YOU HAVE BONES, THEY HAVE TO BREAK — battle private

[REDSTORM !]

It was a difficult battle, Red had been fighting for quite some time now, his breaths coming in ragged gasps and blood dripping into his eye from a scratch on his forehead, obscuring his vision and making it difficult for him to see. He stumbles forward, exhausted but unwilling to give up, to turn tail and run.

He looks around the battle field, blue eyes searching through the haze for any of his siblings or his father. He wonders how they’re doing, if they’re alright. He curses the marsh cats names, they were the root of all of the pine cats problems. With any luck, they would win this battle and drive those putrid rats back to the carrion place that they loved to hunt at so much.

Relying on his one eye unclouded by blood, he finds the nearest marsh cat, aiming to jump on their back and kick with his powerful hind legs while letting out a howl of rage and anger. He hated them like he had never hated before, and in this moment, he wanted the dead. He would hold nothing back as, if he is successful in his attack, rakes his claws against the enemy cats side.

// @antlers sorry for the tag on main it wouldn’t let me tag cicada for some reason? Also, you can assume the cat he is attacking is either him or another random marsh cat ​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : exhaustion had begun to seep into his very marrow, deep rivulets of bone - deep agony sending shockwaves of dull pain with every blow he takes. fighting had never been his forte ; he did poorly in frontline battle, bird - like limbs too thin and gangly to manage too heavy a hit. starvation had begun to creep back into the edges of his vision as well, darkening the edges around his field of his sight with dark static. the reason they were here -- they were weak, aching with hunger and unable to manage another moon alongside the kittypet’s unabashed greed. the soil beneath mottled paw pads was stained red, flecks of fur sprawling from freshly wounded bodies, flesh coiled beneath his claws. slim forelegs now marred black - red in a sludgy combination of blood and wet soil, snow - dipped paws a tangle of gore. the tom hadn't the slightest clue how the rest of his colony fared, frantic icewater luminaries pivoting wildly over the mottled battlefield in a desperate attempt at fixating on a face — any familiar face amongst the wreckage. his head spun with adrenaline and anxiety, nausea a rolling pit deep in his belly. he couldn't concentrate amongst the yowling, the rattle of final breath falling heavy all around.

death had finally become them.

his throat ached, deep waves of pulsing red heat pouring from the torn puncture points ; images of bone fleet briefly in his skull, of the woman's assault and kill on his behalf. she’d saved him. her and gray, who'd ripped that damned charcoal tabby from his shoulder and . . killed him. the three had watched him die. the tortoiseshell could still feel the rake of his claws over the tabby’s eye. how he’d blinded him, taken him off guard — how he had watched the pine solider let his guard down for only a moment and lost his life. he watched the chain of events that led to him narrowly avoiding losing his own. the feline had him pinned. should his aim have been a little better, the spitting tabby could have ripped into his jugular. he would have left his colony behind. he would have left quiet behind, pumpkin. the ones he cared about, fought for. the thought of piling another tragedy on top of the one they struggled through now sends shockwaves of fear throughout his chest, curling in the thin bespokes of his ribcage and pressing taut on his heart.

in the seconds he spends looking over the battlefield, someone attacks — leaping onto his back and sending streams of rioting pain in hot, sharp streaks down the ridges of his spine. cicada howls in agony, then snaps his jaws shut with a force, molars clicking into place and instead forcing a low, pained groan from between reddened porcelain. working on instinct alone, cicada would aim to roll hard and slam the tom into the ground using his shoulder. if he succeeds he would attempt to turn and aim a bite towards his throat, similar to the wound he bore himself.

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[REDSTORM !]

In between flashes of pain, Res retreats to a part of his mind where he recalls play fighting with his siblings and with his father, the gentle tussles and the playful laughter that ensued from him bowling over one of his much larger brothers. No one was laughing now, and he sure wasn’t taking care to ensure his claws remained sheathed while he fought this cat who reeked of carrion. He half wants to spit in this cats fake, to tell him he stunk of rot and ask if he enjoyed ripping into the fur of those much younger than him? His group mates sure seemed to.

He rolls at just the right moment, though not able to avoid an attack entirely and teeth sunk into his shoulder. As they do he lets out a yowl, purely of rage and pain as he attempts to use his strong back legs to kick his attacker off of him. But the other cat was so much stronger, so much more trained that it was little use. “I bet you love this huh?!” He challenges the tom, through gritted teeth, his blue eyes looking up at him in rage “make you feel real big huh? Fighting a cat so much younger than yourself” he whips his head back and attempts to, full force, slam it into the others face, a final attempt to make him let go.

