tw for mild pstd]

The blood in her veins has turned to ice, shocking her muscles with the frigid cold that had taken hold of her boy. A single wheezing breath, the shudder of his spirit leaving his body, then nothing. Never had the chance for even a moment to experience another sensation outside of death. Not the warmth of his mother, not the loving shuffle of his siblings, not the sleepy fog of a full belly.

Steamkit had felt it all, though, born not long after her own kits. Had played alongside them under her supervision, safe under her watch, alive. Alive. And Graykit had taken him from RiverClan.

A pit of nausea settled firmly like a jagged rock, serrated edge cutting into her gut. Lichenstar made her demands and Hazecloud, numbly, felt her head move to agree. Away from the nursery, should his denmates turn on him, unable to grasp the complexity of the situation. An accident, a lethal accident, not one committed by a warrior but a kit.

That kit would be in battle, once. A voice reminded her, and her maw twisted in a frown.

"No one said he did." Her voice is far harsher than Hazecloud intended, feeling the weight of feelings far too familiar sink into her coat. "Go comfort your kin." She commanded the ginger toms dismissal while she knelt beside the kit, pressing her nose to his forehead.

"May Snowflakekit guide you home, little one." A murmured prayer while watery eyes glanced to the sky, forcing herself back to her paws.

"I'll stay with you and Streamkit, Robinheart. We'll wait for Moonbeam together?" Green sights briefly flickered to Lichenstar, wishing to take the burden from the molly this time. I have this one. She wanted to say.

Streamkit would not be held in this vulgar display a moment longer. Hazecloud nudged his neck to the side to grasp his scruff, pausing for a moment at the scent of his wound. She could not falter, however, and mustered all her strength to bring his body to it's final preparations.

✿ ———— I'll be your regular mama ✿ ————— And I'll put that gun away

•  
• 
  
  
  Hazecloud
  —⊰⋅ Deputy of RiverClan
  —⊰⋅ She/Her
  "SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
  —⊰⋅ LH blue smoke with green eyes.
  

​

 

[Graypaw]

Cicadafligh't voice is little more than the sound of waves lapping at a distant shore. It's going to be okay he says but is it? Is it really? When he looks down at the body (the body, because he cannot think of it as Streamkit anymore), when he sees the blood staining his paws, he can only think one thing. My fault. I did this. His inner voice a stark contradiction to the words flying from the black and white warriors tongue. Vaguely, he is aware of Cicadaflight leaving but he does not move from his spot crouched over Streamkit, howling, his tiny body convulsing in sobs that threaten to leave his throat raw and his ribs sore. Through his grief and his mourning he hears another voice. Lichenstar... she would fix this, right?

Keep him away... from his younger den-mates

The words shatter right through him, rip through skin and flesh and sink straight into his heart like a claw. In one fell swoop he is deemed a danger to his clan, to other kits. Maybe they're right. Maybe he is. He looks down at the blood staining his paws, horror at himself, at what he had done, making his blurry eyes wide with shock and panic. Murderer he labels himself even as he swears sees it in the faces of those who now approach. He cannot blame them for thinking it. It was his paws that had shoved Streamkit to the ground, after all.

And then Iciclefang is there and-and she's going to make it all okay right? He feels hollow as teeth bury into his scruff, as he's hauled backwards, away from Streamkit as others close in. Cats who do not dare to even look at him, like Robinheart. Like Shellpaw, who goes to help the queen prepare the body for burial. He hears Iciclefang say she's sorry and it's funny, he thinks, what did she have to be sorry for? "I didn't mean it- I- we-we were just playing and I- I didn't see it- didn't see the rock I'm sorry- Im so sorry" he nearly chokes on the words through his tears. If he could go back in time, he would be more careful, he would have just leat Streamkit win. Why had he felt he needed to prove himself? To ensure a chance at a good mentor? To impress Iciclefang and Lakemoon? It doesn't matter now, nothing does.

