Warrior Cat Clans 2 (WCC2 aka Classic) is a roleplay site inspired by the Warrior series by Erin Hunter. Whether you are a fan of the books or new to the Warrior cats world, WCC2 offers a diverse environment with over a decade’s worth of lore for you - and your characters - to explore. Join us today and become a part of our ongoing story!
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You know, it’s really all very funny — everyone’s so afraid of me, and here I am running from my mother. Druzyprince gave a huff, though there was not enough force for it to be annoyed and not quite a sigh, either — more a sign of acknowledgement, a quick, breath of anxiety or defeat or whatever else he was feeling in the moment (he couldn't quite tell; there was too much going on). "Just don't," he jabbed Kier again, breaking through the crowd, "let them see you like this. It'll get to their heads." He slowed, taking air into his lungs. "I'm sure they'd understand if they met her, though."
He cast a scrutinizing look behind himself before turning the corner, taking in as much as he could in the seconds that he had looked. The space behind them was mostly clear, save for the shapeless mass of fighting cats further down, and there was no window ledges or rafters anyone could sneak across, either. He turned and followed, and even though he was sure they had lost Rhiannon, he still felt the prickle of eyes on the back of his neck. He knew, in truth, that it was his own anxiety, and that despite the fact he'd tried to distract himself with Kier's problems as opposed to his own, the fear that his family would find him still preoccupied his mind, unwavering and persistent. Ash fluttered off his pelt as he sped up to catch up to his mentor.
This is rather the pickle. His tail lashed; he tilted his head towards Kier, a sneer, angry and scared, crossed his face. "You think?" He snapped. "You really thought this was a good idea? You know I'll go along with whatever whim you have, but this? I know you're smarter than to think this would actually work. And —" he turned his head away sharply, sneer disappearing to make room for a tired, drawn expression, "and I'll follow you still, but this idea had too many holes, too many risks, to be a plausible victory. What happens when your mother finds us? If she can kill you surely she can kill me. What about my father? What then? What now?" His anger melted away almost immediately, replaced by a desolate feeling, a hopelessness. The only thing closest to anger that Kier would have experienced from him, aside from his first few days of training under him, was sarcastic quips or occasional sighs of annoyance, never a full blown outburst. Druzyprince tried not to doubt him, and for the most part he was always convinced that Kier knew best, that he was right in whatever twisted idea he had, even if Druzyprince didn't like it, and he always, always went along, but he was so high-strung tonight, so frustrated, that he couldn't help but snap at him. fox
Oleanderpaw didn't feel like she could breathe, and even though the small, rapid rise-and-falls of her chest and the movement of her nose spoke that she was, indeed, breathing, she still felt like she was suffocating, like the room was too small and she was too big, like she was drowning. She lay pitifully on the floor, fur beginning to crust and mat where it sat in the blood of herself and others, shaking and in shock. She'd expected glory, power; she'd expected to win, and yet death felt closer than ever and she'd never been so scared in her young life. Death had always been an intriguing mystery, a morbid curiosity of hers, and suffering went hand-in-hand with it, and yet now she'd prefer if it forever stayed that way — just a mystery. Perhaps that was where the claustrophobic feeling came from, the very idea that she might not make it out. She didn't want to die, she couldn't.
Despite the rolling, burning pain that stemmed from the gash in her neck, and despite the constant blur and spin of her vision, she was able to think coherently enough now to stand, albeit shakily, unsteadily. Her eyes were wide, watery and lost and confused, and her ears couldn't take in the noise of the fighting around the loud ringing. She took a janky step forward, stumbling the next few before coming to a stop, lifting her head to see the faint outline of the cat who had attacked her, another form on the ground before him. Both were a grey and shapeless mass.
"I need —" her words hardly came out as anything above an airy squeak, and to most it would look like her mouth was moving without any sound at all, "help."
PRIMAL INSTINCT
Sinclair's eyes didn't leave the apprentice, brows downturned slightly, as if he were studying him. His stance wasn't aggressive despite the fact that he'd been attacked moments prior — and the result of which still left prominent puncture wounds of teeth in his shoulder, though he seemed to pay them no mind — and, quite surprisingly, he seemed almost relaxed. Almost, had there not been a tingling feeling in his brain, the wriggle of an old memory or feeling, something long left behind. Finally, he tore his gaze away, eyes flickering towards Doefreckle as he arrived (someone unfamiliar to him), then towards Rasalas. I will be a warrior after this! He turned back to Bunnypaw.
"Warrior?" He sounded almost curious, "not if you're dead. I'm sure there's many here who won't hold back like we did." Sinclair stood back as the apprentice wriggled out of the grasp he was held with and bolted off into the battle once more, so determined to find glory. He didn't give chase — there was no need, all it would do was start another fight that he didn't want to participate in. It seemed like forever until he tore his eyes away from the spot where the apprentice's tail-tip had disappeared into the crowd of fighting. Sinclair lifted his head to look at Rasalas as he stopped next to him, giving a soft, though brief, smile.
Thank you. It was so simple, and even though it was courtesy of anyone to say thank you after helping them out, Sinclair still felt a warmness at the words. "No bother." There were edges of worry to his features, his words, as he looked towards the crowd again. "What do we do now? I —" his eyes landed on the white apprentice, lost and stumbling, and before he could do something foolish, something reckless, he looked away. "This isn't good for my. . . my head." Physically, he could survive it, he could survive almost anything — he had, he'd proven it, surely — but emotionally? His mind played a repeating echo of laughter, old and familiar and unnerving, and what he truly meant when he said it wasn't good for his head was that it jogged something, reawakened the brief sound of a memory he didn't want to uncover. "We can leave?" Sinclair didn't want for answer, waving Rasalas along with his tail as he padded towards the nearest exit, tail flicking uneasily behind him. wrenpansy
i'll add speedy in a bit <3 also, im eternally gushing over sinclair and rasalas and POOR BABY OLEANDER
NIGHTCLAN
When Laertes snapped at him, Kier startled, turning his head to look up at him with widened eyes that looked faintly betrayed, like the lamb had grown teeth and aimed them at him. “Well, don’t shout at me!” he snapped back — thought it was less of a snap and more a kind of desperate, bewildered exclamation that verged on a confused, high sort of plea, because if Laertes started to yell at him then things were really falling to pieces. But as Laertes went on, it turned to indignant irritation. “Of course it’s working! Look around — it’s working perfectly. Victory is guaranteed. I planned for every variable and it’s come out exactly as I said it would. Granted, I had— forgotten about my mother, because she really spends very little time in the Mansion and I—“ He circled his paw in the air, now talking quicker as he became more defensively sheepish, “you know, I thought that wouldn’t have changed. But that’s— you know, yes, that’s entirely my fault and I’m sorry for dragging you into it.” He was the only cat in the world, bar Eris, that he would apologise to; this, though, had slightly selfish undertones, because he couldn’t have him alienated from him.
At the mention of Laertes’ father, when his protégé’s anger began to give way to frightened babbling, so too did Kier’s frustration give way to sympathy — however contrived, however intent on filling that chasm that had now emerged with disarming sentiment to make Laertes lean back into his care, however close to guilt-tripping it came, because Kier looked out for Laertes just as much as he looked out for Kier and how selfish it was of him to think otherwise. He cared for Laertes, deeply and genuinely; he was still going to prey on that first hint of weakness to draw him back in and keep him loyal. His eyes softened and he stepped closer, touching his nose gently to the soft flesh of his upper foreleg, ash filling his senses; once he would have touched a paw to his shoulders and drawn him against him, but those days were long past and he had grown far too much since then. “Your father is distracted — we’ll be out before he sees you. And to do that,” he looked back out along the hallway, shifting closer to Laertes like he were a coach at a wrestling match, motivating his pupil; his voice drew quieter, more intimate, their pelts brushing, “you’re going to have to get us out of this. Just because she killed me doesn’t mean she’s a fair match for you —“ He looked up at him with a fond little grin, “we’re of quite different statures. You’re a fighter, Laertes.” The words were enthusiastic, so quiet, so hushed and reverent, like they were too sacred to say louder. His pale grey eyes didn’t leave his. “This is what you’ve been trained for. You’re twice her size, with someone who truly cares for you, who believes in you, at your back — she has nothing. She is nothing.”
He didn’t say it — he didn’t need to; it was in the very air between them, whispered like fine powder — but he was hoping his mother would die tonight.
Outside of them, things seemed to be going well — he’d glimpsed Oleanderpaw all covered in muck, and that was a shame because he really did like her, and if he’d had a little more time without his mother making an appearance then he would’ve gone over to her and helped her away to a quiet corridor and found some way to stem the bleeding; sent Laertes to the greenhouse, you know, and mocked up a quick poultice like a battlefield medic. But he didn’t have that blessed time, and so he just hoped, in a distant part of his mind that was quieter and calmer, that he would see her back at camp when this was over. He didn’t trust the medicine cat, so he’d treat her himself. Aside from that, though, the vast majority was very fine indeed — League dead littered the floor and so far not a single NightClan body had joined them; resistance had been expected, given they were defending their own home, but NightClan was holding up well, well enough that Kier felt proud indeed; and if he could just get away from the curse of Rhiannon, then he’d be happy to retreat in a matter of minutes. That feeling of flippant buoyancy, however, no matter how galvanising NightClan’s success, was soon to change. goldcrest
I’m listening. When Bermondsey locked his gaze with his, waiting, Leveretpaw could only stare. He was utterly silent, frozen, his eyes wide and his throat forming a sort of horrible choking sound — because he had nothing. He had nothing to give. It had been an act of desperate treachery to save his own, cowardly life, to save Oleanderpaw — he had expected questions after, in the nights and weeks that followed, not now. Not here.
And he had nothing.
He was a Reporter, but he wasn’t a good one — he heard things, he saw things, but he kept them to himself, some frail attempt at mercy; and certainly no one who knew anything let it trickle down through the branches, let alone told him. He was insignificant, irrelevant. The silence stretched, and with it came a certain hopelessness, a helplessness, a despondent calm that was more death than peace — this was it. This was—
“Snowblister,” he suddenly blurted out, and the deputy’s name came out in a desperate, high, choking cry. “She and Kier— they’re in a bad place. At the last trial— she went against him and he was mad. He was so mad. Now they’re not speaking— contradicting orders come out because they don’t consult each other. They— everyone’s saying only one’s going to come out on top.” He fell silent, and the suddenness of it stretched out and widened his eyes further, because now they were filled with please. Please. Please let it be enough. His forepaws pressed against the Nemesis, trying to force himself as far away as possible — but he couldn’t get far at all, not with his back leg clamped in his jaws. Already he could feel that his teeth had touched bone; the pain was unbearable, like nothing he had known in his life, but it didn’t make him struggle — it was pain, it was fear, too blindingly absolute for that. He could only stay stock still, waiting for the verdict, waiting for judgement. Hoping for mercy. He stared at the Nemesis, his mouth slightly open in the pleading, innocent beg he didn’t dare say aloud; something in him told him that if he had a chance, it was by not snapping the silence, by not saying a word, by not breathing. It would only make him angry. achromatic
Brat?! What are you doing here? “I—“ Her eyes were wide, darting; it was clear she was slightly dissociating. The words wouldn’t come. She tried a big grin. “I came to help! So I could be an apprentice. You were—“ Her voice became quicker as she tried to explain, not because she felt she’d done anything wrong but because Bumblebeepaw had to see how much it meant to her, being here, “you were getting older, and you’re gonna be out of the apprentice’s den any second, and I— I wanted to have those slumber parties, like we talked about. Before you went.” She stared up at him desperately, brows together, utterly earnest.
