Open Prompt Event Territory creatures wild and tame ] bones

[cicadabuzz]

Cicadabuzz moves through the undergrowth with quiet, practiced steps, their senses attuned to the rhythm of the forest. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and green things, the aftermath of last night's rain still clinging to the world. They are alone on this patrol—not uncommon, as they often prefer solitude when gathering herbs—but the stillness of the woods feels different today. Heavier. It isn't until they step into a small clearing, where the trees give way to an open patch of moss and scattered stones, that they see it. A collection of bones, bleached pale against the dark, damp soil. Their eyes narrow slightly. They know bones when they see them—fox, bird, rabbit. But these… these are different. Their steps slow as they approach, sharp gaze sweeping over the remains. Too many pieces for a small creature, too fine and delicate for anything canine. The shape of the skull catches their attention first, half-buried in the moss. Cicadabuzz doesn't flinch as they unearth it with a careful paw, turning it so that empty eye sockets face them.

It's catlike.

A strange, quiet thing settles in their chest. Not fear. Not sorrow. Understanding. They set the skull down with a semblance of care and inspect the rest of the bones, sifting through them with detached precision. The structure is unmistakable, though the bones are old, fragile, long picked clean by time and scavengers. There is no scent left, no sign of how this cat came to rest here. No fur, nor lingering traces of life. Cicadabuzz exhales slowly. A nameless cat, unremembered, left to be swallowed by the forest. There is no sentimentality in how they regard the remains, but there is respect. A life once lived, a body now returned to the earth. This is the way of all things. Still, something about the placement of the bones unsettles them. The way they have not scattered, as if the cat simply laid down and never rose again. There is a story here, but it is lost to time, and Cicada has no interest in chasing ghosts.

They do not pray. They do not whisper words of comfort to the bones. Instead, they gather the remains with steady, unhurried movements, finding a place beneath the roots of an ancient tree where the earth is soft and damp. With practiced ease, they dig. The soil is cool against their paws as they work, burying the nameless one beneath the gnarled roots. When the last traces of bone are covered, they sit back, studying the fresh mound of earth. There is nothing more to do. Cicada stands, gives the grave one last, measured glance, then turns away. The forest hums with life around them, unbothered, unchanged. Whatever past lay in those bones, it is gone now.

Their duty is to the living.


{ prompt: your character comes across a strange collection of bones on their patrol and they look eerily catlike.

 

[Nettlefrost]

┍

Day by day, hour by hour, Nettlefrost becomes just a bit more familiar with the damp territory of his newfound home. Roots still trip at his paws from time to time, and brambles often tangle his fur, but the tom is in no hurry. He walks these lands at a leisure pace, the wind howling past his waiting nose. Each scent it brings is examined thoughtfully, and though most of it is mere common smell of the swamp, one strand in particular was like a yarn woven by another's paws. Nettlefrost recognizes Cicada's scent. Out in the marshes all alone? The blind warrior couldn't judge.

After all, so was he.

He tracks the other through the undergrowth, stepping lightly through ferns that glide against his pelt. His paws sink into mud and occasionally stray into the wetness of murky pools. In the midst of leaf-bare, all he really hears is the whistling breeze, rattling tree limbs, and the occasional croak of a crow. Life would soon return to the pocosin with the warmth of spring, however, and with it an abundance of insects, frogs, and song-birds. For now, Nettlefrost listens for his clan-mate, though the other is eerily quiet. The blind tom can only detect the faint sounds of soil being upturned. An ear twitches as Nettlefrost pushes on, finally stepping out of the shadows to reach them. He stares sightlessly, clouded eyes intense upon Cicadabuzz's form.

"Everything alright?" Nettlefrost inquires simply.

He hopes they don't mind him checking in.

‎┙

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ orange eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicada does not startle when Nettlefrost's voice cuts through the quiet. They heard him long before he spoke—the subtle shift of undergrowth, the near-silent give of damp earth beneath his paws. They wonder if he knows the sound he makes despite his careful steps, or if he simply assumes his movements are as ghostly as the wind threading through the bare branches. They glance at the grave again, reach out, finish smoothing the last remnants of the soil over the makeshift grave before answering, their voice as steady and measured as ever. "Yes." It is not a lie nor an attempt to dismiss him. There is simply nothing more to say. The act is done. The bones are buried. The forest has already begun to move forward, unbothered by the small ritual Cicada has performed.

