{$title} mentions of suicide ideation, minor self-injury, survivor's guilt, gore, and death
DUSKPOOL
The graveyard reeked of pine sap and old dirt, but all Duskpool could smell was blood. Reckon it was engraved into his mind, sharp as the day it spilled. His bulky figure loomed at the edge of the mounds, scarred frame a jagged shadow against the sparse undergrowth, and for a long while he stood there with claws sinkin' into the earth, hopin' to anchor himself in place or else he'd crumble.
Every coffin, every patch of disturbed soil was a tally carved into his soul. Smokefang and Shadowfire. His brothers. Their bodies rottin' in the dirt that no longer could sustain 'em, lest they risk killin' an entire generation through disease and starvation. It made him bitter thinkin' about corpses, alive once upon a time, now lay forgotten except here, mounds empty, but their memories everlastin' until the last of 'em collapsed beneath the weight of the livin'. Ryuji. His littermate. A life snuffed out by a stranger he'll never know, forgotten somewhere in these lands with no one to remember, but him. Jaggedstorm, gone too soon, cut down like the storm he was named for, leavin' behin a grievin' husband and children who'd never know him, except for stories. Yukio, a son not by blood, but by heart, lay rotten in a grave he couldn't see, taken from him by a monster he made sure would never harm another soul, not again, never again. Honeycombsplash, sweet-voiced and steady, now there was nothin' left but silence where her laughter used to be. His little girls with eyes barely open, three graves missin' for he was a youngster back then, but in his heart, Duskpool would never forget their faces. Their voices not yet developed, he'd never know how they'd sound, their personalities just beginnin' to grow were snuffed out, left in ribbons and buried along with their mother beneath a torn-down fence.
His shoulders hunched inward, grief-stricken and lost, lookin' far too haunted for someone of his stature. I should've been with 'em. That thought burned hotter than grief. He ain't got nothin', but hungry vultures circlin' his tattered, bulky frame. His ghosts are too intertwined in his very soul. His chest kept draggin' in air, thick n' heavy, when all theirs had been stolen. Reckon survivior's guilt sat heavily on his broad shoulders like a parasite curdlin' into slow-churnin' rage. His good iris blazed, starin' at the graves, jaw tight, his voice broke out, low and guttural, barely more than a soft rumble in the breeze, "I ain't real worth half of what ya were, ain't that tacky?" Made him wonder why he ain't bein' struck down, but instead, forcin' him to live till there's nothin' but broken bones and visceral scattered where a tom should be, proud and weary-eyed from battles he long wish he could forget.
He could've howled at the sky, throat raw from cursin' StarClan and their rotten mercy. Instead, Duskpool ought to sink his claws into the earth, tearin' roots and dirt beneath his pads till crimson beaded the caked surface. The silence pressed into him like a coffin with shoulders tremblin' with the weight of every ghost ridin' 'em, yet despite it all, he remained unbendin'.
He swallowed, pressin' forward on heavy limbs to sit collapse before empty graves shrouded in darkness, takin' note of the fresh mound not far away where his nephew slept peacefully, never to open his eyes, gone within the blink of an eye, and a younger sister still angry for words shared beneath the full moon. He made him smile wearily, wooly plumage sweepin' derbies away to press messily picked flowers over each life lost. "Reckon ya would be makin' fun of my big ol' paws, eh?" He remarked to Shadowfire quietly, voice flutterin' in darkened amusement. And in the back of his mind, Duskpool knew Smokefang would've appreciated the flowers, even if the bastard would've been scowlin'. "Can't say I'm good with bein' delicate." He mused half-heartedly. "Should've asked Lostmoon. That kid would've been scoldin' me." He chuffed, molten iris starin' at Jaggedstorm's empty mound with a curl of his scarred lips. "Kid's got me goin' in circles with his rambunctiousness."