You can't just go running around here, you'll get yourself— The scream cut them off, and from somewhere to her right a cat’s paw tore through someone’s jugular, spattering blood across half her face. Brat gasped and nodded, trying her best to beam through the blood, like it were haute couture, or like it were confetti that had been thrown across her at a party and she was perfectly happy about it, even as her stomach roiled. She didn’t care about blood one bit — she’d been going to trials since she could walk, had cheered at the particularly gory endings and taken bets on them. And she still didn’t; it wasn’t about the blood. It was just that being in the thick of things was very different to watching on the sidelines, where she’d been her entire life. But this was where she’d always wanted to be, and she wasn’t going to let Bumblebeepaw force her away. “Killed?” she piped up, trying to be so cheerfully brave, like she were the one comforting them now. “Don’t worry — wasn’t in the tarot readings for tonight!” But at least stay close to me, can you do that? She nodded again — and then a look of pleading crossed her face. “Just don’t tell my dad I was here — please.” Dragging her eyes away, she looked back to Oleanderpaw — and then, disobeying Bumblebeepaw already by leading them instead of the other way around, she ran over to her, darting between legs and across the puddle of blood. “Wow,” she exclaimed by way of greeting, “they really did a number on you, huh? You look even worse than usual.” She knew that if it were a choice between being helped by her and death, the apprentice might choose death.
But, without waiting for an answer, not knowing if she could even hear her, she stopped her, darted her head from side to side, spotted a gauzy white curtain hanging from a tall, arched window next to them — and tore off the bottom with her teeth. Sitting back on her hindpaws, she began to stuff strips into her old enemy’s gaping throat. “Ain’t no moss, but then you ain’t nothin’ worse savin.” She smiled up at her.
“Don’t worry, ol’ Oleander — I did a reading for everyone here tonight and it didn’t say you was gonna die, said you was gonna fall in loove.” She leaned closer and waggled her brows, glancing back at Bumblebeepaw as she continued to work with her paws. She ripped a bit more of the fabric with her teeth, letting out a little grunt. “No one’s dyin’ tonight,” she told her again as she stuffed it into her throat, low and cheerful and breezy as a nurse in Ypres.
Innocently, she looked up as Rhiannon past. “Hey, she looks like my aunt Kate,” she commented to the air itself with all the cheery confidence of a child, like it truly were just a wonder to be seen for a moment and then moved on from. She'd only seen the prisoner in passing, had no family love for her beyond vague, callous interest, the callousness of a child. Just as quickly, she looked back to the red-white, sodden fur of Oleanderpaw and went back to work. wrenpansygoldcrestachromatic
PRIMAL INSTINCT
Doe let out a little sound when Hywel pulled him closer, surprised but not displeased, a startled, smiling sound. I thought I lost you just now. “Ohhh…” He waved his broken paw dismissively from where he was held up against Hywel, giving a self-deprecating little half-grin, “I’m always around somewhere.” When he tilted his chin up, he just smiled softly. “I know,” he replied quietly, and there was no pain to it.
When Hywel let him go, looking after his sister, Doe half sat back, watching in wide-eyed, faintly alarmed silence and faint, lingering fear as he tried to work out the family dynamics. “Wait—“ he blurted out, frantic and bewildered and full of dread, because even if Hywel didn’t see it, this was bad news. Even if the mass ranks League, cut off from the Clans, were uncaring or oblivious, Doe was a gossip, and no one did gossip better than SummerClan — and in the weeks before he’d been exiled, he’d heard names, stories. And one now stuck out. “Kier? Your sister’s son— your nephew is the leader of NightClan?” He again sounded accusing, as was Doe’s way, like Hywel had purposefully not known, or like he hadn’t told him, even if he couldn’t possibly have. “As in— the one who—Hywel!” he exclaimed again, eyes stretching even wider, like he were trying to make him see. “He did this!”
But, finally, after a long moment of staring, Doe let out an annoyed, overwhelmed sort of sound — a sound that said, as much as he didn’t like it, he was on Hyewl’s side. Once, he might have tried to claw him back and plead with him to stay here and not interfere where it might be dangerous, using all his defenceless, flirtatious wiles to make a tom stay; all for entirely selfish reasons. Now, though, he just nodded, feeling courage mostly unknown to him even as his throat closed up with anxiety. He saw Sinclair and Rasalas begin to head off and gave the black and white tom a small, tight smile that might have been warmer in different circumstances; it was just as much a farewell as Rasalas’ tail flick had been a greeting, both silent and united by nothing more than faint companionship tied to this home and to certain respective toms. Then Doe’s gaze returned to Hywel, slightly emboldened as he gave him a little nod and let out an exhale, like he was trusting his life to Hywel’s hands. “Okay. Let’s go help the bad guy.”
Post by unknownhearts on May 9, 2022 1:41:21 GMT -5
(guys i'm just gonna throw you some random bs cause i just spent like 2 hours reading this dam thread. also should be in bed by now so ignore my bad rping)
Nightclan
Aridcolors couldn't understand the buzz from the apprentices, even the tall tales from the warriors as they marched to their deaths. Even if the battle was fine, even turned in their favor, it wasn't like this was a clean victory. The bottle of poison swung by her neck as she slunk through the battlefield. Forced to shove bodies she couldn't even tell were friend or foe out of her path, the stench of blood made her gag.
She had no desire, no lust for this. Even if others were finding their passions, the scenery around her made her feel like nothing. It wouldn't matter if she died, or if she lived. If she killed, or if she didn't. So the bottle stayed closed, and her claws sheathed. Though any swipes at her made her sprint away. A few cuts here and there but nothing she wasn't used to as she found herself at the doorway.
Surprisingly, it was here where the smell was the worst. Like drinking stagnant water, or tasting the bitterness of defeat. It made her feel something, so it must have been impactful. The Inferior watched as Brat ran up to the dying form of Oleanderpaw, her attempts to stop the bleeding mayhaps working. Like a puppet, her body turned without any input from her mind. Just what was she thinking? This was the furthest thing from not getting involved with all these bigwigs.
But Aridcolors found herself with more clean curtains taken from who knows where. She couldn't remember even cutting them. She only knew the sinewy taste of them as she came alongside Brat and Bumblebeepaw. "Let me help." Her voice was oddly hoarse, like she had been screaming. But these were the first words that passed her lips this trip. The she-cat stood next to Oleanderpaw, letting the apprentice lean on her as she attempted to slow the bleeding from her neck. foxwrenpansygoldcrest
Primal Instinct
What an awful night for insomnia. Of course, he just so happened to go in the opposite direction of where Nightclan would come. Of course some divine being decided to spare him an easy way out with poison. Ironic. Pesmerga should have been in the hunter's room, should of just slept through his demise. Not sat up and talking with a few city cats a good ways away from the manor. He had no clue what he was walking into.
The initial yowls just sounded like birdsong in the night air. Those birds would sleep through it. It was just another day in the world. The sun would rise on this tragedy and he'd have to walk in none the wiser. The first sign something was up was a particularly shrill sound on his way back. The second was seeing one of the few windows reverberate. The bengal's pawsteps hurried, not even sure what he'd find. Sure, he was called a party pooper as his friends continued their games, but for once it was better than being called a deserter.
Pesmerga burst through the front of the manor, immediately flattening his ears as the yowls of battle pierced the air. He could make out shapes on the floor above, and the reek of pine needles flooded him. Maybe Doefreckle wasn't the problem. Maybe it was him. He'd only been back a few days before this whole mess. An old feeling cropped up in him, one he hadn't felt in a long time. For once, his feet picked up the pace at every noise and scream. His claws were already primed. Pesmerga remembered this feeling, the desire to protect his family. He was in his stride
And then he saw Eshek's crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs.
He hated to admit he had been avoiding her since his return. What was he to say? Or do? Would she even know him? Not by his coat, that was for sure. Maybe his voice? Eh, probably not. Not to mention the things that had happened since they last saw each other. He couldn't tell anything apart. Whether he was bitter, happy, angry. He couldn't know. Or Pesmerga didn't let himself know. But, he veered to her side. "Eshek." His voice was quiet, shaking as he nosed at her unconscious form. He dug his claws into the carpet. "Eshek! ESHEK!! Wake up!" also fox
It was almost funny how easy it was to almost feel like things were normal with Brat making comments about sleep-overs in the apprentice den, about tarot cards, with just Brat being Brat. For a moment, through the blood, the death, the pain, the horror, things felt like they were nearly stock standard; like they could have just as easily been in camp as in a roaring battlefield. Even the splatter of blood, as horrific as it was, could have felt mundane for a moment. Like the kind at a trial, like the one in a little too aggressive combat training. Of course it didn't lessen the tumultuous feeling of anxiousness and a sense of urgency with every passing second, but it did bring back some odd sense of stability, like they were fully, truly themselves again, and not just a body being worked on puppet strings in response to instinct, panic, anger, and some sliver of logical thought.
“Just don’t tell my dad I was here — please.” For the first time since the start of the battle, Bumblebeepaw threw a grin at Brat, a sort of wry, conspiratorialness to it mixed with a note of slightly strained humor. "What do I look like to you, a goddamn snitch?" But the words had barely left their mouth before Brat was off, rushing over to Oleanderpaw, and though they felt an exasperated sigh burn in their throat, they didn't have time to let it out before they were right at her heels, right behind her, and looking down at Oleanderpaw. Whatever brief moment of levity was sucked from the air with a leech-like morbid intensity; even Brat making her quips felt hollow, like a distant nothingness, as Bumblebeepaw, now finally up close, could take in more of the damage. The blood, the truly grotesque and near-deadly nature of the wound; it sent a shiver down their spine, and they visibly winced at bit just looked at the damage that had been dealt. Perhaps they should have figured how bad it would have been by the sheer amount of blood, perhaps they had already known and they had been lingering in some sliver of denial of it. Either way, they felt the switch touch of dread almost as present as an actual blow, and it took more effort than they would have ever liked to admit not to recoil a bit from the sight.
It was a good thing Brat had taken the initiative to stop the bleeding with the curtain; they probably wouldn't have been as quick to think of it. They had no sense of medical knowledge, not a lick of a clue how to handle what was taking place in front of them, and though they had been so sure they would have though of something just a moment ago, now their head was dotted with the newfound, uneasy realization that they might have been no help at all. They had been about to join Brat in clogging Oleanderpaw's wound, managing out a hasty, attempt at a humorous, "Yeah, don't worry we've got you. You're not dying on my watch." when both Brat spoke and Aridcolors managed to arrive at almost the exact same time.
Their first instinct was to snap their head to where the she cat Brat had mentioned was rushing past. They'd never seen Kate before, or if they had they hadn't realized it, but they vaguely acknowledged that there was indeed a league she cat running past, seeming intent on something — which was, to them, pretty concerning, but there was not much they figured they could do; not in the moment, at least. So, instead they turned back hesitantly to the scene in front of them, their gaze meeting Aridcolors with a sharp nod in greeting to her arrival, taking a half-step around her from where they had been standing. They'd generally accepted at this point they were not the medically skilled one here, but what they were at least competent in was combat, and right now, Bumblebeepaw was acutely aware the four of them were sitting ducks in the middle of an ongoing battlefield, so it only felt natural to get in front of the two of them while they worked, to act as sort of a standing guard in case someone got the bright idea it intervene.
Of course, once again looking over the scene of the fight was enough for them to catch sight of Bermondsey and Leveretpaw, and a second rise of panicked urgency wracked them, snapping their gaze back to Brat and Aridcolors. "Hey, Aridcolors, do you think you can move her really gently off to the side? The last thing we need is someone getting the bright idea to mess with the three of you, and right now we're all pretty exposed." It was half a request, half a command, and there was a tinge of a note of authority to it, because Bumblebeepaw was perfectly aware that Aridcolors was their technically their subordinate. It was rare, almost unheard, of for Bumblebeepaw to use their rank to push someone around, but these were certainly desperate times and with that came a need for desperate measures. "I've got to go do something, but Brat you should probably stick with Aridcolors and Oleander. And, you know, if anything happens just yell, I'll be there." They said with a nod and a tone of certainty much more cocky and confident than they actually felt, but it was the least they could do in terms of giving reassurance.
They didn't really wait for an answer, though the moment they turned, gaze locked on Bermondsey, Bumblebeepaw hesitated a moment. They could feel their heart pound in their chest, and for the first time they felt a wash of fear; a cold chill at the imminence of what could easily prove to be death. They had almost died the last time they engaged with the Nemesis, and Oleanderpaw had almost died too. What were the chances they'd make it out alive a second time? But in some ways, the fear was like a ignition, a spark, a reason to do something irrational to swallow down the sensation and assure, in spite of it, they did something. Letting out a sharp, thin breath of air between lightly gritted teeth, they unsheathed their claws and charged forward, and before they knew it they were right beside Bermondsey again, adrenaline too high to sense deja vu or dread, the fear melted by anticipation and a shaky sense of determination.
