la llorona / lichen

[Ghostwail]

GHOSTWAIL

, dark forest resident / former windclan deputy
A skeletal dingy white she-cat with burning pink-red eyes
Notably attached to

FLEECEFUR

Tagging

LICHENTUFT

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Darkness gives way to a gloomy harvest moon sky. From what it is pulled from - the murky, infernal abyss - into ... reality. A tangible plane of existence that held more than just rot and desolation. It drags itself forward, wrestling against the chains that held it tethered to it's eternal punishment. It growls and snaps at the restriction, but when the yolk around its neck doesn't even offer a shudder of give, it stands. Its form waivers in the new, living darkness, but it is there. Here, where the corners of the ravine meet the moors. Here, where she had fallen all those many, many seasons ago. Here, where she once called her own.

A WindClan lost to time and her own twisted memory.

It drifts past the border, skeletal paws unfeeling to the cool night grass (not even the grass noticed her presence, remaining unflattened with every spectral step taken away from her unmarked grave). A guttural wheeze falls from its lips, a whisper of a breath that it doesn't need but does delight in: a foretelling of death in its most carnal form. Spirit made manifest, a soul reinstated to walk on unhallowed ground. It hauls itself away, away, away - towards the river, its ghostly feet pausing at the advent of rushing water.

"Hellooooo ~"

it calls out on the wind, lilting, devilish.

"come quick! come quick! a kit -"

it wheezes awfully, and if it were not for the gloom, the wound at its throat would glimmer darkly, wet with demon's blood.

"... in the river .... come! ..... a kit in the river....."

 

[lichentuft]

There is no purpose to wander the whistling wetlands well after the last drop of sun... not for someone who has the affection of many awaiting her presence. Still, restlessness haunts her not unlike a whispering ghoul, demanding the stomping of twilight dusted paws lest they be swallowed up into the mud, dragged down into the damp muck and swallowed. Forgotten to everything that tread over-top an unmarked grave. It's peaceful in the isolation, there are no fears to crawl up her spine and twist her guts with hot overwhelm... it is like being dead in a way, though she still finds herself glowering towards Silverpelt with skepticism. They hardly seemed the benevolent saviors Pikestar preached them to be-- his hopeful, cheerful nature was a naivety that had seen him slaughtered once... how many more times would the rest of them be made to suffer his foolishness? Peace was only what you made of it... and it often required blood to write the treatises that assured it.

The wind whispers again though this time it holds a sturdier shape, almost mistakable for a greeting, or a pleading... some sort of hollow cry. They think to ignore it as their own imagination, but it insists upon being recognized, a wispy beckoning in the name of a kit... Had her own son not been that same risk? Had someone not died for him? Would she do the same? The question buries itself in the wake of the muck she kicks up, hurrying towards what summons a hero. What begs for salvation from its suffering. It is like a feline made of a sliver of moonlight that lingers in the distance ahead, certainly the faint-voiced bystander. "Who's there?"

The roar of the river is louder now, a rippling of representation of a ruthless reaper. Who has it pulled into its embrace now? "Where's the kit?" She surges towards the shoreline, sparing the stranger not even another passing glance for fear of what time would be wasted interrogating it.