Every coffin, every patch of disturbed soil was a tally carved into his soul. Smokefang and Shadowfire. His brothers. Their bodies rottin' in the dirt that no longer could sustain 'em, lest they risk killin' an entire generation through disease and starvation. It made him bitter thinkin' about corpses, alive once upon a time, now lay forgotten except here, mounds empty, but their memories everlastin' until the last of 'em collapsed beneath the weight of the livin'. Ryuji. His littermate. A life snuffed out by a stranger he'll never know, forgotten somewhere in these lands with no one to remember, but him. Jaggedstorm, gone too soon, cut down like the storm he was named for, leavin' behin a grievin' husband and children who'd never know him, except for stories. Yukio, a son not by blood, but by heart, lay rotten in a grave he couldn't see, taken from him by a monster he made sure would never harm another soul, not again, never again. Honeycombsplash, sweet-voiced and steady, now there was nothin' left but silence where her laughter used to be. His little girls with eyes barely open, three graves missin' for he was a youngster back then, but in his heart, Duskpool would never forget their faces. Their voices not yet developed, he'd never know how they'd sound, their personalities just beginnin' to grow were snuffed out, left in ribbons and buried along with their mother beneath a torn-down fence.
His shoulders hunched inward, grief-stricken and lost, lookin' far too haunted for someone of his stature. I should've been with 'em. That thought burned hotter than grief. He ain't got nothin', but hungry vultures circlin' his tattered, bulky frame. His ghosts are too intertwined in his very soul. His chest kept draggin' in air, thick n' heavy, when all theirs had been stolen. Reckon survivior's guilt sat heavily on his broad shoulders like a parasite curdlin' into slow-churnin' rage. His good iris blazed, starin' at the graves, jaw tight, his voice broke out, low and guttural, barely more than a soft rumble in the breeze, "I ain't real worth half of what ya were, ain't that tacky?" Made him wonder why he ain't bein' struck down, but instead, forcin' him to live till there's nothin' but broken bones and visceral scattered where a tom should be, proud and weary-eyed from battles he long wish he could forget.
He could've howled at the sky, throat raw from cursin' StarClan and their rotten mercy. Instead, Duskpool ought to sink his claws into the earth, tearin' roots and dirt beneath his pads till crimson beaded the caked surface. The silence pressed into him like a coffin with shoulders tremblin' with the weight of every ghost ridin' 'em, yet despite it all, he remained unbendin'.
we're only haunted by the things we refuse to accept
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feel free to have overheard the silly mans if you'd like ^^
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DUSKPOOL stands like a storm given flesh, broad-shouldered and unyielding. His frame was built from the bloodlines of a Norwegian Forest and Maine Coon, every inch steeped in the weight of a life hard-lived. His pelt is a wooly black smoke mantle, thick as winter fog and marked with faint mackerel stripes. Old scars score his flanks and shoulders like lightning carved into the night sky, with each one telling a story that was paid for in blood.
One molten-copper eye burns fierce and unblinking, sharp enough to cut through lies, while the other is nothing but a hollowed ruin. A sunken relic of a battle he walked away from when he shouldn't have. His tail is a heavy, swaying banner of shadow, and his paws are silent despite their size, measured by someone who's learned patience the hard way.
He carries himself with the gravity of an old war-chief, regular in ruin, yet brutal in beauty. His very presence is a warning that some storms don't pass. They wait. And they return.
"there's two kinds of cats in this world. those who learn from others' mistakes, and those who are the mistake."
senior sun guard of skyclan during coffeestar and hawkstar's reign (mentor to sweetpaw)
eighty-three moons; ages on the 1st of every month
brother to outlawbite & thistlestrike; half-brother to flowercloud; father to almondpaw & cinderpaw (wolfstorm & lostmoon)
his voice is a low, gravel-rough baritone, measured and deliberate, carrying the weight of old battles and unspoken truths
his scent is a deep grounding mix of cedarwood and patchouli, laced with the sharpness of pine and a lingering curl of smoke
pinterest | playlist | theme song
speech thought action
peaceful/healing powerplay permitted -