Their jaws snapped onto Bermondsey's scruff, and they tore back as much as possible. They knew they weren't strong enough to pull him back, but that wasn't the point. They wanted him pulled two ways, trapped between them and his own grip on Leveretpaw's leg, unable to do much unless the he gave up his hold on the other apprentice. With claws fully unsheathed, they bashed and clawed as best they could at the tom's muzzle, hoping the force, or at least the pain, would be enough to make him release Leveretpaw's leg. foxachromaticgoldcrestunknownhearts
PRIMAL INSTINCT
Rasalas only picked up a brief bit of the back and forth between Doefreckle and Hywel; enough to awkwardly take note that there was family drama — something he was not at all inclined to stick his nose into. He didn't know who Rhiannon was, he definitely didn't know who Kier was; the entire thing seemed like some paltry family squabble in the middle of a much larger combat, and he was a little too happy to hear Sinclair speak up again, because it gave a polite reason to turn his uncomfortable, diplomatic smile of an out-of-place third party overhearing the unfortunately personal scenario of two people he barely knew, into a small, gently attentive frown as he brought his full attention back to the person he at least knew a fair amount better right beside him.
"What do we do now?" At first he didn't know how to respond to Sinclair's question. He had opened his mouth a tiny bit as if to answer it, but even if Sinclair hadn't continued on, it was doubtful if he would have found a response. What did they do now? It should have been obvious, maybe it would have been for anyone else. They probably should have been fighting, should have been leaping back into the fray of combat, but of course, neither of them were inclined to. Rasalas couldn't fight, and wouldn't have wanted to even if he could have; and it was clear Sinclair wasn't inclined to join into the combat either, a fact which slightly relieved him, even if perhaps that was more a detriment to them both in this exact situation. But, in spite of the fact that, logically, given both of their aversion, the most obvious action was off the table, and the only other answer was exactly what Sinclair seemingly decided upon — that they should just leave — Rasalas was almost dumbfounded as Sinclair started for the nearest exit.
Of course he still followed; it was almost as if not following was out of the question, his gaze only briefly flicking back behind him as they left to assure himself of the fact that no one was going to attack them from behind, or that one of their superiors wasn't watching to yell at them and drag them back into throws of combat. And it was funny really, because at the start of everything he had been so close to just leaving, to just running out and abandoning this place and never looking back, and now, following Sinclair out, he couldn't quite rationalize now why he had stayed. It seemed irrational now to have done so, to have risked his life in a room full of cats he didn't know, for a group he was in the bottom rung of in the distasteful position of being one of the "new guys" with no connections. But of course, it hadn't been logical at all. It had been the fear of what would happen if he did leave; not of retribution, not of league cats hunting him down for him abandoning them — though that might very well have happened, it hadn't been on his mind. It was that unique fear of the abject loneliness of going off again, the type of chilling, ghostly silence of wandering through wide expanses of hillsides and forest and near-empty city streets. If there was one thing he had learned, one thing he had quickly understood in his time traveling alone, it was that he absolutely could not stand it. There were some cats who could live by themselves with no connections, making friends with random strangers and then moving on again, perpetual wanderers with no ties but between them and the open land. Rasalas was aware of it, he'd met cats like that, but they confused him, befuddled him. He couldn't do that, could never do that, and being in the league had reminded him how absolutely desperate he'd been some some measly sense of companionship, even if that companionship had been nothing more than a room filled with strangers and suspicious glance in his direction. And that, perhaps, was what made all the difference between when he had first been panickily searching through a battlefield of cats to now; he was actually beside someone, someone he knew, if only in a brief, fleeting sort of way. He barely knew Sinclair really, which made the sort of dog-like attachment so great that he had just followed him out without a second thought to it almost pitiful; but from another perspective it was really only natural, because even if he only knew Sinclair a little better than he knew everyone else, the tom still was, given his unfortunate situation, the person he was closest to in this entire place, the only person in his life at the moment he knew more than just passing in hallways and general pleasantries before the other went about their day. And the fact that he had come to essentially save his life was only an added reason to stick close by, because if anything had proven that there was a bond worth more than just a tawdry acquaintanceship, it was that.
There was an odd feeling that came about him as they broke free of the hunter's den into the wider expanse of the Mansion. The fighting hadn't quite spilled out from the room yet, though he wasn't necessarily certain that it wouldn't do so soon. But for now, for this small, slim moment in time, they were in an uneasy safety. It was like waiting for a tornado to strike, or for a fire to encroach to where you were huddled in a corner. There was a brevity in that relief, a feeling that it would not last long, but it was relief and safety all the same, and though Rasalas could hear the sound of his heart beating rapid-fire in his chest, his breath still shaky, he felt for the first time his entire body lose a bit of the tenseness that he'd felt since he'd awoken not long ago. Speeding up his pace again so once more he was side by side with Sinclair, he turned a sympathetic, softly concerned gaze his way, his eyes darting down to his shoulder before meeting his eyes again.
"Are you okay? I know he tried to do a number on you." It was half in reference to the tom's shoulder, but half, though it was very lightly implied, in reference to how he was doing after everything that had happened. He'd mentioned his head, and though Rasalas could only guess at what it meant, he figured it was in connection to the horror of it all, the chaos. It certainly hadn't been good for his mental state either, though really, it was hard to believe war could be good for anyone's.
Padding a little further away from the room, Rasalas gently turned his head for one brief moment away from Sinclair to look warily back at the room, a small sense of urgency mixed with a quiet acceptance of how short of a time they might actually have to avoid facing combat, and their was a war in him between speeding up his pawsteps and stopping all together. But he didn't, he continued to match Sinclair's, and he ever so softly leaned in a bit to where their pelts brushed, careful not to accidentally touch the tom's shoulder. It wasn't really an overt gesture of affection per se; if he had wanted to flirt, to hint at anything more, he'd never been overly shy about it, at least, not in the way he was hesitant about this. Instead it was some desperate need for some reassurance in the chaos of things, of the fact that they were there, together and alone, in some tiny, ever-fleeting moments that might hold some weight of finality if they weren't careful and luck was against them. And he was incredibly hesitant, because he was more than aware if Sinclair took offense he might be left alone again, and then he would be back where he was before — worse than he was before, really — because he'd have no one else to turn to or stand behind, and he'd probably burned a few bridges by leaving just now. So it was only gentle, almost completely, inoffensively so; in the way that might have come across as an accident if he hadn't lingering there as they continued on, with seemingly no intent on pulling away if Sinclair himself didn't. goldcrest
Oh, now that was interesting. Bermondsey didn’t expect a cat so young to have any substantial piece of information, but he had spoken to Hawise once or twice about this, about their need to find a straw man, a puppet king for the clan to rally behind if they were to take it down from the outside. As much as he detested Aspenstar, a puppet leader had been an excellent idea, and well, sowing discord for the sake of getting what he wanted would do nicely for them, no?
He was actually quite pleased with this tidbit of information, and perhaps he was about to let Leveretpaw go, but suddenly he felt another cat grabbing his scruff and pulling him back, as his head jerked backwards in surprise, yanking the tom’s leg with him, as a prickle of claws slashed against his muzzle, the metallic taste of blood now seeping into his mouth.
“–and here I was going to let you go,” he spoke through muffled fur, only enough for Leveretpaw to hear, “I guess I can’t have your classmates thinking you betrayed them…I promise I’ll make it convincing…”
He clamped down hard against Leveretpaw’s joint, allowing Bumblebeepaw to pull him backwards as if this was all just a teensy, tiny mistake, as if he had stumbled and fallen just a little bit off-center, paws slamming down to find a balance and instead, landing a blow ‘clumsily’ on Leveretpaw’s leg as he fell.
A loud snap could be heard.
Bermondsey released his grip, a satisfied smirk on his lips, green eyes blazing in amusement as he stared into the apprentice’s eyes, surely hoping it’d be nightmare fuel for the poor cat. “Whoops,” he spoke, his gaze drifted slightly to Bumblebeepaw. If he was lucky, the other apprentice would be distracted by his classmate’s injury, and by the fact that it surely appeared as if all of this was a measly accident caused by a three way struggle.
Oh, he didn’t have time for this. Pulling himself to his paws as blood still ran from his muzzle–from Bumblebeepaw’s claws or Leveretpaw’s injury, it was hard to tell–he began his pursuit of the one he deemed as responsible for this whole mess, he had bigger fish to kill. wrenpansyfox
sorry i'm torturing u both sm ♥
Rhiannon wasn't blind, nor was she deaf. Her tunnel-vision mind was quickly interrupted by a voice. Hey, she looks like my aunt Kate. Aunt Kate? Had Kier already created a brood of his own? Disgusting. Her lips twisted in a sneer. First of all, she hoped she looked nothing like her daughter; she hated the idea that her kits could be traced back to herself. She had never wanted a single one of them; they should've all disappeared from her life the moment she had left that barn.
Yet...she wasn't one of those cats who was afraid of getting her paws a little dirty. Sure, she hadn't been the one to sacrifice random league cats to the three-headed god, but that didn't mean she wasn't willing to. After all, anything she could use against Kier to slice off another piece of his lives meant that she'd have a better chance of success. Oh, how fortunate it was for her, that the other apprentice had left the kit alone with a warrior who seemed too preoccupied with stopping another cat from dying to babysit.
She came barreling in, scooping up the kit in her jaws as she immediately disappeared into the crowd. Oh, a bargaining chip was just what she needed. "Stay still if you know what's good for you," she hissed at the kit, tightening her grip for a moment, not a threat but a promise. With that, she made her way towards Kier; oh she was going to take all of his lives one day, and this was a perfect opportunity.
Doefreckle's ramblings made no sense to Hywel, but perhaps it was because he was so out of the loop. He didn't really care about the clan cats much, only occasionally hearing the rumours here and there, and of course he knew about NightClan, but things had changed so quickly in the night that this was all...news to him. "Wait, what?" he blinked in confusion, his brow furrowed as he tilted his head towards Doefreckle, "what are you talking about? He's barely old enough to graduate from a trainee to a hunter, what do you mean he's leading NightClan?"
He couldn't reconcile what was going on with his image of Kier, his nephew, the one who had been so soft spoken, so eager to please, so desperate for any feeling of familial care...he couldn't. This cat was still his sister's kit, a cat who he had taken in as family. "I'm sure there's some reason or answer for this," he was clearly in denial, "I bet if we sit down and talk, we can get to the bottom of this, it must be all a misunderstanding..."
At Kier's defensiveness, Druzyprince glowered, ears flattening in something akin to distressed annoyance, though it was more resigned. It didn't feel like this was working, it didn't feel like they were winning, though perhaps it was just his nerves, perhaps it was the looming threat of their families that rubbed him the wrong way, or maybe it was the fact that, in a way, the League was still his home, and to see them so brutalized sent unease cascading through him. But that’s— you know, yes, that’s entirely my fault and I’m sorry for dragging you into it. He pursed his lips, let out a shaky breath through his nose and gave a hint of a nod — his silent way of accepting Kier's apology.
