#⟢ rainswept ⊹

[rainswept]

# THE MOON IS BEAUTIFUL, ISN’T IT?

— lyney, freminet, navia : 272, 213, 206 words respectively. these don’t really make much sense tbh.

# LYNEY : love. bouts of flattery overflowing from a mouth full of bleeding gums, bouquets of rainbow roses neatly tied together in a pretty silk bow; words slipped like cards between fingers past his teeth that are pleasing to the ear but do naught to soothe the ache beneath the skin. stiff movement, perfected performance, smile lines on a face that has seen nothing but tragedy; swooning, blushing, grinning; bright spotlights, pried open eyes blind to it all. cries for an encore are like a bandage over a profusely bleeding wound that just won’t stop, won’t quiet down. gods, he’s so tired of encores.

but he is not tired of performing. the desire to still swells beneath his skin like the blood that sustains him — it always has. but it is beginning to feel like a cut forcing that deep-seated thing to the surface instead of passion, forming a wound instead of flushed cheeks, painful and slow and agonizing as it bleeds him dry. but at least now it is familiar.

dreams that leave him in a haze, warmth settling in the pit of his belly instead of knives, bread as a peace offering, hands held tight in the face of peril, soft breaths entwined without a single kiss and gentle touches to gnawing wounds. moving away from a fireplace when it gets too hot only to return moments later when you forget the feeling of being singed; a garden overgrown with rainbow roses to the point where they almost look as if they began growing wild, unbridled and free and passionate and imperfect.

which is love to him? he doesn’t quite know.

# FREMINET : tears. he thinks his tears threaten to overflow the rushing sea, bleed into the waves until he dies in a water that cannot drown him. marks that linger as memories fade, reflections on the surface of the sun; the deteriorating seashells picked up from the shaking sand at the bottom of the ocean, forever moved by the presence of another. soft touches and fleeting wishes, dry lips with sobs seeping between the cracks like water, begging for a reprieve from the loneliness that strives to swallow him whole unlike like the sea he loves so dearly — a threat versus a plea, a soft embrace instead of a bruising hold. he doesn’t know which is which.

shaky hands held beneath a star-filled sky, glistening teardrops so plentiful they mimic the galaxies and the sea alike. currents swelling beneath fingertips and seeping beneath skin as he sinks until he can no longer see. screaming, yelling, silence, cries and wails of anything but sorrow, knives to throats and blood spilling beneath a red moon to taint shallows that were never pristine in the first place. tender flesh, calloused fingers, sharp nails digging so deep into each other you could nearly get cut. you pray to the archons that the indents in your unwounded skin scar.

# NAVIA : comfort. a warm dessert melting on the tongue, meringues, saccharine and soft; a hazy memory doused in vanilla and egg whites. beds of flowers whistling in the wind, head leaned against the base of a tree, soft strands of golden hair twirled between fingers and tangling in the grass; forehead kisses, sunsets, lighthearted giggles turned to laughs so plentiful they make your chest ache.

navia wraps her fingers around yours like she never wants to let you go — it’s tender, loving, sweet, and oh so far away. the look in her eyes is distant, clouded, guilty; she gazes at the floor, the ceiling, the corner of your mouth. anywhere she can find and grasp onto but your eyes, or your lips, or your heart, or your soul — her eyes are like the moon over the water, you always told her, and the moon’s view of anything you truly want it to see has been hidden away by a fog rolling in on the horizon.

a doomed ship sails straight into the fog blanketing the sky like it wants to protect the moon to a fault. as you hold her hand tight, aware you’re watching it, there’s an innate sense it will not come back.

[velo-cats]

Rainswept Flower

[endlesscats]

"How could any cat starve here? Wanting more is just greedy!" — Rainswept Flower

Design note- Shaded Moss and she has matching flowers

[sweetriverstyx]

sun trail gang part two burp

[sublimedragontragedy]

I've been reading through the Warriors series in chronological order and I thought it would be fun to draw covers for each book I get through! I'll be doing this for the main series, super editions, novellas, mangas, and short stories!

