sensitive topics we'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when ; birth

[cygnetstare]

// TW for difficult birth

Their Clan has only just begun to settle into the remnants of the camp that still smells of friendly pelts still foreigned when the pains strike her stomach. Each and every one of the rebels had struggled for every mouthful of warm flesh at the barn, and while her condition had gleaned her extra morsels of prey when they could be spared, Cygnetstare is still thin, frighteningly thin even for her small stature and terrifyingly thin for a cat so obviously pregnant. She feels almost as she had when Bluepool had dragged her home with blood weeping from her torn throat, unkempt white fur spreading across her makeshift nest as they loose a small, rasping cry for help. Wolfsong or Scorchstreak or someone, anyone.

The world is tilting dizzyingly and they're aware of pain, someone murmuring to them in a low voice, and the blurry shapes of cats in the small space. It is drawn out for some time uncountable, Cygnetstare dipping in and out of awareness. Perhaps their throat with its raised bite scar is pressed in order to make them swallow herbs or something else is making breathing suddenly quite hard and, oh, the world is blurring, and she had always wanted to die on the battlefield, but, but....

———​

Time has passed and the shadows leave the world. A pink eye cracks open under frosted lashes of white and their flanks heave with spastic breaths. They do not feel strong enough to rise, not yet, but their sleepily lidded eyes drag slowly across the dim world to find small bodies at their side. One, two, three, four—each of them alive and with tiny flanks rising and falling, by some miracle. Thank you, StarClan, she thinks, casting her eyes upwards in a roiling spasm, for rewarding my loyalty.

"Four," she mews weakly, peering through wispy lashes to catch a glimpse of them once more. One is pure and plain white, one an almost inversion of herself, one spackled surprising chocolate and one such a mix of silver and black they can hardly distinguish it from the moon - dappled ground below. It's night, they realize with surprise, how long has it been? Long enough for their dark fur to grow slick and moonlit scarlet, and the shadowy figures are calling again, but.....

"Names," she rasps. "They need names."

// TL;DR : Cygnet came very close to death during a long and difficult birth. All four of the kits survived.
MC tags: @WOLFSONG and @cottonfang
Kit tags (in birth order): @SHRIEKKIT , @gravekit , @Heronkit , and @MILKWEEDKIT

"speech"

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[SHRIEKKIT]

MAYBE A CUP OF SELF CONTROL WOULD BE THE ROUTE — The world seems cold and the frigid air that its takes into its lung make the little chimera shiver even as his form is pressed close to the slick bodies of his own siblings, he let's out a shrill little kitten shriek of protest feeling small bodies push against him and the air settling into its lungs. It doesn't like it out here and it's less warm where he had been before being brought forth into the world by his mother unaware of the strain she had to go through to deliver him and his littermates. If he were to lay either side he would be mistaken for a different kit each time and with his silver side exposed, he uses his small legs forward in a crawl to his mothers belly and immediately leeches off the warmth from her frail skinny body. Her faint milk scent comforting enough to stop him from being vocal any further, he just wants to sleep and remain warm just like they had before.

But instinct makes him pursue his mother further so he could nurse with a newfound hunger driving him forward, the unnamed kitten was unsteady until he used small paws to hold himself there. This is his spot... Until someone shoved him out of the way.

BUT IT'S THE FLAVOUR ♟ IT'S THE FLAVOUR YOU WANT

• 

• 
  ♟ shorthaired & longhaired black smoke/silver tabby chimera tomkit w/hazel eyes
  ♟ shriek-kit comes off as too trusting and believing what anyone has to say, its very guillible in that aspect, and makes him easy to bully him around. he's very easily influenced and he's never far from his siblings or mothers side.
  ♟ 2 moons old; ages the last day of every month
  ♟ sexuality unknown; too young
  ♟ firstborn son of cygnetstare and gooseberry
  ♟ brother of milkweedkit, gravekit, and heronkit
  ♟ "speech", thoughts, attacking
  ♟ peaceful powerplay allowed

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[gravepaw ★]

( ༺♰༻ )　 The second child is a slight thing, all uneven fur and harsh angles. Black cascades down from the kit's face, stopping far too soon and giving way to thin strands of white. They shiver as they enter the world, cold clawing its way inside of them. That's all they know at first, the cold. It had been so warm just a second ago. Where has that warmth gone?

The kit wails, as soon as they are able, a mourning song of lost warmth. They follow suit from their brother, their own voice a quieter sort of keening. But the air is sweet, and the kit soon finds themself right in their place, wriggling closer and closer -- and shoving another warm thing out of the way to get there. Here is the warmth they were looking for, caught between two soft bodies, one laced with the sweetness of milk-scent. The keening quiets into something akin to contentedness as Gravekit nuzzles against their mother's belly.

THE FEAR HAS GRIPPED ME ༺♰༻ BUT HERE I GO【 01.28.24 】

• //
  ​

• "SPEECH"

• ⋆ ⁺ ⋆ ⁺ ₊ ❆⋆ GRAVEKIT.　WINDCLAN KIT. THEY / THEM & SHE / HER
  2 MOONS & AGES ON THE 1ST.　PENNED BY SATURNID.
  