Druzyprince led them further down the hall, further away from the fighting, taking in the words Kier spoke into his ears with a worried, unsure look, though he didn't protest, didn't complain. "Right — what one can't do, they teach. . ." the words were hardly above a whisper, spoken more to himself as a reminder, because he'd spent so much time putting Kier on a pedestal that he almost forgot that there were ways in which Druzyprince got to shine next to him. Naturally, he was tall and imposing, and months of climbing things and jumping trees and swimming and running had built up muscle, one of the only differences between him and his father — where Bermondsey was lean and willowy, built like a sword, Druzyprince was sturdy, built like a shield. You’re a fighter, Laertes. He nodded again. The name only felt right to be spoken on League grounds, and he'd nearly forgotten how much he missed it. Kier's speech worked to heighten his optimism, to chase away the uneasy feeling that had sat like a rock in his gut, and though he still hoped he didn't have to face Rhiannon at all, the possibility was no longer as frightening as it had been. Bermondsey was distracted, Eshek was nowhere to be found, and his sisters were probably safe and hidden away. He could breathe, finally. fox
Wow. The words sounded as if they were being said underwater, and the face in front of Oleanderpaw looked very much the same way — blurry, floating, obscured. The possibility that it might have been a League hunter coming to pick of the weakest links didn't cross her mind, didn't make her attempt to move away (though, she might have resigned herself to her fate regardless), but the longer she squinted, the more the figure became clearer. Though not entirely so, she could make out the faded grey of a cat smaller than herself, features large, voice hardly registering at all but feeling vaguely familiar. If she knew it were Brat, notortious scammer and enemy of Oleanderpaw, perhaps that would have willed her to recoil. The touch of fabric to her throat startled her for the sheer wave of pain it sent through her body, and each adjustment or new piece added felt very much the same way, but eventually enough was there to hold back the rest of the bleeding — it had slowed, though not by much, moments before, no longer pouring out of her throat but dripping, and with the makeshift bandage that stopped, too. She knew the cat before her was speaking, and she gave a squinting, confused look, still trying to decipher it all. Her mind hadn't cleared yet. She was as confused, small, and afraid as she had been in the days after she was first brought to Nightclan after the death of her mother, and it was a feeling she hated with every fibre of her being, to be so vulnerable and weak, but she couldn't find the energy to chase it away, not when she was so close to falling.
There was another cat, too, someone that didn't have the same familiar feeling that the other one had, though she still leaned on them, accepting the support and the tinge of comfort that came with it. When she came to her senses, either when her vision cleared still in the Mansion or when she woke up in the safety of Nightclan's camp, when she realized it was Brat who had chosen to help her first, she might be defensive, upset for no other reason than pettiness and a long-held grudge, but even then when those feelings were the forefront, there was a hint of thankfulness, something she might never admit. All Oleanderpaw knew in the moment was that she owed them, whoever they turned out to be. unknownhearts
PRIMAL INSTINCT
Unlike Rasalas, Sinclair didn't take the time to check his surroundings for those who might wish to stop them, to drag them back or to fight then and there; his pawsteps were set in a brisk, rushed pace, and if he could have, he would have been dragging his companion behind him by the hand. He led them out through a jarred door and into a deserted hallway, though his stride didn't lessen. He knew it wasn't the honourable thing to leave, but neither Sinclair nor Rasalas were built for fighting, and though Sinclair had the impulse to throw himself into battle like he had previously, he didn't actually have the drive or the strength or the knowhow to hold his ground. He could shake off wounds, injuries, without blinking twice — he'd subjected himself to worse while testing his immortality, he'd fallen down hills or broken bones or sat in ice water and always came out unfeeling in the end — but it was the fear that always got to him.
Sinclair turned into a dim-lit room and slowed to a stop. I know he tried to do a number on you. He couldn't help but laugh, glancing at the marks on his shoulder. "Oh, that? It's alright — I've faced burr bushes worse than that. Really, I have; quite a few funny stories, actually." He shook out his fur as if it were simply dirty, sending a few droplets to the floor. "It's late, is all. And I don't like to see so much fighting." He said it as if it were nothing to be concerned with, flippant and callous and unimpressed, but there was a tinge of worry, of unease, in his tone. He tried to shrug it off, to smile and forget about it in the quiet of the little room they had entered.
"Are you?" He asked back, giving Rasalas a slight nudge with his shoulder as he padded past, further away from the doorway. "That apprentice certainly spooked you." It was a light tease after a genuine question, made to downplay the situation. wrenpansy
not in my element today and also i had no time, forgive the slight shoddiness </3
posting what i have while i do esh anddoe done! <3
NIGHTCLAN
Right — what one can’t do, they teach. . .Kier gave him a wry, secretive little smile, teasing, like despite all the chaos and death and fear around them, all that mattered in that small space was them. He liked what Laertes’ language had become — he’d always been a proper child, but now that blend of teenage colloquialism and too-clipped poshness, that melting pot of not knowing what was Bermondsey and what was Kier; it was a heady mix. “Even so,” he told him with the hint of a pleasurable purr in his voice, his eyes hooded and both his pupils equally blown as he padded along at Laertes’ side, letting himself be led towards the very end of the hall and briefly forgetting about his mother, “after tonight, no one will say I can’t cause my fair share of death. Then let them say what this little runt can’t do.”
Dad!
Instinctively, still smiling, still lost in that briefly weightless moment of warmth, the world forgotten to him in the haze of his own dreams, Kier turned around. Not many kits in NightClan had known fathers, fathers they could address so informally — whatever his relationship with his children, he was used to that word meaning him. Immediately, as his mother slowly appeared around the corner at the end of the long hall, he faltered, stumbling to a stop where he backed into Druzyprince’s back legs and tripped slightly over his tendons. The smile fell in a heartbeat to something that looked like anxiety, that looked hurt, if hurt were tinged with pleading fear — because there was nothing his mother wouldn’t do; nothing that was sacred; nothing that was kind. “Laertes,” he breathed out, no more than a whisper, and really it was nonsensical — but the part that made sense was this: it was his way of telling him that this was important; that everything else should be put down and turned away from; that this was the priority. It surprised him just as much as it would have surprised anyone else — he openly reviled his kits; he loved his kits; he was ashamed of his kits, he resented them, he neglected and ignored them; they were his, he cared for them, he wanted them there to be unwanted. But that was a very cynical way to look at it. That sounded very much like a lie. The truth was so much simpler. The truth was something he’d never stop denying, and the truth was something plain to see on his face.
“Rhiannon,” he pleaded, tilting his head and taking a small step forward, away from the safety of Laertes — and his tone was clearly aimed at de-escalating, so casual, almost humourous, like this was all a terrible misunderstanding and she was truly misinformed if she thought any daughter of his could be a bargaining chip. It was a plea that couldn’t sound like a plea. A little grin spread across his face, a laugh bubbling up from his throat. The smugness of her — he couldn’t stand it. He wanted to humiliate her — wanted to humiliate her, even though she was right in her assessment of him, right in thinking he was weak for love. “Is there anything you won’t do? Really, you of all creatures ought to know better than to threaten me with a daughter — is that what you’re doing? I applaud the effort, mother, but I would have thought that’s very much like someone using me or my siblings to get through to you.” He laughed again. It was said so lightly, so flippantly, but the very air around him bled with bitterness. And now, Kier’s misogyny blended into some dark, swirling cocktail of elements impossible to separate from each other: he believed the things he said; they were a lie; devalue her to save her life. “Kill her, then. Go on. See if I care. She means nothing to me. There are more where she came from — some are bulging the belly of a girl as we speak.”
It pained him more than he could say, to see something as sick as a grandmother, his mother, bargaining her own granddaughter to get to him, and that fear, that bone-deep terror, that strange, sick, un-nameable horror, trembled his legs. It tasted like the same grief that had burned his throat the night of the miscarriage, though even thinking that felt treacherous; he couldn’t explain it, couldn’t justify it. He wouldn’t let himself be coerced, be blackmailed — if she did it, anyone could follow suit. But, truthfully, that practicality came so deeply second to more primal, heart-fluttering anxiety. It took the air from his very lungs; he couldn’t stop the quiet shudder of it. And for the first time, even as he stood there with his uncaring little smile and his narrow grey eyes, staring her down, daring her, it was clear that Kier was lying.
Then, subtly, silently, like someone pinging off the ring of a grenade, he tapped his tail-tip so gently against Laertes’ side. It was a clear signal, some whisper on the still breeze between stillness and explosion, some silent communication between him and the boy he’d raised: go. The second you get an opening, divert her. Get my daughter. Kill Rhiannon, maim Rhiannon, butcher, wound, preoccupy Rhiannon — he didn’t care. He just wanted his daughter. goldcrestachromatic
Brat was in the air before her lungs had a chance to breathe, ripped away from Oleanderpaw with the strips of gauzy curtain trailing from her claws and then fluttering to the ground, teeth pressing in around her. She let out a startled cry, blind with fear from the sheer, sudden confusion of it — “Bumble!” she shouted, desperate, high, wailing, because it was the first name she could think of. Because they were the only one in the Clan, the only one in the world, who might help her. Being Brat was a lonely thing, and she was happy for it — but now, that only felt like a tearing, empty nothing. No one else would try. Her voice hardly permeated through the chaos around them, swallowed up by the screams and violence and the visceral thickness of blood-stench. She reached out her paw towards them, terrified that they hadn’t heard. She opened her mouth wider to try again, brows pushing together in fear — and the teeth tightening around her silenced her.
She could have said all manner of clever things. She could have given her a winning, con artist smile and said I’ll read your fortune if ya put me down! But her fear was too absolute for them; she’d already been half-frozen on the ground, and now she was half-frozen in the air. In the careless, vicious mess of the she-cat snatching her, her foreleg had been pinned in between her jaws; every slight movement twinged her nerves against sharp back teeth. Brat could only let out pleading wails, non-sensical and terrified, all cleverness torn from her head. As they rounded the corner, she caught a flash of black from the edge of her vision and snapped her head to the side as best she could. The colour was fear; now it was hope. The look on her face — the faith — was a tragedy. Everything he’d done, everything he hadn’t, and she still believed in him. “Dad!”
But nothing was better. As he turned, as he looked at her, as he spoke, her face fell in increments — she knew what he was trying to do, but he was still gambling with her life because he wouldn’t just submit. Maybe he knew this she-cat better than she ever could — maybe he knew this was the surest bet at saving her. Maybe he knew anything else wouldn’t work. Maybe this was kindness. But for Brat, with her life held between hateful teeth, a simple thing happened: she began to cry. She began to wail, high and broken. She began to plead. “Dad— daddy, please. Please.”
An uncomfortable flick of Kier’s ear, a slight step back with one hind paw, a little, furrowing twitch of his brow that didn’t dislodge his smile, was the only sign he’d heard. The only sign that he wished he could press his ears back entirely and block her out. Brat cried harder, the raw, desperate sobs of a child, wriggling pleadingly in Rhiannon’s jaws. “Bumblebee!” she wailed, hanging her head in the air, the name little more than a raw-throated cry; it was a last attempt, a hopeless attempt, a final begging to someone she didn’t think could even hear her. wrenpansyachromatic
Leveretpaw’s eyes went wide as he caught a flash of bengal fur, as he felt Bermondsey being pulled backwards with his leg still in his jaws, with his voice so quiet and warm and cruel in his ear. “BUMBLE—“ He tried, frantic, their entire past relationship forgotten, giving way to complete informality — he would have shouted, begged, with the same desperation to any king, any queen, because the Executioner didn’t realise, they had misunderstood, they hadn’t heard what Bermondsey had said. Stop, it said — stop, stop— “BUMBLE—BUMBLE—LET GO—LET GO, HE’S—“
And then came the snap. The scream Leveretpaw made was a choking thing, the pain so absolute that there was no sound on earth he could make — it was a cry; it was disbelief. And then the Nemesis was letting him go, like he was nothing, like he was roadkill, with only the promise of a life ruined, of servitude, in his wake. Leveretpaw slithered to the bloody rug, for a moment too stunned to make a sound, to move. And then the pain hit him afresh. He let out a screaming, wailing cry that was as tearfully filled with disbelief, with the incomprehension of how his life could change so quickly in just an instant, as anything in the world. He pushed himself up into a messy sitting position, gripping his back leg with something like confusion on his face, the confusion of a young soldier who’d just lost his leg to a mortar and couldn’t understand why the rest wasn’t there. He let out a sob.
