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Stoatstream Stoatstream
In every rosewater rivulet that runs from you.
In every rosewater rivulet that runs from you.
ShadowClan
Thief
{$title} TW // Description of the haunting event nightmare, which contains graphic discussions of murder. Stoatstream is (physically) fine I promise.
SOMETHING SACRED
HIDES IN EVERY DROP OF DEW
It had been a blur of time, a dazed state as Stoatstream quickly took up her father's mantle, caring for Saffronkit in the face of his deteriorated state. He was alive, that much was true, but he was sick. Terribly so. Cicadabuzz and Magpiepaw had yet to waken him, and that fact alone terrified Stoatstream. She had no idea if his breath would be his last, if he would recover before leafbare, if the cold would be what sapped the last of his strength.
It was all she could think about, the nauseating truth that before her was an unknown. A pathway she may walk without her father there, one where she would take the mantle in caring for Saffronkit. She refused to let any of the other caretakers near her sister, a frightful defensiveness; she only allowed Mirepurr to take careful watch of the kitten when she left the territory to hunt. Desperately so, too, hunt for her father and her sister, leaving little in the way of prey for herself when she prioritised her kin.
Hunger clawed at the molly, which she pushed away to the back of her mind as she slunk into her father's nest, warmed only by her own pelt as he had been moved to the medicine den for observation. The moss still held his scent, and as Saffronkit fell asleep at her side, Stoatstream managed to drift into a fitful sleep.
The air filled with the scent of blood, claws and teeth flashed white in the moonlight. Yowling maws screaming silent agony, as from her shaking form, she watched the unnamed cats tear each other asunder. Claws did not discriminate between who was brought to slaughter, felling each body like a tree in the night, silent and forgotten. Bodies piled high as heaving chests fought mercilessly for what remained of their lives.
Not a cat flinched as the blood all around pooled higher and higher. Throats were torn to shreds, and the blood simply did not stop. Paws enveloped in the bitter red tar, crimson staining fur as they floundered in the rising blood. None of them noticed, not even as it pressed against their chests and wrapped about their throats. Pouring into yowling maws and cloaking the land in nothing but deep crimonson, suffocating.
Darker the world grew and darker yet....
Stoatstream sat with a jolt, chest heaving with her cheeks slick with tears. Her nights were rarely quiet, but the nightmare had not plagued her as so in moons. It felt like no coincidence, it felt like... Like.
Her blood ran cold as the memory of all those moons ago came pouring back. The skull, the very one she and Flea played with like a mere toy, the one her father flung into the water. The bones washed to the surface, having to be reburied to appease the dead, the spirits haunting them all.
Then she remembered what she had hidden. Three skulls. Small, but frighteningly familiar in shape. She had refused to dwell on the thought too long, tucking them away safely as she had found the idea of bringing them into camp unnerving. But it wasn't enough, clearly it wasn't enough.
She rose to her paws, whole form shaking, as she avoided waking her sister as she crept from the nursery. The ivory molly's chest heaved in thinnly veiled panic, refusing to shatter before the clan. But, even so, the moment she stepped foot from the brambles, the warrior broke into a sprint.
Stoatstream found herself stumbling over the terrain, the rains of the season making the ground uneven as she desperately ran towards the tree where she had stored the skulls.
She skidded to a halt before the tree. The hollow where she had stored the three was still as she left it. She pried the skulls from the hollow and collected them desperately, tears threatening to blur her eyes.
She found herself, after dashing through the pocosin, at the one place she dreaded to be near ever again. The burial grounds. Her whole body heaved in gasping breaths as she released the skulls and unsheathed her claws. In desperation, she began to dig.
Three skulls. Three disasters upon her clan. Stoatstream had never thought herself superstitious, but this was too much for her to handle. The dread, the fear, the guilt at the idea of her ridiculous need to store and hide things had resulted in such disaster. White pelt stained rich brown as she unearthed a grave for the three skulls, ones even now she couldn't bear to admit what they once were.
The molly muttered apologies, funeral rites for skulls that had cursed her clan once again. She thought the dead appeased, but in her mind, she could not shake the guilt; it was all her fault they had risen again to strike her home with nothing but disaster. Cats sick and dying, prey so scarce she had begun to lose weight beneath her slick lilac pelt. It was all too much for Stoatstream to handle, not when the weight of the dead pressed against her pelt.
Finally, heaving breaths and eyes clouded with tears, she covered the skulls with the dirt she had disturbed. Gulping breaths as she tried desperately to soothe herself. "Rest now, and forgive me for my misdeeds. Forgive my clan, for they are innocent of disturbing the dead. I-I am sorry." She let out a shuddered breath, blinking away the tears that traced down her cheeks. Stoat could only hope, pray, that she would be forgiven. That it would be enough to give her clan respite in the face of her mistakes. It's all she could do now, for Coalstrike, for Timberfrost, for Fleafire.
