TW: Death Open PAFP wild women don't get the blues ──✩°｡⋆⸜ infection

[Graybird]

I am not your kind and gentle husband

Time? Time doesn't exist, it has all narrowed down now to a single point, a single motionless figure of lattice black stripes and earth warm fur, he is unaware of how many seconds tick by - there are voices rising in a cacophony around him, his blood pounds mercilessly in his skull, beating a staccato and demanding escape. Dead. The single word filters up through the fog of his mind, his sleek gray limbs are stiff as he stands rigid and watching, a concrete statue, a gargoyle poised overlooking a church and the place he once worshiped lay desecrated before his paws. Graybird ignores the sounds, the screams, the claws unsheathed and voices rising in a timbre of rage and fear, it is all muffled in his ears as if he was been submerged in the deepest of waters, cold and chilling him to the bone. The gray tabby moves soundless through the fog, stops next to the unmoving body and dips his head low to touch a dark nose to a single stiff ear. She's not yet cold, though nose rise and fall of a chest tells him she is here there is a desperation in the way he settles hunched over to press his face into soil brown fur, the bark of trees, the warmth of mornings, he is unaware that he's shaking so violently his fur rustles as if a breeze catches it; nostrils flare to take in the scent of sweet berries and pine sap before he chokes out a soft sputter and steps back, head lifted in alarm as she moves. Juniperstar unfolds like a newborn fawn, awkward and uncertain in her own body and he exhales a breath that quivers and shakes. Oh, StarClan. You were true.
He's hovering now, teeth barring toward the others as he inches back to her side to carefully offer a shoulder tail lashing, "Can none of this wait? Do you not see she needs a moment?"

& I am not the love you knew before.

GRAYBIRD

— Warrior ThunderClan
— He/They
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
— SH Gray Tabby with holly green eyes.
#82847e

 

[serpentberry serpentberry]

Her claws do not find the purchase they ache for. Her teeth does not scruff pure ivory fur and draw out the crimson that lies beneath it. Instead, she is brutishly shoved away, made to eat dirt whilst the murderer stands untouched. Maybe Stilldream cowers, maybe she fears that her ears may be ripped from her head lopsidedly, imperfecting her appearance. The details of the other almost matter no longer, not when the sudden appearance of Ashmoon and his defense strike for Serpentberry's attention.

"You must have fur in your ears, Ashmoon - or perhaps parasites in your brain. You are no better than a four-pawed snail." Slimy, sticky, trying to shelter beneath something that can be crushed so easily. The molly stands to her full height again, her lip curling to expose her teeth. Her build is nothing substantial nor intimidating. Her threats are snakelike, akin to her name. Serpentberry is quick and venomous. But that doesn't stop her from drawing in a breath to fill out her chest nor square her shoulders. Magnoliapeak and Rowanpaw fill the divide between herself and Ashmoon, now, and though the two defend her, the tortoiseshell wishes she had a clear line to sink her fangs into.

"My own kits know not to touch my herbs. The kits of others, apprentices, other warriors - they know not to go traipsing and playing pretend in my den. This is the work of someone unnecessarily impudent -" Yet, as she says it, Juniperstar wakes. Serpentberry snaps her gaze towards the other, the same rage and venom bleeding from her eyes. She doesn't need the other to explain the details to know that Juniperstar is at fault in some way, too - just as she is for not noticing the issue first hand. "Quiet down," she says, and her lovesick pet barks out beside her, trying to hoist up the frail prey's shoulder. Serpentberry grinds her teeth, a flash of something in her gaze when she notes the two of them, so comfortable with one another. It makes her sick.

Her gaze swings back to Stilldream, and to Ashmoon who defends her. "My stores are not for unskilled and unwanted paws. I have plants in there that will kill if used incorrectly. You," she points her gaze towards Stilldream, then Ashmoon, "nor you have authority over my domain. The stars blessed me, Ashmoon, and I have every right to punish any single cat who has crossed that boundary. Your little friend," her nose wrinkles, disgust laden on her tongue, "should hope that she can remedy whatever bumps and scrapes she earns on her own. Myself and Rowanpaw will not waste a single remedy on her. Even if all she needed was a blade of grass to save her life, I will ensure that StarClan raze every last patch in the forest." It goes unsaid; Ashmoon remains in the balance, where his wounds may be treated, but his tongue is loose enough to lose the privilege.

Her gaze flicks away, finally. "Rowanpaw, go to our den. Reassess our stores. I will be with you soon to help." Serpentberry doesn't look to her daughter, not damning the youth with her same, ichor rending gaze. Magnoliapeak, however, earns a glimpse of it briefly. The slightest tip of her head, and a silent, "Thank you." Owlbark, Copperstorm, Hazelheart - none of them truly gain a proper glance from the molly. They can conduct their punishments and ramifications as they see fit. She's done as she needed. And to be true, nothing Juniperstar says can change her final decision.