Bumble! Even in his state, he heard Brat’s cry, knew the Executioner was close to her. He looked up at them, dark tear tracks on his pale grey cheeks, his eyes full of anguish and his mouth open with choked cries grown silent for just a moment. “Go,” he told them desperately, like he knew they would be waiting for permission. “Go— go after her.” There was nothing they could do for Leveretpaw now. And, knowing he’d just condemned his own Clan even through the screaming haze of pain, knowing that one day everyone here, including Bumblebeepaw, including Oleanderpaw, would hate him as a traitor, this was selflessly selfish: this was his final act of goodness. He wanted someone to remember it. Pushing himself up with another high, sobbing cry, he limped with great, dragging movements over to Oleanderpaw and Aridcolors and, finally unable to do anything more, collapsed against his best friend. He half crushed her, blind with pain, with weakness, sliding down the thick, familiar fur of her side and crumpling half against her, half against the wall, his broken leg useless against the cold floorboards. wrenpansygoldcrestunknownhearts
Having the least terrible night of them all, Speedyraptor struggled to hold onto the League she-cat. As she kicked out with her back legs, she inadvertently pushed herself down more forcefully atop him — until, finally, she was smothering him. He couldn’t breathe through her fur, couldn’t raise his chest against the weight of her back. “Okay—okay—“ he conceded breathlessly, gripping her sides and shoving her off with force that was both brutal and surprisingly gentle, like he were setting her down on the ground rather than sending her flying.
“Okay,” he told her again, holding her gaze and holding his paw up like he were taming a lion. And then, suddenly, he darted past her and fled into the corridor. It wasn’t so much that she had gotten the better of him — it was just that he was built for speed more than he was built for fighting, and if he could just wear her down a little with a chase round the Mansion, he would have a better chance of beating her. “Oh, jeez,” he commented as he passed Oleanderpaw and Leveretpaw, wincing with no real amount of sympathy at the state of them, at all the blood, “not doin’ too hot, huh? Man— jeez. Not good.”
With that, he checked to see the she-cat was following and then raced further down the halls of the second floor, away from the staircase. vexing_ode
PRIMAL INSTINCT
Eshek! ESHEK!! The proxy groggily opened her eyes, frowning against the onslaught of her name like she was annoyed by it but couldn’t formulate a comeback. At first, the world was blurred, incomplete. Wide eyes. Dark rosettes. A cold, damp nose against her fur—
Her eyes snapped wider and she pushed herself up and away, still half-lying against the marble floor as she stared at the tom. When she finally spoke, her voice was no more than a choked, breathless whisper, her eyes wretched and bewildered, her brows pressed together in vulnerable confusion — “Funk?” As she stared at him, the look in her eyes was incomprehensible. There was hope. There was love — not the love of now, not the love she had for Bermondsey that had given her family and belonging and peace, that had given her everything she'd always wanted, but the love of someone she would never be again, someone younger, louder, full of life in a way she would never be again. There was grief, and that grief was fear: because after all this time, after all this wild, screaming mourning — because what a thing, what a thing it was to wake up after no one was there to see you die and your mate has moved on; your mate is in love; your mate buried you; your mate, your kits, those wonderful, beautiful kits you never got to know, never got to name, they’re gone — she had finally given up, finally laid him to rest, finally wrapped her life with Funk, her love with him, her dreams that died the day the rope wrapped round her neck and died again the dawn she woke up, all the things she would never know, all the futures she would never have, all the laughter and the stupid jokes and the memories, the memories of what had been a life with no ending, into a delicate satin bundle, and stroked the surface of it, and tucked it into the back of a drawer. Tucked it away and forced a smile and wiped her cheek and padded out to greet her living kits playing in the corridor with their laughter drifting in through the open door, to stand with the tom she loved now, the tom who had taken a broken thing and given her purpose. ...And if he came back, what would she do?
And then, slowly, the resemblance faded. Reality seeped back in. His eyes were wrong. His pelt was wrong. The look on his face — it was sombre in a way Funk’s had never been. That mad, mocking laughter it always had, like he were looking into the heart of you and making fun of it — that wasn’t there. But as the chance of Funk faded away and took a gaping, re-opened longing with him, another name came forward from those same memories. Eshek let out a shaky breath that held a faint, forced laugh, like he wouldn’t see the ruin of her hope. “Pesmerga,” she greeted on an exhalation of realisation, with a crooked, toothy little grin and the voice of an old, bullying babysitter seeing the kid she’d tormented all grown up. She threw out a paw and, gripping his shoulder, heaved herself up like he’d offered her his hand. And as she did so, all the vulnerability of the moment before was locked away and calcified, mentioned under pain of death. “Well, well, well.” She leered at him, looking him up and down in the middle of a battlefield, still grinning. “Pezzy-boy! Look at you — you got old.” It was funny, it was strange — she’d always been an enemy of him when he was still a trainee, so immature and violent, sticking her tongue out and making life hell for the kid who’d had the great misfortune of having this madwoman want to monopolise his dad’s time. He’d been her rival for Funk’s affection. It all seemed so inexplicable now. The sight of him, so close, with that shared time, that shared memory, between them when it was between no one else — it was both so strange and so comforting. No one else who was still here knew Funk like they did. She reached out and tweaked a hair on his muzzle, slipping right back into the role of obnoxious bully even as she felt her chest fill with love — a love that felt like trauma — that would have made the old her sick. “And grey.” She grinned at him, but it held something new that it never had before: protectiveness. Affection. Even if they were of equal age now, and he no doubt more experienced in life, he was Funk’s kid. And that counted for something. He wasn’t here to look after him now. She was. The smile stayed on her face, and it grew faintly gentler. unknownhearts
i wrote this to i bet on losing dogs and maybe i had a little cry
“If he’s old enough to be a hunter, he’s old enough to lead,” Doe hissed back, less true anger and more like the utterly domestic frustration of someone who’s boyfriend wouldn’t understand. He leaned up towards him as he said it. “What, do you know many Kiers running about? I remembered the name because I thought, hm," he tilted his head, eyes darting up to the ceiling, thinking with such exaggerated, boyish innocence, "that’s strange, like Hywel, like Rhiannon.” He leaned closer, his voice returning to normal on the last name and his frown churlish, like he was spoon-feeding him the point.
I’m sure there's some reason or answer for this. He clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, settling back down onto his paws from where he’d been leaning up and letting out a breath. He loved this about Hywel — just not in the middle of a war, of an invasion. From the start it had seemed that he would be the bickering gossip to Hywel’s gentler warmth; nowhere did the evidence of that coming true shine brighter than here. “Your kindness is gonna get you killed one day, you big idiot,” he muttered grumpily, the fur on his shoulders prickling as he bumped his forehead with grudging, petulant force against Hywel’s shoulder and rubbed under his chin, all very annoyed. Just then, Speedyraptor hared past, a League she-cat hot on his heels, and Doe stepped back; as he did so, he slipped in the blood pooling across the floor, his good paw briefly going out from under him. He caught himself against Hywel, his thick fur cushioning his stumble, and let out an irritated, affronted burst of breath. He hated blood; the stench of it was making his stomach roil with queasiness. At the familiar splintering sound of bone and the scream that sounded too close to how his own had, all alone in those dark woods with that tom standing over him, Doe inadvertently flinched, jumped, his face twisting for a moment into one of genuine pain like he had been the one hurt instead of the nameless apprentice nearby. To comfort himself, he rubbed at his broken paw; he was safe, he was fine, he had Hywel, this break was old. But the fear only made him more desperate to move, if Hywel wouldn't let them just leave — if they were going to do something, he wanted to do it. He pressed closer and hoped he couldn't feel him trembling; he hated to ask for comfort, even now. “Well,” he prompted, half a question, snippy to hide his roiling, growing panic, raising his brows at him pointedly, like he were once again explaining something to someone quite thick, but with ten times the grudging fondness. He nodded his head towards the direction of Hywel’s retreating sister without taking his eyes from his. “We’d best go after her, hadn’t we?” Like stopping her from killing her son were akin to going over to a particularly distasteful couple’s house for tea — he’d do it, because he loved Hywel, but he wouldn’t be happy about it and he’d make politely, smilingly barbed comments that went over their idiotic heads the entire time. Then, for the first time since he’d seen her pass, his eyes drifted back to Rhiannon — and he saw the kit dangling from her jaws and bumping against her chest just as she rounded the corner. “Ah,” he commented as he gazed after her, heart both sinking and buoyed by the knowledge he wasn’t surprised one bit. “She’s doing a bit of kidnapping, too. How lovely. I can’t wait to be her brother-in-law.” He gave his head a dainty little shake on wait. Even amid the current war, it was a loving, stubborn jab at their situation: he was still living in haughty certainty, impossible to dissuade him from, that he would be Hywel's mate, no matter what the other tom had to say about it. achromatic
they can just not be mentioned for a bit while we wait for the rhi-brat-kier situation to progress and then they can burst in again, or whatever you want bb <3 my loves
The desperate cries had blared in their ears, but in the heat of the moment, in the struggle, it had sounded distant, hollow. And yet they'd tried, their jaw had loosened around Bermondsey's scruff, they had been about to reel back in complete, abject confusion when — SNAP. Just as the Nemesis had hoped, Bumblebeepaw let go, scrambling back, their eyes alight with confusion, with horror, and, as he heard Leveretpaw's cries rise behind him, with a terrible, gut-wrenching guilt. And it wasn't but a second later they were rushing over the small distance over to Leveretpaw's side, trying to asses the damage as if it wasn't already painfully obvious.
"Hey hey hey no stop it's going to be o-" It was the first desperate thing out of their mouth, panicked and dry and born more out of a sense of just trying to do something, anything, when they had no clue what else to do; as if them saying it would be okay would somehow make it okay, as if calming Leveretpaw down would make the pain and the horror of it all disappear. But it eventually caught in their throat, stopped in its tracked by the harsh, horrific dawning realization that it wasn't okay, and then the second, burning revival of the emotions they had felt right after they'd released the Nemesis from their grip. They were still so confused, so terribly, utterly confused, and now laden with a sense of heavy guilt, because they still didn't understand, they still didn't know what they'd done wrong. Wasn't intervening the right thing to do? Wasn't helping when someone's leg was literally trapped in the enemy's jaw the right choice? But Bermondsey had done an efficient enough job of making it look like an accident, of making it look like it had actually, in some ways, been brought on by their miscalculation, by a poorly aimed attack, and they felt such a twisted sense of shame and responsibility as they looked down at Leveretpaw, a pathetic, sobbing grey mass on the ground.
They opened their mouth as if to speak again, their mind roaring with a thousand half-formed thoughts and emotions, all dead-set on trying to make it better, on trying to make a horrific event less horrific, to lessen the damage. They wanted to apologize, to say that somehow, some way, it would be fine, that they'd kill Bermondsey for this — to say anything that would somehow make the reality in front of their eyes, a reality that they knew rationally couldn't be made better by words alone, less nightmarish, less absolutely and utterly awful. And then they heard another scream.
“Bumble!”
They felt their chest tighten with a newfound sense of dread, of urgency, and their gaze snapped up just in time to make out Rhiannon and the small grey shape of Brat in her jaws; and though they felt themselves on the verge of giving chase, they still glanced down to Leveretpaw, because in truth, they were looking for some hint of permission to go. And it was probably a good thing that the apprentice told them to leave, because otherwise they would have stayed; at least until they had dragged Leveretpaw back to Aridcolors, at least until they knew he was at least safe. As it was, they did they only thing they knew they could do; to call out for some minor aid before they left. "ARID!" It was a desperate scream, and they only hoped she could hear it over the sounds of combat, but they didn't wait a moment longer to find out.
Bolting through the same exit they'd seen Rhiannon, they could only listen desperately for Brat's voice to give them any indication where she'd gone; the entirety of the Mansion a twisted, foreign maze to them. They were completely out of their element, scrambling back from doorways that opened to empty rooms and running down hallways they seemed to just break off into more hallways. It all seemed so absolutely hopeless, and they might have been about to stop, to wallow in some festering anger and despair and self-pity — but then they heard Brat's scream again. “Dad!” It wasn't as far away as they'd been terrified the sound would have been, and it was enough to lead them down another set of halls. They could hear the distant sound of Brat's wails, of conversations — most of which they couldn't make out, and the little they could sending a sickening wave of anxiety through them.
