he’d woken early that day, something he is wont to do in his restlessness. slow he begins unwinding from his mate’s well - muscled limbs, slipping from his embrace — and each dawn he feels like moss clung to his sturdy bark, claws slipping beneath to pry him from his resting comfort. each morning he feels the seperation, early chill seeping in through loose curls and chilling him to the jagged - point bone. his love sleeps and he does not wake him ; he’d taken to lounging moreso than usual, and the dappled tom could only assume the exhaustion of being the clan’s busybody had finally taken its toll. so he’d parted from him with a gentle touch of his nose to a sleek, resting cheek, the rumble of his gentle snore seeing him from the den and into greenleaf’s beaming light.
so of course he is nearby when he wakes.
of course — a looming linger just aside the small arching creek rounding tallrock when dawn patrol makes their return, within eye distance of his willow den and resting mate. the patrol comes to him, mills about, and he notes the scent mark smell clinging to their wind - ruffled pelts. it’s a small relief, the lack of aggression and iron - laden odor indicating trouble ; and thus icicle eyes flit away from the patrol head for only a moment, twists an ear to listen to their report. of course his eyes find movement at the maw of their willow den, ever watchful, ever prepared. he’d made himself the white - mottled shadow of his mate, lingering overprotectiveness he knows would earn him a swat at the ears should he be any more blatant. he is blatant now, however — watches through eyes half - lidded against the early morning light as smokethroat steps forward into the day. he doesn’t get very far.
the tom lurches and cicadastar perks ramrod straight, spine snapping upward in sudden, rapt attention. a flash of blushing pink, maw parting on a mighty heave and the leader
bristles, stumbles to his paws,
” get — get ravenpaw. “ to the patrol at his front, likely cutting off whatever report still falls from their tongue. their deputy was not one to show, evident by how he seems to curl in on himself in the wake of his sudden heave. black paws skitter towards the camps edge and ivory brings him right after the dark - coated deputy, all pretense of
minding his business forgotten to the sudden worry encapsulating him, overtaken like riotous flame. the tom is sick, sick into the reeds and undergrowth at their riverland fringes and his concern only grows, something violent and tearing within him.
was he sick? prey had begun to move inland from the downstream drought, and the deputy seemed to have been fed well in the sunrises waning their water supply. was this an illness? a sickness born of the strange happenings on their territory, something in the fish? something in the influx of woodland creatures searching for a water supply. option after option, worry after worry. the leader moves forward and just as he does, smokethroat lifts a swaying head, slurs through a maw still slick with his upheaval.
" hä? " it’s almost frantic, the way it’s meowed out — a gust of confusion before the mottled phantom settles at his side, goes to work
frantically licking the rumpled fur at the back of his neck when he buckles again to try and cool him, but the dark warrior only heaves harder from the pit of his empty stomach into the greenery.
looks like you’re ’bout to get your wish, he’d said, and what wish of him would have him so pained? what would he want that would have him so sick, so
tired? he looked
healthy, well fed, perhaps a
tad more weight than normal — but stars, thunderclan could eat their scavenging hearts out about it. it wasn’t as if —
” … hä. “
suddenly, it feels a little
too light. black spots dance at the edge of his vision and he blinks rapid through them. his tongue feels too dry, rough barbs unsticking clumsily from the roof of his mouth,
” mein leib, you — you’re sure? you didn’t just.. eat.. something bad..? “ it sounds foolish and he knows it the second it comes out of his maw, alabaster paws flailing as if to emphasize his point. but there was no point ; other than the obvious, his ailing mate’s uncharacteristically tortured groan and evident pain. the dark tom leans back down to be sick and the black spots return to his sight, leaving him to stumble awkwardly for a moment before spidery limbs fold, and he drapes his neck limply over the arch of his mates shoulders.
ravenpaw would be there soon, he hopes — though not for the reason he’d initially thought. smokethroat rumbles his agony and cicadastar pins his ears in something near guilt, sheepish as it was.
they were going to have kits.. they were going to have kits.. ” .. so now would be the time to think of names, yes? “ a jesting attempt at distraction — both for his mate, and himself. it was as well as confirmed, yeah?
had he been this dizzy the whole time?
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i. @RAVENPAW.
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˖ ⁺ ｡ ˚ ⠀ 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. 50 moons, ages every 50 posts.
penned by antlers
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"speech"