"Mommy" he croaks out when he sees Lakemoon, a moniker he had last used before he was two moons old that comes out again now, brought forth by his fear, his immeasurable grief. He stumbles closer and buries his head into her chest fur, hoping she doesn't care about the snot and tears, the blood that stains his fur and fills the air with the scent of iron.

There are gentle voices that float to his ears in the commotion. 'Im sorry..' his uncle echoes his aunt and again Graykit cannot help but wonder for what but he does not move from his place tucked into his mother's chest, does not turn to look when he hears Hazecloud snap at Ferngill, because looking in that direction again would mean being confronted with the image that would haunt his dreams for nights to come. It would mean looking into the eyes of cats he loved, cats he admired, and seeing hatred and disappointment, accusation. So he hides from it, enveloped in a sea of silver fur, he hides.

( ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ) I can feel you leaving

• 
  
  
• 
  GRAYKIT RIVERCLAN KITTEN ; HE / HIM
  LILYBLOOM X LAKEMOON BROTHER TO SNOWKIT
  

  A plush coated kitten with a pelt marbled in varying shades of gray and white. He has dull green eyes and a tall stature. Most of his personality can be described as carefree though some also say that unmotivated is a more than apt term. His trust and love is easily won through praise but he will do little work to receive it.

  ✶ easy in battle + no formal training
  

​

 

[Snakeblink]

Chaos grips the camp in the form of a kit's scream – and does not abate, swelling until, like a wave, it crests over their heads and swallow them whole.

Snakeblink is fresh out of a patrol when he slinks onto the scene, ears swiveling to catch information on the situation. What he hears has an instinctive sneer twisting his maw. A kit is dead – not by a predator's teeth or an enemy's claws but by another's soft paws. A game meeting an abrupt and fatal end. What a wasteful, stupid way to die. He glances at Greykit and can't help but feel... Pity, overshadowing the disgust and anger – the half-rational knee-jerk of grief. This is a terrible thing for a kit to be responsible for.

And a terrible thing for their leading couple to witness. Lichenstar's hoarse voice breaks further with an emotion he doesn't dare name, and Hazecloud's face troubles like water from a stone's toss. Nonetheless, they both go through the motions, the deputy gently taking the prone kit away while their leader deal with the live one. There's little Snakeblink can do for the body; he way me able to find some use for himself in the rest.

"Perhaps he ought to stay with the Elders until his apprenticeship," he suggests, half to Lichenstar and half to Graykit's kin. "There may be solace to be found in their greater experience with grief, and he would not be subjected to the... empty space in the nursery." Nor would Graykit's caretaker be subjected with her kit's killer, no matter how accidental the act. Mourning is rarely so rational.​

 

[STREAMKIT]

✧ . TW // Death . Though the days feel long to a young Streamkit, they move quicker than the gray kit can comprehend. In the persistence of the river’s rushing song, the sun’s greeting in the morning and it’s departure at night — a switch in watch guards, cold moon glow instead of warm rays — the kitten grows, just as his collection of feathers, just as his peers alongside him.

Soon they will greet the night in new nests, the lot of them. Soon they will be apprentices, his feathers neatly placed in a nest crafted by his own paws — a skill his mother has been keen on making him practice before the big day comes. Before he stands among his peers, before he becomes Streampaw and gets to face the river’s territory alongside a brand new mentor. He will learn how to hunt for real, how to catch fish bigger than those he and his peers have already aimed kitten claws into. He will learn how to swim further than the shallows his mother keeps him constrained in.

And fights will no longer be for play, but for *real* training. Spars held with moves passed down from RiverClanner to RiverClanner — from Marsh and Pine just like his Mom and Pa — and ancestors beyond them. Bursts of adrenaline will one day be poured into a real battle, with claws unsheathed, blood shed, and a hero’s name to be known.

Because, one day… One day, Streamkit will be a warrior. And if he’s anything like his parents…

He’s going to be a great warrior.