“Bumblebee!” Before they turned the corner into the room they heard Brat's scream one last time, and there were no words for the ungodly shudder of emotions that burned through them at hearing her cry their name again. They couldn't have rationalized it in the moment, though perhaps in the foggy, logical part of their brain they understood why it sent such a mixture of panic, of terror, of rage, of affection, of guilt and shame and horror and too many awful and violently churning emotions to name. There she was, in front of her own father, and she was calling out for them, like they were her last option — maybe they were her last option. And they didn't know what they were doing, they had no clue. The last two times they had intervened in anything it had left Oleanderpaw with a gaping hole in her throat and Leveretpaw with a broke leg, and they felt useless, like a failure, and burning with a sense that any choice they would make would somehow be the wrong one, like whether they lunged or stopped, whether they screamed out or just stood there menacingly, like all of them would be the wrong choice. But they were there now, barely registering the fact that Kier and Druzyprince were also. Their gaze flickered to them, briefly, if only because they held some desperate sliver of hope that one of the two of them had an answer, an actual plan. But they'd heard Kier speak as they'd raced there, they already knew, in bits and pieces, what Kier's solution was — and to them who was always more prone to solving a conflict with action than with mind-game and calculated words, it felt like giving up. It felt like losing before a battle had even started.
They felt a growl bubble in the back of their throat, drawing themselves into a low prowl as they moved forward towards Rhiannon, wary this time to act, but dead-set on at least doing more to save Brat than Kier or Druzyprince were doing at the moment. It was a threat more than anything, it was a tacit warning to put the kit down, because they were a second away from trying to gut the hunter if she didn't. But they didn't quite act yet, if only because the scene of Leveretpaw wailing still played in some twisted repeat in their mind, and the thought of something similar playing out, of lunging and then hearing a sickening snap; it was a horror they knew they couldn't face, couldn't live with, and so instead the existed in the terrible middle ground, of both action and inaction, of both waiting to strike and being on the precipice of it. achromaticunknownheartsfoxgoldcrest
PRIMAL INSTINCT
He gave a small smile, a small laugh, and though it was strained, it was genuine. "Well," Rasalas said, his voice still shaky, but a little stronger than it had been moments ago, as if he was being re-acquainted with what it was like to hold real conversation. "It sounds like you've met some pretty viscous burr bushes then. One day you'll have to tell me those stories." Though his words were as cheerful as anything given the situation, there was a soft note of somber finality to his voice, as if they might never to get to that 'one day'. Because even as they talked in the silence, even as they paused a moment away from the fighting, he felt no assurance that they had escaped from it all, that they wouldn't somehow be dragged back in or killed. For all he knew the intruders would just continue on and on, until every last cat here had their neck sliced open, till the mansion was piled with dead bodies — until they were the only ones left.
Even still, he gave a nod to Sinclair's comment, as if it was perfectly natural that he treat it so flippantly, with such disregard; like it was just some obnoxious incident that had spoiled the night. He preferred that to giving everything the weight it probably deserved; the heaviness of it all was near crushing, and the way Sinclair handwaved it off gave some small hint of levity, one he was a more desperate than he would have liked to admit to hold onto.
"Are you?" As they started moving again, Rasalas took a small, dainty step over where the blood droplets had fallen, following just a little behind as they continued on, further into the room. And he laugh again, but this time it was even drier, and it sounded more like heartbreak and gutted despair; but it was a laugh nevertheless — at least it resembled one in every way but in tone. "I'm fine. I just don't like seeing children in warzones." He said, his voice slightly choking on his words. Though, as if realizing he himself was ruining any chance of lightening the mood, of ridding the air of the awful moments before, he spoke up again, his tone warmer in an attempt to verbally hand-wave off what had said prior, as if all it had been was meaningless nonsense and drivel to fill the air. "But really I'm lucky, I think I have barely a scratch on me. I can't complain." goldcrest
don’t mind the double reply, i just wanna do a tiny little thing that actually ended up three paragraphs <3
NIGHTCLAN
When Kier saw Bumblebeepaw prowl up close behind his mother, the faintest of growls reaching him on the still, icy air, hope fluttered out of the despair in his chest like a moth — the relief of it was a sick thing in him, something that felt more like conquering, like winning, like taking from his mother what had been taken from him and saying, with the breathless triumph of someone so used to losing to her, just this once, I win; just this once, everyone I care about walks away, but it was still relief. Pure, utter relief. And with that relief — though it was a dangerous, too-soon game — some semblance of Kier’s confidence came roaring back. Just this once, his mother didn’t get to hurt — just this once. His eyes slipped away from Bumblebeepaw, the grin on his face now holding a little more truth, a little more self-belief, and in it was clear recognition of them, a clear sign that he’d seen, that he wouldn’t forget, that the apprentice would end up with spoils and favours — because in this wave of fresh hope, he felt kind to everyone, he felt generosity, he felt love.
His gaze found Rhiannon’s again, and though he again ignored the kit held in her jaws, there was no guilt, no fear, and that was reassurance in itself — because if Kier was confident, she should be too; because if Kier believed she would be alright, it was just as much a promise to his daughter as it was a threat to his mother. He knew she could snap Brat’s neck in an instant, and perhaps it was to his detriment that he was cocky, that he was drinking the champagne before the battle had been won — but just the feeling of having one up over his mother, having something over her at last, sent all reason, all pragmatism, from his mind; he was drunk on childhood pain, on finally being the one who could fight back. Or — have others do it for him. “Come, mother,” he invited, his voice raised to meet her down the hall, his eyes bright and daring, “snap her neck — and won’t it be worth it when all your dreams of eternal life go with it. You’ll kill her, and then it will be two on one — and I know you like to gamble; those are terrible odds. You won’t make it out. And don’t think for a second,” he gave his head a little toss, the charming little grin still on his face, “that I won’t be the one to tear your throat out. I’ve been dying to give you back the gift you gave me.”
He took a step forward, head low, coaxing her with his narrow, taunting eyes that never left hers, that glinted like shards of glass in the moonlight filtering in through the windows. “Come on.” His voice was low, intimate silk, so quiet, inviting her, challenging her, daring her; if his mother wanted one thing, it was someone telling her she wouldn’t. That she wouldn’t dare. “I’m right here. Which do you want more — some bastard kit or little Kiernan.” He continued to creep closer. All he needed was for her to attack, all her needed was to goad at some taut, hungry nerve. And his mother was always hungry for things that weren't hers. Things that were his — his daughter, his lives, his shreds of happiness. “Out here, alone. Maybe you’ll make it before the one behind me can intervene." He tilted his head, still held low. The growing smile hadn't left, and beneath all the confidence, there was menace quivering. The air was full of the past. This night was blessed. Only blind, self-destructive cockiness could make him risk his life, spurred on by the need to triumph over his mother, spurred on by the heady belief that he already had; or maybe it was love for his daughter, plain and simple. Maybe that was what had Kier padding out to No Man's Land and staring death in the face. "Come on…” achromaticwrenpansygoldcrest
Post by unknownhearts on May 10, 2022 23:24:38 GMT -5
Nightclan
Perhaps the only reason the bleeding slowed was because Oleanderpaw had bled out every drop she had. It slowed to a drip, crumpled curtains trying their best to keep it in. Aridcolors light paws were spotted with it. Compared to the apprentices and Brat, her night had been relatively unclimactic. But now her mind raced with just what was she going to do? If only Twilightdance or Lilacpaw were here. Hell, she would take anyone that knew what they were doing. This was such a bad idea. What was she thinking? Getting involved in things that didn't concern her? She should have just let this kit die here.
Hey, Aridcolors, do you think you can move her really gently off to the side? The last thing we need is someone getting the bright idea to mess with the three of you, and right now we're all pretty exposed.
Aridcolors' head snapped up. Right. She had Brat to watch over too. Just great. But her eyes didn't shine with any of the annoyance of her inner monologue. If Aridcolors was offended by the command from someone so much younger than she was, she didn't show it. Right, she just needed to do what she was told. Even if it was by a kit that couldn't have known better. Complex thoughts were for the young, not that she was much older than them.
"Okay." It must have been instinct that made her wrap her tail around Brat, beginning to guide the pair away from the action. "Can you keep the pressure on... this one's neck, Brat?" It was kinda a miracle Aridcolors knew who Brat was, even if it was only cause of her lineage and the plethora of gossip about the young one. Oleanderpaw... she didn't recognize at all. Still, her mind was wrapped up in their surroundings. Of just what she was going to do with these two, especially if some League cat figured they could take her. Which, they could. Of just what was going to become of the trio, and even Bumblebeepaw. Of a body being casually thrown in their path, like it was nothing. Her eyes caught a glimpse of it, of the spit foaming on it's lips, of a deep gash that threatened to sever the head from it's body. Unconsciously, she shielded Brat's eyes from it, maneuvering slowly around it. It must have been this brief consideration that opened her up.
"BRAT!!" Aridcolors took a step, to pursue Rhiannon, but then the weight of Oleanderpaw grew heavy on her side. And she could swear she feel blood running down her leg. She had no choice, pulling Oleanderpaw to the side and pressing the curtain against her neck again. They should at least be out of the way.
"Oh my god. I'm so screwed." Her voice suddenly felt heavy, the emotion before grating against her vocal cords. It only made a high pitch noise, nothing that felt natural. Her words ran free, as if the battle had disappeared and she was back home. She was dead anyway. "Kier is gonna have my head. Or he'll invent some new role for me that's even worse than Inferior. I already have to deal with Grayjaw and now this. Why the hell did he invite me, I swear to go-" And then Leveretpaw leaned against Oleanderpaw too. "And oh my god there's two of you now."
With a sigh, she adjusted the pair in their new nook. Mostly keeping the pair next to each other but not leaning on each other after giving the sobbing Leveretpaw a bit of kick back for putting too much pressure on Oleanderpaw. Aridcolors kept the curtain wrapped around the latter's neck and attempted to wrap some more lightly around Leveretpaw's leg. He wasn't bleeding as much, but he still needed something to keep it stopped. The most she could hope for was keeping them alive long enough for actual help to show up. foxgoldcrestwrenpansyachromatic
Primal Instinct
He couldn't help but jump back at Eshek's sudden movement. Some part of him was still the kit she used to bully. The ever present thorn in her side, or so she claimed. But her next words made any words get stuck in his throat.
Funk?
Pesmerga looked away, his paws shuffling in front of him. Like he was an awkward teen giving a speech in front of his class. Nothing like the stoic tom he had been until now. He shouldn't be surprised, he really shouldn't. These past few years, his coat finally started to blossom the rosettes and scraggly black and white fur started to shed. But... this was the only similarity, right? A few rosettes shouldn't have tied him down so. Even some of the Nightclan cats had them, but the scars burned differently when they were because of someone like Funk.
Just the thought rattled him. He never fully understood the relationship between Eshek and Funk. It was like trying to decipher the deadest of languages, or swimming against the current across the ocean. And by the time he even had the capability to, it was too late. It was now something he didn't give much thought to. Though now, it was like Eshek was staring through him, like he was just a shadow. Or worse, wasn't even there. What was this feeling in his chest?
And then he was. She spoke his name, and slung her paw around him like before. Though now he was bigger and could support her weight. He could smile, a wry one as his whiskers flinched at her touch. He reached a paw up and rubbed the spot, laugh just a little and tease her with, "You're not looking much better." But they both knew what the other saw, the kind of truth that only came around in those few moments of weakness. The kind of weakness they both hated.
What were they without him? Really? Pesmerga had eavesdropped on conversations that didn't concern him. About Eshek and the new nemesis. About the kits he couldn't believe really existed. He wondered if she ever thought of the first litter before tonight, the siblings he never got. Funk never differentiated between the many litters he had, but there would have been something about those kits that would have been special. Eshek was special to him. Pesmerga just wasn't sure what. But seeing her expression earlier, he knew that was a foolish thought. Knew beyond a doubt they were now united by those memories.