It was all she could think about, the nauseating truth that before her was an unknown. A pathway she may walk without her father there, one where she would take the mantle in caring for Saffronkit. She refused to let any of the other caretakers near her sister, a frightful defensiveness; she only allowed Mirepurr to take careful watch of the kitten when she left the territory to hunt. Desperately so, too, hunt for her father and her sister, leaving little in the way of prey for herself when she prioritised her kin.
Hunger clawed at the molly, which she pushed away to the back of her mind as she slunk into her father's nest, warmed only by her own pelt as he had been moved to the medicine den for observation. The moss still held his scent, and as Saffronkit fell asleep at her side, Stoatstream managed to drift into a fitful sleep.
The air filled with the scent of blood, claws and teeth flashed white in the moonlight. Yowling maws screaming silent agony, as from her shaking form, she watched the unnamed cats tear each other asunder. Claws did not discriminate between who was brought to slaughter, felling each body like a tree in the night, silent and forgotten. Bodies piled high as heaving chests fought mercilessly for what remained of their lives.
Not a cat flinched as the blood all around pooled higher and higher. Throats were torn to shreds, and the blood simply did not stop. Paws enveloped in the bitter red tar, crimson staining fur as they floundered in the rising blood. None of them noticed, not even as it pressed against their chests and wrapped about their throats. Pouring into yowling maws and cloaking the land in nothing but deep crimonson, suffocating.
Darker the world grew and darker yet....
Stoatstream sat with a jolt, chest heaving with her cheeks slick with tears. Her nights were rarely quiet, but the nightmare had not plagued her as so in moons. It felt like no coincidence, it felt like... Like.
Her blood ran cold as the memory of all those moons ago came pouring back. The skull, the very one she and Flea played with like a mere toy, the one her father flung into the water. The bones washed to the surface, having to be reburied to appease the dead, the spirits haunting them all.
Then she remembered what she had hidden. Three skulls. Small, but frighteningly familiar in shape. She had refused to dwell on the thought too long, tucking them away safely as she had found the idea of bringing them into camp unnerving. But it wasn't enough, clearly it wasn't enough.
She rose to her paws, whole form shaking, as she avoided waking her sister as she crept from the nursery. The ivory molly's chest heaved in thinnly veiled panic, refusing to shatter before the clan. But, even so, the moment she stepped foot from the brambles, the warrior broke into a sprint.
First had been Coalstrike. Struck by a monster and slaughtered like cattle in the camp before his own kits. Needless demise, one of Shadowclan's greatest fallen.
Stoatstream found herself stumbling over the terrain, the rains of the season making the ground uneven as she desperately ran towards the tree where she had stored the skulls.
Next had been Timberfrost, her own father. Stricken with an illness that everyone had overlooked. Even Stoat herself. She could have done more, helped more, searched harder for herbs. Anything.
She skidded to a halt before the tree. The hollow where she had stored the three was still as she left it. She pried the skulls from the hollow and collected them desperately, tears threatening to blur her eyes.
The most recent, her own sister, Fleafire. Disappeared for days on end, only to be found severely injured and exhausted after some fight she was outmatched in. Her own pride led her to refuse any treatment.
She found herself, after dashing through the pocosin, at the one place she dreaded to be near ever again. The burial grounds. Her whole body heaved in gasping breaths as she released the skulls and unsheathed her claws. In desperation, she began to dig.
Three skulls. Three disasters upon her clan. Stoatstream had never thought herself superstitious, but this was too much for her to handle. The dread, the fear, the guilt at the idea of her ridiculous need to store and hide things had resulted in such disaster. White pelt stained rich brown as she unearthed a grave for the three skulls, ones even now she couldn't bear to admit what they once were.
The molly muttered apologies, funeral rites for skulls that had cursed her clan once again. She thought the dead appeased, but in her mind, she could not shake the guilt; it was all her fault they had risen again to strike her home with nothing but disaster. Cats sick and dying, prey so scarce she had begun to lose weight beneath her slick lilac pelt. It was all too much for Stoatstream to handle, not when the weight of the dead pressed against her pelt.
Finally, heaving breaths and eyes clouded with tears, she covered the skulls with the dirt she had disturbed. Gulping breaths as she tried desperately to soothe herself. "Rest now, and forgive me for my misdeeds. Forgive my clan, for they are innocent of disturbing the dead. I-I am sorry." She let out a shuddered breath, blinking away the tears that traced down her cheeks. Stoat could only hope, pray, that she would be forgiven. That it would be enough to give her clan respite in the face of her mistakes. It's all she could do now, for Coalstrike, for Timberfrost, for Fleafire.
-
YOU'RE MORE THAN STAINED GLASS
-
YOU'RE THE LIGHT THAT COMES THROUGH
-
STOATSTREAM She/Her, Shadowclan Thief, 14 moons old.
A slender white cat with lilac markings and dark blue eyes.
Mentored by Sablestar // mentoring none
Sibling to Fleafire, Monsterpaw and Saffronkit
Timberfrost x Oleander (Gen 3) / mated to none
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK, PAWSPEAK
penned by Pheo ↛ phoenixwashere on Discord, feel free to dm for plots.