// feel free for your next post to be the one where he attempts to kill him! ​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : ribbons of pain erupt from his stomach, blinding streaks of blushing red blooming along soft underside matting crimson in clumps. the tom was small, however — he remained sturdy, shoulders trembling slightly with the effort of keeping him down. soft, pathetic kittypets. of course they wouldn’t be able to fight them. his heart lurched over their stupidity ; a life cut so short by his own desperate claw. the pine colony cat’s words evoke a vivacious snarl from the mottled tom, rubbery lips wrinkling above pink gums and nose bunching with rage, “ enough. you should have run back where you belong, pest. “ he wouldn’t hurt a child. no, he wouldn’t dare. this tom wasn’t that young, right? his grip falters for just a split moment before claws lock in again, attempting to rip into the soft tissue where he held him pinned, “you were given a choice. you’ve no one to blame for this but yourself . . ” the male leans close to his bloodied face, baring his wicked teeth at the younger felidae. when he speaks again, his whisper is cold ; rumbling from deep within his throat and bitter with exhaustion, anger, and ice - cut revenge, “ and maybe that filthy leader of yours. “

with that, cicada would aim to bite down directly on his opponent’s jugular and rip.

out of character information translations

• sobbing < / 3
• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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[Rain]

Rain is a large tom, dissociate to miss even amongst the throng of cats writhing together in the dirt. Currently, his fluffy silver tabby fur is coated in a thin layer of dust and blood, his sides heaved from the sheer effort of fighting off so many cats, because here he was a target. They hated him, wanted him dead, and that was alright. He would fight, fight for his and his groups right to exist. They could not take away the home that he had spent the last few seasons building from nothing, the only home some of his kits knew.

Here and there he sees a body laying in the dirt, eyes glazed over and looking to the sky and the breath hitches in his throat. Right now, he does not have time to grieve, to mourn the losses. Simply he checks to make sure it is now one of his own children. If only they were okay, he would make it, he would be alright. He would keep fighting for them. Still, he wants to yowl to the heavens about the injustice of it all. Why couldn’t they just live in peace? He had never wanted this.

He stands over Marigold’s body now, just a child, and he presses his nose into their fur, murmuring a soft, saddened goodbye before he raises his head. He cannot linger here for long. He needs to help while he still had the strength to.

Looking around with pale yellow eyes, ready to jump into the next fight, he spots something that no parent wants to ever see. A marsh group cat, his son underneath his paws and his teeth bared, going for his throat. Rain let’s put a desperate yowl, launching himself at the pair. No no no he would not ever let them take him from him. ”stop, get off of him! he screams and buries his teeth into the other cats scruff, pulling him off of the smaller flame point tom.

There’s a wild look in this marsh cats eyes as he turns, Rain barely has time to register anything else but that before there is a blinding pain originating from his neck, and then numbness. The marsh cat had delivered the killing blow meant for his son to him. He crumples to the ground, his eyes glazed over and his body unmoving.

Never would he draw a breath again.

// permission granted by antlers for slight power play rip rain ): ​

✦ ★ ✦​

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : time seemed to slow in the moments before it happened ; movement sluggish with consequence. panic. icewater panic floods his veins at a semi - familiar yowl, skin crawling with adrenaline even before massive paws make contact and maw close tight around his scruff. the flame point is suddenly an afterthought ; the second he's ripped from the younger feline claws are flying blindly, a sharp snarl ripping free from his maw shortly before teeth make contact with soft, striped blue fur. instinct -- he's running on instinct. blood spattered the soil around them and his duty was to add to it, to lessen the mouths their forest struggled to feed. in his wild desperation, the smoke doesn't see just who he's facing. he doesn't understand the relationship in which he had to the russet - faced felidae that had fallen beneath his claw. he was another kittypet ; intrusive, pathetic, and refusing to leave without a fight.

teeth slip into delicate flesh with almost no resistance, the smoke's stomach turning with the ease in which porcelain fangs latched deep into the meat on the side of his throat ; blood wells from the torn slots around his teeth, coating his tongue and throat with thick, iron - laden crimson. without a thought the marshlander pulls, ripping flesh from the older tom's neck and effectively severing his jugular. the speed in which blood is released nearly startles him, spurts of red erupting from the blushing wound and it's too much. cicada is abruptly aware of how much it was, liquid pouring enough to spatter noisily beneath the tabby's dripping throat and drenching his viscera - coated forepaws. the cat is dying before he knows it, floundering desperately for life for just a moment fore his massive figure folds, crumbling unceromoniously to the ground. rain's unmoving body begins to alert those around them, the chimera suddenly hyperaware of the way attention is zeroing in on him quicker than he can stop it.

rain.

" no . . " the marshlander begins, icecap luminaries flattering wildly from side to side. the pine colony's leader. the massive male who'd thrown him from that pitiful cinnamon tabby just a few sunrises ago. his throat is still spilling and suddenly the dark - pelted tom is shoving snowy paws over the gaping wound, attempting to stifle the blood that poured steadily still from the bite, " no, no . . no! i didn't mean -- " his tone is growing more frantic, attracting even more attention to those who'd faltered in their combat around. he pushes desperately on the leader, to no avail. his body is motionless, eyes glazed and shadowed with death. his chest had shuddered it's last breath moments prior, and the trickle of red from his wounds had not ceased it's steady, thick downpour. he throws his skull upward, wild gaze locking on no one in particular. he couldn't make out the faces of his fellow colony mates from the kittypets, loners and outsiders that littered the area just beneath the oak canopies, mottled with blood and dirt as they were. they were staring at him. their eyes burn holes in his curled pelt, lips pulling violently over pink gums and nose crinkling with a vengeance.

" stop looking at me! " cicada hisses, odd vocals sloped with panic and fear as he stumbled back, nearly slipping on the tabby's blood in his haste to get away, " stop! don't look at me! " it's wild -- feral. pine colony cats advance suddenly and without another word the curled mix turns tail, disappearing into the crowd in a blur of white - black. shit!

out of character information translations

• − CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
  − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
  − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers
  
  
• none.

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