Still, they do not move just yet. Their gaze lingers on the fresh mound of earth for a beat longer before finally settling on Nettlefrost. His blind eyes are fixed on them, though they know he does not see them in the way most others do. Perhaps that is why he holds his gaze so unwaveringly—there is no need to avert his eyes, no discomfort in the weight of it. Cicada finds it strangely fitting. For a moment, they say nothing, studying him in that slow, deliberate way of theirs. "There were bones," they explain at last, as if that alone is enough to summarize the situation. Perhaps, to them, it is. "Cat bones." They do not expect shock or fear from Nettlefrost. If anything, they expect him to take the information in stride. He does not seem the type to be rattled by death, and Cicada respects that.

Their tail flicks, a slow and thoughtful motion, before they finally step back once more from the grave. The damp air is thick with the scent of freshly turned soil. It will fade soon, just as the memory of the nameless cat will fade back into the earth, reclaimed by time. "I buried them," they say simply, as though this, too, is just another task completed. Another responsibility tended to. "No scent. No fur. Just bones." That is all there is to tell. No mystery to solve, no ghost to chase. Just the remnants of a life long past, and the quiet act of putting them to rest. Cicada does not dwell on things they cannot change, nor do they linger in sentimentality. But there is a weight to this moment, even if it is a light one.

They turn their gaze back to Nettlefrost, considering him. He is alone, much like they were before he arrived. Cicada does not ask why. They do not ask anything at all. If he wished to share, he would. Instead, after a long moment of silence, they tilt their head slightly and speak again, voice low and even. "You followed me." Not an accusation. Not even a question. The wind shifts, rustling the bare branches above them. Cicada waits, ever patient, to see what Nettlefrost will say.

 

[MIREPURR]

Taking a leisurely stroll through the marshes is a sure-way to soothe Mirepurr's mind. They had not consider themself particularly flighty, but with imminent danger at every unfamiliar corner and with odd happenings every other day, their judgment is often clouded by something akin to paranoia. What's next, they always wonder. At least their optimism remains in tact... whatever happens, they are certain that ShadowClan can overcome it.

But just what happens always matters.

Their sensitive nose soon picks up traces of their Clanmates; Cicadabuzz and Nettlefrost. They are both rather stoic company, but Mirepurr isn't picky.

"Hi!"

Their enthusiastic announcement of their own presence is highly inappropriate for the situation at paw, but they remain blissfully unaware as they place themself near the pair. Nettlefrost's inquiry does the job for Mirepurr, and with one swift motion, their cheery expression falters.

"Cat bones?"

Nausea threatens to sway them off-balance. Curse them and their sensitivity! The tall trees and the murky depths of still-water near them suddenly appear to radiate some gloomy, cold vibes; Mirepurr is thankful for the other ShadowClanners' presence, now more than ever.

"I hope those were here long before us..."

Surely that's true? Mirepurr thinks of Juniperstar and her own cats just around the sunnier side of the land — there's no way they would have done something this vile, and quite morbidly, Cicadabuzz would have found something more than just bones in that case...

At least Cicadabuzz saves Mirepurr from having to think too much longer on it. They're not certain if Nettlefrost's arrival is unwelcome or not.

"I didn't follow either of you, for what it's worth. Just caught your trails and thought I'd see if you need help."

A pause.

"You took care of it already, though."

Mirepurr warily eyes the bit of dirt in front of Cicadabuzz, assuming it to be this unknown cat's final resting place. They know that everybody deserves as much — a quiet spot in which one becomes one with nature once more —, but the notion of scooping up bones of unknown origin creeps them out. At least the medicine cat doesn't mind this sort of stuff.