It is not the first time his pale gaze faces the opponent before him. Graykit and him have held mock-spars before, of course — such is far from an uncommon occurrence between them, between their shared denmates in all. It’s not the first time he’s missed the larger kit either. Long limbs dart away, leaving ice-white paws to hit their rocky battle ground instead of smog-dense fur. Silvered ears twitch at his friend’s laugh, at the murmurs of onlookers just barely audible behind Graykit’s taunts. A frown threatens to tug at his maw.

“ But, I almost had you this time! “ Streamkit reasons, because — because he almost did, right? Had he had the long limbs Graykit carries, he would’ve! Streamkit’s always been on the smaller side, always been smaller than his opponent. Most days, it’s unnoticeable to him. Most days, he doesn’t think about it much, but — Stars, can’t he grow a little taller, right now? Can’t he stretch his paws out further, a pin made before Graykit can jump out of his way?

A challenge flickers in his pale gaze as he twists around to view his opponent across the way, words called out from the older marking the next round of their skirmish. Try harder. Try a lot harder. He will.

Because, Streamkit’s going to be a great warrior one day. And, Graykit will too, he thinks of his friend.

With another chance to strike at the larger kit on the line, cloud-plush paws push away from the rocky arena they’d settled upon in an effort to spring forward — to prove himself as good a fighter as his opponent, to prove himself worthy of the name he’ll some day earn. His paws land against fur, and excitement courses through him, a split-second triumph in pinning Graykit faltering at locked limbs and a realization that the match is not over yet. Streamkit hasn’t won yet.

“ Hey! “ the kit squeaks out in protest at the counterstrike, a forepaw swatting towards his target, teeth clacking together in an attempt to grab at smog-darkened fur. A back paw slips under the pressure, his attacks clumsy and unbalanced.

Steady on your feet, his Pa reminds him somewhere in the back of his mind. He tries to shift his paw, tries to regain lost balance between the two of them. So he can return to an upper paw that was never quite his to begin with, so that he can win one match to day, so that he can —

A shove. The force is stronger than anticipated, harsher than what their play-spar should’ve called for. Pale eyes blow wide as any semblance of steadiness kept between wavering paws breaks. His sole-gray paw falls from the rocks, and he too — he too falls. Hardly does he have a chance to process what’s happening — hardly does he have a chance to clamber forward and save himself — before he hits the ground.

He’s supposed to be a warrior.

A sharp cry breaks through the air, as blinding pain swells at the back of his head in a trickling warmth that leaves the rest of his body river-chilled. In his short life, he’s never known anything like it, never known a pain flame-bright and crimson.

“ M — “ he tries to cry out, tries to open a maw that feels too heavy. He wants his mom, wants the pain to go away — his apprentice ceremony’s soon, he can’t be hurting, can’t be locked away in the medicine den —

His vision is blurry, his form exhausted, but somewhere still he thinks he can find his opponent’s form moving forward from the corner of his river-pointed gaze. Somewhere still, he thinks he can hear his name tumble out of the boy’s mouth. A winner, Graykit is. A warrior.

He’s tired — he’s tired.

Pale blue eyes try to focus forward, try to tell Graykit just that — he won. Their game is done. But he’s tired, and he hurts. His eyes roll back before help can be called for, before his mother can hear any semblance of his cries, before apologies can be made.

He’ll never be more than the small kit his clanmates now gather around, that Graykit sobs over, stains himself crimson over. He’s gone, never to be a warrior. ​

✦ ABOUT

• // aGH sorry this is horrifically late but i wanted to get the post out still
• STREAMKIT ✦ AMAB. He / They. Kit of RiverClan.
  ✧ . A blue smoke tabby and white cat with blue eyes.
  ✧ . NPC x NPC
  ✧ . Mentor to be determined.
  ✧ . Peaceful and healing powerplay permitted!
  ✧ . Penned by Abri ‣ @_abri_ on discord, feel free to dm for plots!
  ✧ . " Speech " ; Attack
  

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