  
  

  ♰ — A DELICATE BLACK AND WHITE CHIMERA WITH DULL PINK EYES.

  
  GOOSEBERRY xx CYGNETSTARE. SIBLING TO HERONKIT, MILKWEEDKIT, & SHRIEK-KIT.

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[Heronkit]

The third to be brought into the world, an eerie silence follows the frail form. His thoughts are scattered, but instead of allowing himself to slip back into unconsciousness, he takes his first breaths of air as he is cleaned thoroughly, as loud as the two that came before. Unlike them, he is solid in color, a stark white just like the father that he will never meet.

The coldness of the outside soon causes him to shiver just as hard, and it is not long before he wiggles his way to the warm body of his mother. Despite the lack of experience maneuvering his tiny body, he takes his rightful place next to his siblings, taking up the unoccupied side of the oldest. As he suckles, all is well, for now.​

 

[SCORCHSTAR]

༄༄ Scorchstreak had been excited to hear of Cygnetstare’s pregnancy, although she would readily admit that the timing is awful. Not only are her friend’s kits due after of the harshest months of the year, but they are coming just after a battle that split WindClan down the middle, and has left them all in a precarious position. Raising a litter on their own—because as far as the calico knows, her friend is on their own in this—will not be easy, but Scorchstreak is determined to help in whatever ways that she can. When her duties permit her to step away, that is.

The tunneler, dirt-specked and sore-pawed, makes her way into the nursery with a carefully neutral expression on her face and a small hare clutched in her jaws. But as golden eyes settle upon her friend, she quickly realizes that something is wrong. A rush of panic surges through her; if the kits are coming now… She drops the prey, murmuring a quick explanation to the queen before turning and taking off toward the medicine den. She wastes no time catching the attention of the golden-furred cat who surely knows more about kitting than she does, being both a healer and a parent themself. "Wolfsong, hurry. Cygnetstare—kits! Something’s wrong." She doesn’t allow for any further questioning, alarm filling her tone.

She stays firmly out of the way, but when the kits have all been delivered and her friend no longer clings to the stars with one paw, Scorchstreak moves as close to their side as Wolfsong will allow. When the other tunneler lifts their head at last to glance at the kits, she agrees with a nod, "Four kits, that’s a lot. You did so well, though." They are correct, the kits do need names, but Cygnetstare had nearly died. Scorchstreak recalls how exhausted she’d been after each time she’d given birth—she’d fallen asleep nearly immediately afterward both times. She will not press the new parent to name them right now. She isn’t even sure whether they are hearing anything that she’s saying. "They’re beautiful kits. That one looks a lot like you." They are alive. That is all that matters, isn’t it? Cygnetstare may look worse for wear, but her soul hasn’t joined the stars. There is no cost paid for the four new lives brought into the clan.​

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[RATTLEHEART]

One could not be in every place at once. It was a sad fact of life that Rattleheart had been struggling with lately, his mind seemingly a jumble every time he rose from his nest in the morning. Though it was a blessing to be back in their proper home, there was so much to do in order to get everyone settled into a brighter future. So much that the tunneler wasn't able to give priority to everything that he wanted to, including things like checking in on Cygnetstare and her coming litter as often as he would've liked. Though he and Cygnetstare weren't as close as she and Scorchstreak, he respected his fellow tunneler highly, and would readily trust her with his life. He enjoyed her company even through her oddness, and was eager to see her kits once they were brought into the world - even if it was a less than ideal time for them.

His attentions were elsewhere when he heard his sister's frantic call towards Wolfsong, dark ears swiveling around and heart picking up at the alarm in her voice. It took a lot to properly rattle her, and he immediately abandoned his sorting of the prey pile to follow in her pawsteps. Though he really wasn't sure why, his lack of medical knowledge keeping him from being too much of a help. At least he could offer his emotional support, settled near Scorchstreak's side and offering words of encouragement whenever their medical team wasn't offering commands of their own.

The flood of relief through his chest when Cygnetstare once again lifted her head was indescribable, a short bout of eased laughter bubbling up from Rattleheart's throat. She hadn't been taken away from them. They hadn't lost another life from their ranks. It would've been enough to make him jump for joy if his attention wasn't immediately on the little squirming bundles at her side. "Scorchstreak is right... you did incredibly. And they all look so strong." Perhaps a couple of them looked a little more odd than most other kits, but he wouldn't have rightfully expected anything else from someone as occasionally unsettling as Cygnetstare. "I know you must be exhausted, but do you need anything to eat? I was sorting through the freshkill just before you began kitting..." It was the best help he could think of to offer, knowing the hunger of her kits would inevitably take a toll on her before long.
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[ PENNED BY EO ]​

 

[WOLFSONG]

──ᨒ↟↟ᨒ↟ᨒ↟↟ᨒ── It is not the strength of the kits which concerns him, but of their mother: the birth has clearly taken a toll on Cygnetstare, one which very nearly seized their life— and could still, if her constitution does not recover. He noses through the herbs he brought for the distinctive aroma of chamomile, which he tugs between his teeth and brings to Cygnetstare, dropping it beside her weakly-raised head. He studies her eyes with a frown, and unlike Scorchstreak and Rattleheart, does not shower them with praise. One more voice adding to such compliments would hardly matter, anyway, and he must use his for something a bit more urgent.