 

[Halfshade]

YOU'RE WELCOME BITCH, THE SHOW IS FREE

I DON'T DO THE WALK OF SHAME - I STRUT

Cicadabuzz unnerved her but not in a way that truly ruffled her pelt, it was more in how they spoke than anything else - the odd behaviors and casual regard for death and the dying she could dismiss as being desensitized as one who healed as their main duties, but there was such an eeriness to their voice, a hollow and almost disinterested timbre that made her not want to chat them up as she might anyone else. Having to hear it often felt torturous - she made a mental note to guard her health well so she didn't have to go parading into that lanky feline's den anytime soon.

Halfshade slides up alongside Mirepurr, head tilted to shoulder them in greeting to let them know another presence was nearby that wasn't an attacker stalking up from behind; everyone was so terribly jumpy lately with all the odd going ons she didn't want to risk making a more skittish cat claw her accidentally, she'd have to beat them to death for it. It would be an entire mess.
"If they had no scent they were much too old to be something to worry over." The bicolor molly says with a low purr, her voice clipping into annoyance as she catches herself from asking Nettlefrost if he 'had eyes' to his question. No, actually, he didn't - she kept forgetting.
"I followed Mirepurr." She added to the back and forth, unashamedly smiling because what were they going to do? Be annoyed she followed them? If no one wanted to be followed they would be better about their stealth after all!

♥ I like turning heads - breaking necks ♥ Highheels in the morning.

Halfshade
♥ — ShadowClan
♥ — She/Her
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
♥ — Blue Torbie w/Blue & Orange Eyes.
#FEA8A8—#8087BD

 

[cicadabuzz]

CICADABUZZ, 27 moons / shc + med. cat
a SH cinnamon tabby/chocolate tortie chimera w/ black eyes
parent to deathberrykit, hemlockkit, mistletoekit
a reserved, pragmatic healer driven by duty rather than sentiment

Cicadabuzz does not react when Mirepurr bursts onto the scene, nor when Halfshade slides in with the same ease as a snake through reeds. They simply watch, eyes half-lidded, as the mood of the clearing shifts—first with Mirepurr's naive cheer faltering at the mention of bones, then with Halfshade's wry amusement settling in like a cat curling into their nest. They are not bothered by the interruptions. The dead have already been laid to rest, and nothing about their quiet burial requires secrecy. If their Clanmates have come seeking answers or reassurance, they will find neither from Cicadabuzz. Mirepurr's visible unease does not go unnoticed, though Cicadabuzz does not move to comfort them. They merely tilt their head slightly, considering. The young warrior is the kind who feels things deeply, who lets discomfort rattle them like a leaf caught in a sudden gust. Cicadabuzz does not judge them for it, nor do they understand it. The world does not change simply because one finds it unsettling. The bones are buried, and yet Mirepurr still looks as if they expect a ghost to rise from the soil.

"They were old," Cicadabuzz finally says, their voice as even and unshaken as the ground beneath them. "It is nothing to fear." They could explain further—that the bones had been stripped of all scent, that time had worn them fragile and light, that whatever life once lived in them had long since faded—but they see no need. Fear of the unknown is something Cicadabuzz has no patience for. The nameless cat has already returned to the earth. There is nothing left to concern themself with. Halfshade, by contrast, carries no such hesitation. Her presence is one of sharp edges masked by amusement, and though her words are clipped, they carry the weight of someone who has already decided this is a non-issue. Cicadabuzz does not mind her pragmatism. It is preferable to Mirepurr's lingering unease.

Mirepurr's eyes dart to the dirt once more, as if expecting some unnatural disturbance. Cicadabuzz resists the urge to sigh. There is no changing how others see the world, nor how they perceive death. Mirepurr will fret, Halfshade will brush it off, and Nettlefrost will keep his thoughts close, they presume. Cats will be as they are. "You can stay here and stare at the grave if you like," Cicadabuzz continues, already stepping away from the site, their movements unhurried. "Or you can walk with me." They have no intention of lingering. The air is growing heavier with the scent of damp leaves, the promise of another cold night settling in. There are still herbs to check, still the pulse of the living world to tend to. They glance back, waiting. Whatever choice their Clanmates make, Cicadabuzz will not stop them. But they will not stand still. Not for the dead, and certainly not for the fears of the living.