All designs are by @cloudtail

[aviiarie]

RAHHHH hi avery avie aviiarie… i hope ur doing well today. apologies for my earlier booing. how about akutagawa + ✉️ + platonic . blink blink (unevenly. frog style)

friendship with akutagawa is receiving a letter at random moments of the day. sometimes it’s a detailed recount of his day, sometimes it is a sentence, but no matter the length they always appear in the same crisp envelope, slid under your door. he was never one for empty words; his care was quieter, and written all over his messages. sometimes it’s: ‘i bought you your favourite meal. it is on your doorstep. eat quickly.’ other times it’s: ‘you don’t look happy. speak to me about it later.’ nonetheless, it’s a sweet gesture, and he treasures every reply he receives.

(ask game!)

[eggfeather]

rainswept flower

[catsoftheclans]

clear sky

[shallowbreeze]

Rainswept Flower

Rainswept Flower is a brown tabby she-cat with sleek, thick fur and blue eyes

[myrtlebloom]

good morning rainswept flower nation

[rainswept]

love / lyney, wanderer, kaedehara kazuha

— ⟢ summary ⊹ : what is it to them? — ⟢ info ⊹ : 300-500 words each, character-centric. angst (you cannot convince me any of them would be able to have a healthy relationship). quotes are lyrics from various songs by the crane wives. — ⟢ cw ⊹ : all used as metaphors: disease (lyney), gore (wanderer), death (kazuha).

LYNEY — “ THIS RING AROUND MY FINGER IS LIKE A CHAIN AROUND MY THROAT. ”

Lyney knows love well. He meets it first when he is born alongside Lynette. He meets it again every day of his life.

He sees its face in the stray cats on the street, in the sky when it rains, in the Hotel. He sees it in his audience when he steps on stage. He sees it in his words, when he grins and presents someone he is forgetting as he speaks with a rose. He knows love well. But love has never known him.

He has never wanted it to. The idea of love knowing him as well as he knows it is a fear just below his skin, creeping up his limbs and clawing at his spine. It is searing fire in his senses, lumps in his throat. It is cold, rainy nights, and it is the peril that gained him his Vision. It is the anticipation of a magic trick and the devastation when it has gone wrong. It is death. It is disease. It is one he carried knowingly, with little remorse or regard to spreading it until he felt the effects of it himself.

You smile. You laugh. When you look at him, practically with hearts in your eyes, and he realizes he is looking at you the same way — he nearly keels over. It twists his organs into knots: it constricts his lungs until he can’t breathe, swims in his stomach until he throws up, forces his heart to beat far too fast until it gives out. He can’t take it.

He thinks he knows love well, but he is an outsider all the same. When he meets it, face to face, and it spills back to him all the secrets he held from it all these years — he finds he does not know it at all.

— “ ARE YOU SO SURE YOU TAMED ME? ”

WANDERER — “ NOTHING COULD’VE BEEN DONE, IS THAT RIGHT? ”

— “ ‘CAUSE I WAS BORN WITH A HOLE IN MY HEART. ”

The cavities where Wanderer’s most important organs should be ached. His lungs, whenever he saw others breathe; his stomach, whenever he saw others eat; his heart, whenever he saw you.

The Kabukimono was a pathetic lost soul. Kunikuzushi was doomed from the start. Scaramouche was his best shot at being someone. But they all had at least one thing in common: they did not know love.

Out of everyone he’d ever met, you were the worst. The way you put up with his words, his anger, his teeth gnashing and words spitting like a stray ember; he was a wildfire, you the rain, and all he’s ever held dear the burnt crisps of what used to be a forest.

The flames lap at his ankles like they want to swallow him whole. He watches as they wrap up his leg, around his torso, his neck, burning the white wood that makes him who he is — yet he knows he is the one allowing it to.

It was awful. At first, with your tender words and forgiving actions, all you did was stoke the fire settled in the pit of his stomach. Your breath turned the slow-burning thing into a raging inferno — but, soon, the wind you brought that fanned the flames turned into the rain that tried to snuff them out.

And it almost worked. He almost let it work.

He’d cough as ash and smoke rose like bile into his throat instead of fire, wince as some foreign feeling roused from an eternal slumber in his chest. He’d swallow, forcing it back down, even as it felt like hot coals being shoveled into his throat.

