Closed The Colony give me hellfire // cicada

[SABLESTAR]

With the fighting sidelined for now, Sable had sought out Cicada to care for the scratches Quell had left behind. Evidence of an attempted assassination that left lingering paranoia, making his skin crawl just thinking of who else was lurking in his shadow. "Thank you, Cada." Sable's shoulders sank once the tension in his muscles subsided. Whatever poultice was applied hurt nearly as much as claws, but the cool touch relieved the hot irritation.

"I don't imagine I won't be needing more when Hawthorne and I meet again." Sable almost felt bad for that lily-livered tabby. He was still so naive, so hopeful, as if he were bubbled away from the real world. "You don't have to if you'd rather be neutral to it all but... I would be grateful for your support when the time comes. You've got undeniable talent when it comes to herbs, and it won't be just me who might need that."

A duel wouldn't do to show Hawthorne's followers he wasn't prepared for leadership. He was ready to take it all, he would do anything to prove it.

@cicada

this heart beats cold like the devil his own

• "mew"
• 

  SABLE— he/him ･fifty-two moons ･colonist ; no clan ･penned by gonkpilled

  a black and white tuxedo with dark amber eyes

 

[cicadabuzz]

Cicada does not flinch at the sight of the scratches marring Sable's dark pelt. Their amber eyes, steady and unblinking, trace the marks with clinical detachment, assessing the depth and risk of infection. Without a word, they turn to their stores, selecting herbs with an almost ritualistic precision. The muted scent of marigold and cobwebs mingles with the sharper tang of comfrey as they work, chewing until a poultice is ready. They return to his side, applying it with firm but careful paws, indifferent to any wince Sable might suppress. Pain is temporary; healing takes precedence.

When Sable speaks, Cicada listens, their silence heavy but not inattentive. His thanks does not stir pride or even acknowledgment in them. Gratitude, while appreciated, is unnecessary for what they consider simply their role. Their touch remains steady as they press cobwebs over the treated wounds, securing the poultice in place. At the mention of further injuries, Cicada's gaze flicks upward, momentarily meeting Sable's. Their expression remains unreadable, an enigmatic mask that betrays neither approval nor disapproval of his plans. They do not respond immediately, choosing instead to tidy their workspace, their movements deliberate and methodical.

"Neutrality," Cicada murmurs at last, their voice soft but unwavering, "is a luxury, not a choice." The statement is not a reassurance nor an acceptance but a simple truth, delivered without weight. They turn back to Sable, their posture calm and yet unyielding. Cicada does not offer promises of support, nor do they reject the idea outright. Their loyalty lies not with ambition or rivalry but with the wellbeing of the whole. If Sable's quest leads to more bloodshed, Cicada knows they will be there to treat the wounds, regardless of whose side they are on. Their talents serve the colony, not its politics. And if it comes to a point where they must choose to stay or go, it will depend on whether Serpent chooses to stay or go. They are the only two with decent knowledge of medicine; it is only logical for them to separate if such circumstances were to occur.