"Help me bring her to her den to rest," her tone doesn't soften when she speaks to the grey-furred tom beside Juniperstar. She doesn't even look at him, "You can discuss what happened after we ensure you're okay." The slightest drop of care into the abyss of rage and misconduct. If allowed, she takes up Juniperstar's other shoulder, still bristling with discontent.

 

[Copperstorm]

You walk along the edge of danger
AND IT WILL CHANGE YOU

.

Everything shattered the moment Serpentberry reached Juniperstar's body. Copperstorm had been watching, every heartbeat stretching like the fragile space between lightning and thunder. When Serpentberry dropped to her leader's side, the clan stilled, as if the forest itself held its breath. But that stillness didn't last. Not with Stilldream still there and Serpentberry on war path. The yowl, the fury, the way Serpentberry launched, it all happened so fast. Ashmoon moved to intercept, Magnoliapeak wasn't far behind to scold Ashmoon. Voices were raised. Accusations flew like claws unsheathed.

Copperstorm didn't move at first. Couldn't. Golden eyes were wide, locked on Juniperstar's body. Her body. She'd looked so still, so gone. So undeniably dead. He hadn't dared to blink. Not with the way the others were shouting, medicine cat against warriors, warriors ready to tear each other apart, all while a leader's final moments hung heavy in the air like fog that refused to lift. But then… Then she twitched.

Copperstorm's breath hitched, sharp in his throat. His claws pressed into the earth as he stared, disbelief crashing into him like a wave. A twitch, then a sudden gasp, the desperate kind that dragged life screaming back into lungs too long silent. His heart was thunder in his ears. The storm broke, but not with violence. With hope. She was breathing. Juniperstar was alive. His gaze snapped to Serpentberry then, for just a moment, he looked to Stilldream. Not with blame. Not yet. Not entirely.

Then the weight of it all hit, and he lashed his tail once behind him, sharp and cutting through the air like a whip. The clearing was chaos, and yet all he could do was stand there, frozen between grief and a miracle, fury and relief.

Speech, thoughts/emphasis

33 MOONS

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THUNDERCLAN

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SONG

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bio

 

[S t i l l d r e a m]

Stilldream watches, wholly unprepared for the intensity of Serpentberry's rage. Her ears flick back, and she stumbles back.

Impudent thief?

That was what she was so upset about? The fact that she'd taken herbs? Not the death of her leader? There is no further warning as the calico launches at her, claws outstretched. There is no time to escape them—sharp pinpricks defile her flesh. The white molly lets out a startled wail, claws unsheathing on instinct. Plumes of bloodied fur drift in the chaos like pale embers.

Instinct kicks in, and she shrinks against the ground, claws scraping the dirt of the den, prepared to defend herself. But no sooner does a shadow wedge itself between Stilldream and her attacker—a glorious veil of grey fur that she's beyond relieved to see, her face twisting between relief and glistening fear.

She cowers beneath her savior, a white puddle, streams of red trailing down her cheek from gashes above her eye. Her limbs shiver, quaking with not fear but anger. A raw thing it is, twisting in her ribs, a snarling beast rearing its ugly jaws. But she is no fighter. Now she is at the mercy of those with sense, not blinded by petty greed or sentiment. If that's all standing between her and persecution, she's doomed! There aren't many of those laying around. Ashmoon is a gem, a lone diamond in a pile of stones.

Then Serpentberry's dimwitted daughter throws some slander about it being her error. The gull! Stupid little girl could look with her own eyes and determine that. Instead she chooses to throw out blind accusations. For a moment, her mask cracks—irritation boiling to the surface. She narrows her eyes at the fox, lashes fluttering through red that distorts her vision.

Even so, she has the sense to keep her mouth shut. It remains clamped, leaving Ashmoon to talk sense into them. It seems a losing battle. They don't trust her—less now than before—and they're outnumbered. Its clear as dewdrops that she's underestimated their rage, their weakness...

But it's another voice that makes her ears swivel. Slowly, she turns, eyes growing wide as she watches the once-deceased (or so she thought) leader rise. Was she mistaken? Was the rise of her chest so subtle that she hadn't noticed? Had she not just died?

Their angry prattling persists, but she's no longer listening. Her eyes dart back to Serpentberry's for a brief moment before being drawn back.

No… the infection was serious. It was so far along that she was sure it would kill—and she had stopped breathing. Stilldream had heard enough of death's rattle before to know. Yes, she had. And yet, sure as the stars themselves, there she was—speaking—drawing breath.

Lavender eyes are fixated on Juniperstar. Perhaphs it was a fluke of nature? Or... perhaphs there really was something to those stars they seemed to worship so fondly...

What… is this?
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OOC NOTES .

• OOC: — Owie.... but also thanks for kickstarting a new obsession. Really, thank you. : )
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