"You must eat the chamomile," he instructs, nudging it closer. "It will restore your strength, which you need most desperately. I have moss if you are thirsty, but the chamomile is the priority now." His own birth had not taxed him so deeply, but he had not faced existing bloodloss at the time, which he suspects is one of the culprits for Cygnetstare's struggle.
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WOLFSONG of WINDCLAN FORMER ROGUE TURNED MEDICINE CAT. 41 MOONS, HE/HIM, NPC X NPC. MATES WITH SUNSTRIDE (07/05/2023). BIOGRAPHY, PINTEREST, & PLAYLIST.

medicinal expertise med. part ii med. part iii med. part iv

• — ★★★☆☆ WOUNDS: You're (mostly) in safe paws. You'll know if he's less experienced if he asks for your permission to try a treatment. No wound can scare him away from knowledge.
  — ★★★☆☆ INFECTION: He can prevent most infections. If you feel feverish, let him know; he'll hum thoughtfully over herbs and sniff your wound before saying, "With your blessing..."
• — ★☆☆☆☆ ACHES & PAINS: If you complain to him of pain, he'll ask where. If it's a headache, you'll likely feel a bit better. For anything else, "Try this, if you'd like, and tell me how you feel."
  — ★☆☆☆☆ BROKEN BONES: At best. he can ask you to remain lying down in the den. He may try to distract you with conversation while he considers what herb to feed you.
• — ★★★★★ TRAVELING HERBS: Going somewhere? No worries; Wolfsong knows just what you need to stay hale and healthy during your journey. The rest is up to you.
  — ★★★☆☆ KITTING: Thanks to Starlingheart and his own pregnancy, he's better prepared for the arrival of kits, but any complications will need a little faith and a lot of luck.
• — ★☆☆☆☆ POISONS: It's best if you avoid eating anything unfamiliar to you— it's probably just as unfamiliar to Wolfsong. The best he can do is offer you yarrow and sit with you.
  — ★★☆☆☆ ILLNESS: If it's white or greencough, you'll likely recover. Otherwise, prepare for odd concoctions and the usual request that you consent to a little trial-and-error.

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[MILKWEEDKIT]

he is born ugly. a simple fact ; all jutting, broken - branch limbs and shaggy pelt doused red along an alarmingly white underside. he is born gasping like the world owes it that much, greedy, wet inhales of breath against the muck on his face. when he cries it is like raven song, cawing and brittle against the ever present howl of moorland wind, shuddering his offense at the rough voices overhead. thin, membraney ears ache at it — the sudden explosions of sound, the sensation of moss beneath him, it’s siblings wriggling their way towards the source of warmth and milk that emanated from just overhead.

for a moment, he simply shudders, letting the wracks of life course through awkwardly exposed ribs and a strangely quirked back. his spine curves him into a folded, shivering mop of chocolate and white, a failed mimicry of its mother. it does not move to follow just yet, still figuring out the shape of its own crooked body. it instead paws slowly outward in small, paddling motions, toes wriggling like blunt insects against wherever it can reach yet never quite sinking in enough to drag himself forward. after a beat, it stops crying, simply wallowing in a state of open - mouthed, drooling breath, his throat clicking with each shuddering inhale. his fight simmers. the tangle of a kit simply lies, waiting splayed against the nest to be moved to his mothers belly.

𝐈 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 【 𓆣 】 𝘿𝙊𝙐𝙎𝙀𝘿 𝙄𝙉 𝙂𝘼𝙎𝙊𝙇𝙄𝙉𝙀

• i.
  
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• 
  
  OFFER UP THEIR CHILD AS THEY BURN & SCREAM KITTEN, WINDCLAN ; TOO YOUNG FOR ATTRACTION. SMELLS LIKE CRUSHED INSECTS & DISTURBED SOIL. TWO MONTHS OLD. BORN ON 01 / 31 / 2024. CHILD OF CYGNETSTARE x GOOSEBERRY. PENNED BY ANTLERS —-
  m. he / it. oily alabaster tom with matted brown striping and visceral pink eyes. a filth - bitten thing ; all spider - crawled fur and baggy, gutburst glares — milkweedkit makes for an uncomfortable encounter. shag - pelted along its crooked back, a noted lack of hygiene built from extended time underground and growing long bored of picking the dirt and leaf rot from the bulk of his pelt. should he emerge from his tunnels so too shall the insects from below ; aphids, buzzing fungus gnats, splintered legs and still - twitching wings near always clinging to thinner patches of ivory fur. unpopular amongst his peers for the unfortunate crook in his back and offputting demeanor, it most often finds its reprieve alone, deep within the damp walls of windclan's underground tunnels.
  

  born with kyphosis, thus always standing with a distinct, hunched posture. speaks quickly and with a stutter, rolled for severity during emotional outbursts.

  
  

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