They were the only ones alive with them. The only ones that could comprehend what the other felt, at least about this. He would never admit he was seeking this, the family he had known and walked away from. The family that was now lost to the sands of time. Except for Eshek. The chaos around them could have just been the wind in this moment. Pesmerga's face look like it strained to smile, nothing like Funk's. But there was gentleness in it too. Even if she was to watch after him now, he already made up his mind to do the same for her. fox
Rhiannon knew she was surrounded. Kier and his little lackey wasn't a problem, but another apprentice...three small things were more than a nuisance; she didn't have delusions of grandeur so great that she believed she'd take down all three unscathed with a writhing kit in her mouth. No, perhaps she'd take one down with her claws and chomp down hard enough on the kit to kill it but she'd be wasting those lives she had already received.
No. She was going to do more, she was going to survive. She'd get her eternity if that was the last thing she did, and if that meant playing the long game, then surely she'd be willing to wait. Her grey eyes seemed to dart from left to right, weighing all of her options as the moment seemed frozen in time. The resilience in Bumblebeepaw's gaze, staring right at the kit in her jaws, the way Kier seemed so ready to worm his slimy self away from all of this, the way Druzyprince stood protective over her son, steady now, compared to the kit-like quality the young cat had just moments before as if steeling himself for a fight. Her lips slowly twitched into a smirk.
Give them what they want. Split them up. Take Kier out. Immediately, her eyes turned to Bumblebeepaw, amusement blazing dark in her dilated pupils. "Since you seem like a good babysitter...." she immediately flung the kit towards the stairs the cat had arrived from–a distraction–as hard as she could, betting on the fact that the other cat would try his best to save the kit, before snarling and immediately lunging for Druzyprince.
Get the bodyguards out of the way and she could have her sweet sweet time destroying her son for every sip of his lives without distraction.
Bermondsey scowled. This had gone on for long enough; he needed to find Kier, and he needed to get these blasted cats out. His blood was boiling, as he prowled through the mansion, snarl written across his face. He wasn't going to let them get away with this.
(RIP I'm gonna be on vacay for 2 weeks but I'll maybe pop in on this thread here and there LOL)
Druzyprince stopped and turned quicker and more urgently than Kier had. He knew that voice — Kier's daughter, the same that had met him in his first few days of Nightclan, the one who he always caught staring (uncomfortably so) from across the cavern whenever he was out. He wasn't sure what Brat meant to him, not for lack of caring, but for lack of understanding what his relationship with Kier himself was. All he knew was there was a slight, faint protectiveness towards her, a need to protect her and her outspokenness, her energy. When Kier stumbled back into him, Druzyprince took it as a sign to step around him, moving forward in the same defensive stance he had taken earlier, paw stretched in front of the leader's legs as if to stop him from moving forward or, in a similar vain, to stop anyone from coming closer. Laertes. The twitch of his ear was the only acknowledgement of the word, and there was a slight furrow of his brow, akin to agitation, because while the name felt right to be used here, in the Mansion and amongst the League, it amplified the chance of getting recognized.
Even though his foreleg was in place to keep Kier away from Rhiannon, he reluctantly moved it to let Kier walk forward, though he still hovered close, eyes not leaving the she-cat. They narrowed as he saw the wailing bundle in her jaws, and he had to restrain himself from charging at her to get Brat himself. Clearly Rhiannon wasn't one to be reasoned with. He noted the tap on his side, and already he searched for weak points, advantages, studied the space around them and the frame of Rhiannon. Druzyprince noted the entrance of Bumblebeepaw — a welcomed face, not only for their previous friendliness but for the added strength and surprise. His anxiety loosened, though it still buzzed under his pelt, into his paws, making his claws scrape the floor below.
Druzyprince recoiled when she threw Brat towards the stairs, though, remarkably, his position didn't falter in the milliseconds she didn't move. When she lunged towards him, he met her unmoving, letting her tackle him to the ground, making sure to tuck his legs close to his stomach. He hit the ground with a thud, head jerking to keep it from hitting the floor — though it hardly helped at all, and there was a slight moment of dizziness on his end. He stared into Rhiannon's eyes, a snarl on his face. Morally, he wasn't much of a fighter, but physically he had spent moons practicing technique, skill, anything he would need to face a real, live opponent — his parents were killers, he knew now, and perhaps the spike of adrenaline, the way his curled lip almost breached a smile, was from them. Directing all his strength into his back legs, he kicked up and out, sending Rhiannon off of him and across the floor, away from Kier. He rolled onto his paws, charging at her before she could truly reorient herself, claws flashing out towards her face. Her preoccupation would give Kier a clear moment to escape, to run, and the aggressive flick of his tail — unmistakably for him — urged him to leave. foxachromatic
For Oleanderpaw, everything passed by in a blur and the occasional bouts of sudden darkness, only to find herself paces ahead. There was a pressure on her side, and she remembered that there was actually someone there, beside her, helping her. There was too much yelling to discern whether the shout she heard was from the cat she was with or someone in the midst of a fight. She felt drowsy, sleepy, far-off. She hardly registered Leveretpaw joining her.
They reached some place just out of the crowd, and though it wasn't quiet, there was enough space to be seated. When Aridcolours moved to tend to Leveretpaw's leg, leaving Oleanderpaw unable to lean on her for support, she leaned to the side, what little strength she had left in her forepaws being the only things that kept her chest and neck off the ground. She blinked, the bleariness of her eyes fading slightly. Even if she could speak around the pain of her throat, she wasn't sure she would know what to say — thank you was probably the best option, but even on her near deathbed she still had enough energy to find a spark of embarrassment at the concept of having to express gratitude. unknownhearts
PRIMAL INSTINCT
Sinclair hummed humorously, "oh, indeed they are," he mused. "I'll tell them if you'd like to hear them." It was the way he said the words that made them sound like an invitation to something else, something more, the opposite of Rasalas' pessimism despite the circumstance. Where Rasalas thought they might not see one day, Sinclair was sure they would. They had left the fighting, had they not? And surely Nightclan wouldn't stay there forever, though perhaps he was one of the worst to think about what guerilla warfare was about — he'd never been in a situation like this, and even though most of his life's memories were blacked out, he was sure he hadn't. Clearly, his worries were for other, indiscernable reasons.
I just don't like seeing children in warzones. Sinclair laughed, though it was humourless. "Me neither. I can assume this isn't common, then? I was beginning to wonder," his voice quieted, torn between worry and apathy. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to feel now when he couldn't see the things that were going on just outside — out of sight, out of mind.
"You're welcome." Of course, he wasn't serious, and there was a note of satire in his tone. Really, he was glad; he didn't expect a thanks, not when Sinclair wasn't even aware he had thrown himself into the fight until he was facing off with Bunnypaw, not when he wasn't even sure why. He felt suddenly bashful, embarrassed, and though he wanted to say something, he was worried his next words wouldn't come out properly, or they wouldn't be the right ones, so he resigned himself to silence instead. wrenpansy
It was almost funny. Any other day, any other moment, that grin from Kier would have been priceless. All their hopes, their ambitions, their dreams; it all rested in that gratitude, that brief sliver of kindness. They'd fought for it ever moment of their life, always working, always training; they'd tossed themselves into battle with a burning lack of self-preservation with hopes of the glory and rewards that would be lavished by on them if they proved their worth in front of him. This was what they'd wanted for almost as long as they could remember, since almost the second their paws had grace Nightclan's land; but in that exact moment, it was meaningless. It was hollow.
It wasn't like Bumblebeepaw hadn't seen Kier's reaction, it wasn't as if even thick fog of war they didn't know what it meant. They did, somewhere in their mind they did. But perhaps it was the fresh sense of loss, of failure, perhaps it was the still lingering scent of Leveretpaw's and Oleanderpaw's blood in their lungs that still suffocated them even now that they stood in the musty air of the Mansion hallway. Or perhaps it was just plain affection, perhaps they just cared more about Brat than they would ever admit — perhaps friendship really did mean more to them at the end of the day than their own ambition. Whatever the reason, whatever it was, their eyes only briefly flickering to Kier from Brat as he approached, as he started moving towards the she cat who held Brat's entire fate in her jowls. And it was a painful moment, because unlike Kier there was no confidence; there was terror and anxiety, and the throbbing sound of their heart like a thudding drum in their ears as every agonizing moment drew past into the next.
"Since you seem like a good babysitter...." They barely had a moment to register those words before they took note of the movement of the she cat's head, and they already knew what she planned to do. There was no time to charge her, no time to stop her, and so all that Bumblebeepaw could do was find themselves scrambling back, preparing for the inevitable. And of course, the inevitable happened; in a moment the grey form of Brat was flung through the air like she was nothing, like she was a ball in game of catch, and Bumblebeepaw was rushing back in a panicked attempt to catch her, or at least cushion her fall. Even as she was there in the air, a tiny grey blur who had very definitely not hit the ground yet, they could hear the thud, the awful crack of bones, in a constant sound on repeat in the back of their mind. Like it was inevitable, like she couldn't be saved, like it was hopeless. But they still chased after her nevertheless, because the very act of not doing so was so antithetical to them, the thought of giving up so foreign, that it might have as well have been an impossibility.
And so there they were, half stumbling down a staircase, moments away from Brat's impact. It would have been hard to know what had happened in those few brief, quintessential seconds between Brat's fall and Bumblebeepaw's catch, they didn't even remember it all themselves — it had all been an adrenaline-fueled blur mixed with desperation and panic and hopelessness that somehow fueled some small faith in chance, in fate, in luck. But in the end there was a snag of fur in their jaws, the weight of impact, the force of Brat momentum being brought to a rapid halt in Bumblebeepaw's jaws that had them half tripping, half rolling down the steps; the entire time taking what little care they could manage to make sure that Brat didn't face the blunt impact of it all.
If every fiber of their body ached, if they were covered in bruises and maybe a few cuts from splintered wood, they were barely aware of it. Half the world was gone at that moment; the pain, the battle above, everything else but the frail sense of relief and still underlying panic that something — anything — had still gone wrong, that something else horrible had happened that they hadn't foreseen. And yet, still half splayed on the Mansion step, they let go of Brat, achingly finding their footing underneath them though their chartreuse gaze never left her the entire time.
"Hey, you okay?" The question was breathless, agonized really, because their chest had collided with the cold, hard force of the wood as they'd tumbled down stairs, and it made them aware of the pain in their lungs and throat they hadn't quite registered before. But it didn't really matter; the pain was a dull wash to the flood of emotions that consumed them in that moment. fox
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There was a moment of hesitance at the question, a searing unseen wince at the mention of if it was common, and it was clear it took Rasalas a while to mull over his response. As if there had to be an uneasy consideration of words, as if there was no good answer; only the best possible answer, only the least painful configuration of words. Rasalas drew in a breath, as if to settle on it all, but then he stopped. Re-evaluated, reconsidered, as he realized with a shaky, shallow optimism that there was a third option, a third way to answer he hadn't considered before.
"I'm sure it isn't, at least I'd like to hope so." He said, his voice soft, almost swallowed on the still air of the Mansion and the dull sounds of war that grew fainter with every step. It was a lie — at least, he considered the first part a lie. But the lie was easier to swallow, and it was tinted with such a genuine uncertainty at the end, such an honest uncertainty, that the first part seemed perfectly authentic beside it.
"You're welcome." His ear perked at the comment, and he turned his full attention to Sinclair once more, a sort of somber warmth turning his previously forced smile into the real thing. It was solemn, it was serious, it lacked the happiness of a smile, but in its own unique, gentle way, it was real. "I know I only said it briefly before, but I meant it, truly. Thank you." Rasalas said, gently touching his tail tip to Sinclair's flank, as if somehow that would make the words more tangible, more present. "I can't fight, and I didn't know what in the world to do. If you hadn't been there I don't know what would have happened. I know it was barely more than a kit, but it still had claws and — well, I don't know if I could have brought myself to have done anything against it. If it had been just me versus him he probably would have won." He followed his words with another dry laugh, another laugh that was as hollow of humor as the last; but it was at least warmer, born out of the horrid, almost humorously bleak ridiculous of the situation he had found himself in moments ago, and an earnest warmth, a true appreciation. goldcrest
Matilde Matilde had never been in the pipes. It smelled of rust, and much worse.