He placed his hands over his mouth when swallowing wasn’t enough. He coughed, choked, but to anyone else it would appear as if the flames had simply scorched his throat beyond repair. If he allowed the smoke to rise and billow from his maw instead of searing fire, was that not an admission of weakness? Surrender? Who was he, if not a manifestation of the furnace he had nearly died in? He owed his “life” to a human heart. But he had never wanted one, not like that.

So, somewhere in the back of his mind, he vowed never to allow someone to present him one again. Wanderer has chosen to be heartless, no matter the form, for someone offering him theirs was nearly as cruel of a harvest as Niwa’s.

— “ WE WERE FUCKED FROM THE START. ”

KAEDEHARA KAZUHA — “ HEARTS DON’T WITHER, HEARTS DON’T BREAK. ”

To Kaedehara Kazuha, love is a soft ocean breeze and thrashing storm. It is the scent of sea-spray, the sight of the sunset over the water, the lap of gentle currents, the feel of sun-baked sand underfoot. It is the wild, vengeful waves, chaotic and messy and unbridled; it is the rage of whirlpools; it is the shock of lightning bolts when they strike far too close without warning. It is the happiness of a successful voyage and the dreadful feeling one gets when they know their ship is about to sink. And sink it did.

Water overwhelmed his senses. Frigid, it stung his nose and lapped against his throat, splashing into his mouth and filling it with the taste of salt. Lightning struck a horizon he could barely see over the surface, thunder groaned like it was the one in pain, his ears filled with the splashing of water and rain. He heaved for breath as he spat it out, thrashing against the wild waves that surely wanted him dead, too.

Kaedehara Kazuha lost nearly all he had when his boat had turned to floating crates and his crew to dead, bloated bodies, but he did not lose his life. No, in fact, he grabbed hold of a wooden plank and swam to shore alone.

Exhausted, he collapsed against the warm sand, kissed by the sun that had appeared somewhere in the fray. He was weak, tired, and frail, but he was alive, and that was all that mattered until the weight of what truly happened sank in.

Ever since the lightning had claimed nearly all he held dear, Kazuha was afraid he’d never be able to separate the duality of his feelings. Even so, love was a warmth nestled deep in his heart, beyond where even the cold seawater could seep in. It was never something he thought he’d lose, and he was right. He was never worried about that.

The love he felt for you was different from that of the crew he’d left behind, but it was love all the same; thus, after the fluttering of his heart like a seagull’s wings, regret, sorrow, and longing always came in tow. It was as the ripples behind a boat: if the vessel was moving, so were they.

He could still sail. He always had been able to; death did not change that. But he couldn’t deny that he now sailed differently — and now he was unable to go out to sea without the lingering worry of the inevitable storms like an anchor left down.

— “ BUT MINE IS TIRED, MINE STILL ACHES. ”

[wc-confessions]

Imagine being Rainswept Flower? Can never imagine being killed by a cat you called a friend and for what? All because you called him out?

.

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

Can't believe it took me years after reading the books to realize that Gray Wing was only ever mad at Clear Sky's horrible actions when those actions were directed on Tribe cats.

Clear Sky kicks Jagged Peak, a former Tribe cat (who is also their brother) out? He's mad and attacks him.

Clear Sky kills Rainswept Flower, a former Tribe cat, in cold blood? He's mad and fights him.

Clear Sky admits to hitting Bumble, a kittypet, and leaving her in a weak and vulnerable state (and probably definitely killed her)? He's forgiving. He defends him. He's just a poor guy.

Like damn Gray Wing, your prejudice is showing

[everywarriorsboard]

Rainswept Flower

Warriors Board 47/?

🍃 | 🍃 | 🍃

🍃 | X | 🍃

🍃 | 🍃 | 🍃

[buddicat]

rarepair request for petal × falling feather, tall shadow × rainswept flower, or hollyleaf × ivytail if they're still open!

i hope u know they have been rotating in my head for like 2 weeks. we both win with this

[sublimedragontragedy]

The First Battle

I'll be honest other than being sad that Rainswept Flower died, I don't remember a thing from this book cause it was so boring. All the indecisiveness of these cats is so annoying, but seeing Thunder step up as a leader was cool.

All designs are by @ cloudtail