For all her tough talk, the little princess had lived a fairly sheltered life. Her foray into the ruins with Nour and Iago had quieted her thirst for adventure — she was content to remain in the vaunted rooms of the mansion these days, painting it as a castle in her mind, and allowing her father to dote on her when he found the time. In any case the dust bunnies accumulated up here and the stench of rat droppings was opposed to her delicate palate. She could hardly tolerate it a few minutes— as Nour scurried on, Matilde found herself desperately searching for the first exit she could find — she would have given her sister an audible warning of her departure, if not for the fact that she had been holding her breath the whole time, and all at once her bated breath was suppressing a sneeze, packed tight in her nose. She quickly ducked towards the first wisp of fresh air, releasing her suppressed sneeze the moment she dropped back down into one of the mansion’s vaulted rooms. “Achooo!”
The noise ricocheted off the walls, echoing over the sound of distant battle. She sniffled as she scanned around, finding herself standing in the library. She was alone, save a few rats nibbling on the corners of old books, all scattered around the collapsed shelves. Surely the creatures smelled the blood too. Perhaps they fancied themselves a feast tonight, and the dry parchment would serve as their appetizer. The princess blinked uncertainly. She wanted to watch the battle. She glanced up at the way she’d come, and then towards the door. Which way should she go? fox
Since you seem like a good babysitter…Kier involuntarily flinched, even before Rhiannon threw Brat; he dropped into an anxious crouch, like someone might jerk away from something they couldn’t prevent. But the second he turned his head to watch with heart-pounding, throat-tightening fear as his daughter flew towards the staircase, he only had time to catch the faintest glimpse of Bumblebeepaw racing to catch her before Rhiannon leapt. Having been faced with her violence so many times before, he flinched back again, too frozen in old fear to fully realise she wasn’t aiming for him, feeling like a child consumed by long-forgotten, primal terror as he blindly searched for Laertes — and then he was flying past him and crashing into Rhiannon in front of him. For a second he stood there gaping in fear, in a thousand different types of fear, of worry — because Laertes couldn’t die for him; what would he do? And then Laertes was snapping his tail at him. Coming back to himself, Kier took a few more frantic, tiny steps back, nodded to himself like he was seeing the obvious sense in what he was telling him to do, and fled past his mother. The space between her and the wall was terrifyingly small, and he was sure he felt the warmth of her fur as he squeezed past, certain that any moment he would feel her claws dragging him back — but she didn’t. And when she didn’t, he turned and slipped blindly up the narrow staircase he had glimpsed off the hallway they’d been in, taking the steps two at a time, the forgotten poison vial thumping against his chest; it was bordered on either side by walls, and it grew darker and darker as he ascended, and by the time he burst through the door at the top he was out of breath, both from growing anxiety at the walls closing in and from exertion.
He scarcely took in where he was — the old books; the creased spines; the dust; it barely registered. Kier spun around as soon as he was free of the door and backed slowly towards the centre of the room as he watched it close. The extended metal lock touched against the frame, making a soft clink. And then all was silent. There was only his own breathing and the distant screaming of fighting, dying cats and—
A paperweight tumbled from a bookshelf and thudded to the floor. Kier whipped around, pelt bristling — and saw her.
Oh, he saw her.
And what sort of gods were on his side tonight?
His pelt immediately smoothed, glossy and black. All the fear flooded away, replaced by everything victorious and everything foul. “Oh, hello,” Kier greeted with icy, predatory interest, his shoulder fur prickling as he advanced slowly on the kit, his head lowered dangerously. Really, this was just perfect — it wasn’t the plan, but that plan had been too generous anyway, had been too tender, too kind. Kidnap Bermondsey’s kits — what had he been planning to do with them then? Maybe the Kier who had made that plan had been a little more humane — maybe he’d been hoping that once he had them, he could make it up as he went. But this Kier — this Kier knew that if he had them, all he was going to do, all was ever going to do, was hurt them. Kill them. Send severed little trophies to Bermondsey and wonder how many it took until the great king cried. Until Kier made him cry like a little tart over the bodies of his daughters. This was always going to happen. That Kier just hadn’t been able to face it. And this — this was better.
This was under their own roof.
“Matilde, isn’t it?” he asked tenderly as he slunk towards her, a smile on his face that was half the warmth he usually wore and twice the violence. “Tilly. What a sweet little nickname. You know,” he continued to advance, voice dipping so quiet, “they all used to say you were so pretty. I never saw it.” Suddenly snapping forward, he caught her with one paw and slammed her into the floorboards, reaching up with his other paw to snap the vial from around his own neck. He still hadn’t used it — this was fate if ever fate existed. “Open up — be a good girl. Perfect princess, aren’t you?” Prying Laertes’ sister’s mouth open with his claws, holding her in place with one hindpaw on her stomach, he shook the poison in. This wasn’t anything to do with Laertes, wasn’t a betrayal; he didn’t think of him for a second as he did this; this was Eris. One drop, two— His pupils dilated as he stared down at her, eyes widening impossibly, with concentration, with growing, sick euphoria, drinking in the sight of her final moments—
Paws thudded up the stairs, dull and muffled.
Kier snapped his head around to look at the door, still holding Matilde in place. Hiss-whispering a curse, he glanced back down at Bermondsey’s daughter — this was torture like nothing he’d ever known, to not be able to finish the job, to be so close— Cursing again, he backed off her — and, just before he made himself scarce, backhanded her as hard as he could across the face. It wouldn’t do if she could just tell anyone who came through that door who it had been who had half-poisoned the Nemesis’ girl. Giving her one more look, he made it halfway across the room, heading for a dark cupboard he could slip into — when the door opened. He leaped around. goldcrestbaubleachromatic for lae and then hywel ♡
The seconds before Rhiannon let go of her seemed to pass in slow motion. She saw her father, she saw the terror in Bumblebeepaw’s eyes, she felt the she-cat’s head turning, felt her grip loosening, felt her smiling growing around her body — and then she was in the air. She thought she screamed; she didn’t know. The bannister flew past — the entry hall far below opened up, all black and white and marble, all shine in the moonlight, and for a second it almost looked pretty. And then, just as terror was beginning to turn to a rancid calm, she felt new jaws close around her. And now Brat knew she screamed. It was cut off almost immediately by the force of the impact; it was muffled by Bumblebeepaw’s body, but it was still bone-shattering, and she felt every step as they battered down them. It all passed in horrible silence — Bumbleebeepaw’s jolted, stuttering breaths; her own, washed back over her face as they met their spotted fur; the sound of a body on hard wood, that dull thudding. And then it all stopped.
Hey, you okay? Brat untucked her face from where she’d unconsciously hidden it in their chest, waiting for it to be open. She’d started to think it never would be. For a long moment, she just stared up at them in uncomprehending terror, like it shouldn’t have been them who was asking that, like they should be dead. And then, finally, she spoke. “They charge ten bucks for that ride? They shouldn’t — it sucked so bad. It sucked so mega, mega bad.” She began to untangle herself from Bumblebeepaw, standing on wobbly legs. She stumbled; she caught herself. She felt like she’d been at sea. “I’m never catching it again, not ever, and I hope that whoever made it— I hope they die. I do. And tonight when we get home, I’m gonna do a seance — yes, a seance — and I’m gonna ask the spirits to do it. To kill them. Because I hate them.” She stared up at Bumblebeepaw for a second longer. For two seconds. For three. And then, suddenly, she threw herself at them, burying her cheek against their chest and wrapping her forepaws around their foreleg. “Thank you.” Her voice, plaintive and genuine, was muffled by their warm fur. “And I’m sorry I bit you when we first met. The scar on your paw really is cool and I was just upset. I’ve been wanting to tell you that for ages.”
And then a new sound reached her. It was an old sound, one that had hemmed her in for so long in this place that it had become background noise, but the voices were new. She knew them. Turning her head away from Bumblebeepaw, she caught a hint of grey fur through the wooden railing, on the landing she’d been thrown from. Her eyes grew wide with fresh fear — not for herself, but for the tom she still believed she loved deeply, as deeply as a kit could love a grown Guard. But it wasn’t just childish worry — it was true fear that overtook the kit-crush and became real, familial terror. “Druzyprince! He’s fighting with my dad’s mother — she’s horrible; she’ll kill him!” She looked up at Bumblebeepaw desperately. “Please — help him. And then we can go — we’ll go. But I don’t want him to die — because she’s my family and it’ll be my fault. I’ll have killed him.” She sounded hysterical, non-sensical, close to sobbing, brows pushed so close together they were giving her a migraine. She’d gone from having no family to her family trying to kill her — worse than that, not caring if she killed her or not. She was just nothing to her. If she broke down now, she would never get back up again. wrenpansy
Post by achromatic on May 29, 2022 17:46:05 GMT -5
This bitty one was certainly not a bad fighter, Rhiannon thought; it was smart enough to relax and suddenly throw its weight onto a kick, sending her up into the air, but alas, a cat always landed on her paws, and Rhiannon was no different. Reorienting herself in the air, she ended up stumbling onto her paws, skidding on the smooth floor of the mansion, as she turned towards Druzyprince again, all thoughts of killing Kier and all of his flailing kits in the back of her mind now.
Rhiannon enjoyed living in the moment right now, and this moment was dedicated to kicking this cat's butt.
A moment later, she could see the glint of his claws towards her face, and she barely ducked, her larger form now at a disadvantage–curse those Scottish genes–as she whirled around, slamming her large plume of a tail in Druzyprince's face as a distraction, her backpaws kicking him in the chest in order to provide a few more precious seconds in determining what to do next. Sure, the cat's large paws told her of the size he'd grow into...but the key word was grow into. She had the advantage of size at the moment–or disadvantage, she supposed–and she wasn't going to waste it. Leaping up on her hind-legs, she whirled around, aiming her paws to the side of the cat's head in order to disorient him and hopefully, to sweep the cat onto his back as quickly as possible. goldcrest
When her tail hit his face, Druzyprince flinched back in an attempt to avoid it, spending only a second to blink in a reeling sort of confusion, but just as it faded he felt the force of her kick to his chest, and he stumbled back a few paces. The thrumming ache came only a moment later, and it was almost winding. He hardly let himself reorient, spotting the flash of movement that was her front paws raising for another strike, and his first instinct was to duck, but instead of coming back up he stayed low, flattening himself onto the ground until he could propel himself into a roll towards her, close enough that he could stretch his neck and clamp his teeth around the tendon of one of her back legs. Still on the ground, he yanked his head back, sinking his teeth in deeper in an attempt to unbalance her.
He didn't notice when Kier left, he didn't concern himself with where he was or what he was doing — his heart was hammering in his ears, his thoughts seemed to fade into the background, overrun by the adrenaline of a fight. achromatic
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He didn't feel Rasalas' touch against his side, but he saw the movement, turned his head to look and then directed his gaze towards the cat's face, a warm, slightly dumbfounded smile on his face, tinged with a slight heat. He could only nod at the words, silent and almost awkward at such expressions of gratitude.
"Oh, I don't know how to fight either, I —" he gave a breathless laugh, and something stirred in the back of his mind; he ignored it, instead shifting away from Rasalas' side to face him completely, eyes trailing and head tilted with concern. "You're sure you aren't hurt at all?" He stepped away, turning to look around the room once more and pinpointing a small, two-seat sofa against the wall. It was dark, an old, unused study of some sort, a desk that had more dust than papers, and he nodded towards the seat, touching his own tail to Rasalas' shoulder to lead him towards it. He only asked again in the first place because he was so used to not noticing his own injuries that, sometimes, he assumed everybody was like that, and it was always a confusing reminder to be told that that wasn't the case — though, it was also apparent that he didn't want to let the silence settle. wrenpansy
Matilde The darkness swallowed her whole. A forgotten face loomed over her, the features shadowed, and all that Matilde was dribbled out, like yolk from a broken shell. The poison worked efficiently, overwhelming her little body in almost immediate fashion.
A rupture of mind and body occurred; the body thrashed and sputtered, but the mind lay leaden and dreamless. Memory was overloaded and lost. Her convulsions became more violent as her body fought the poison, until they were silenced altogether by a heavy strike thrown from the void. The princess lay motionless, betraying no signs of life.
