#⟢ 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

[tragedy-of-commons]

HI GERN !! could i request yellow rose, amaranthine + druxy + petrichor with aventurine? hunters evil deeds emoji

YELLOW ROSE:  though valentine’s day is usually centered around romance, there are many types of relationships that deserve to be highlighted and celebrated.

amaranthine  —  undying.

druxy  —  (of wood) having decayed spots or streaks of a whitish color; rotten, decayed.

petrichor  —  the smell of earth after rain.

aventurine backstory spoilers, depictions of fear and injury, angst and retrospection, possible lore inaccuracies, intended as platonic

Aventurine can’t quite remember when he started running. 

It could’ve been when he was only knee high to his older sister, her warm hand combing through his hair, praise and reassurance leaving her mouth in droves. He’d run, and she’d chase him, a cacophony of their shared laughter amidst a simple game of tag. 

Maybe it was when the shouting and panic started to penetrate the walls of childhood ignorance; he’d sneak off as far as he could without worrying anyone, desperate to escape the rising tensions of his homeland, all the while humming a long-forgotten lullaby to pass the time.

On the other hand, it might’ve been when everyone fell lifeless around him - his sister bid him to run, Kakavasha, he believes, and his mother and father’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Aventurine ran then, too. He narrowly avoided the wrath of pointy spears and the fate of his loved ones, weaving deftly between each obstacle before being forced to play dead when the time called for it. 

He finds he remembers those details better - the bad ones - rather than the good memories that continue to elude him, slipping through his fingers like sand.

But he knows for a fact that he can sprint, and that was almost enough to save him. 

And he sprints now, as rain falls from the sky in a torrential downpour. There is only one unshakable instinct carrying him forward: one foot in front of the other, run, Kakavasha. The trees around him are thin and generous enough to provide glimpses of where he’s actually going, flashes of forest floor and springy roots abound. 

He cannot feel if his feet hurt, but one of them feels confined; a dress shoe he was well-fitted for months back remains tightly enclosed about his ankle, stomping through puddles without regard. His other foot is free save for a tattered sock, its matching shoe likely abandoned amongst the elements somewhere behind him. 

Flaxen hair sticks to his forehead, too heavy to flutter in the harsh wind. A nauseous, saccharine taste floods his mouth. He wants to vomit, but just as he did back then, he presses on, leaning into his instincts. There is no burn of exertion because this is the high of adrenaline.

This is the same sensation he gets before taking a big risk, teetering on the precipice of whatever bad outcome is to befall him should he somehow lose. But he never does, and so he bids himself to keep going. 

Rain is lucky. It’s something the gambler intrinsically cherishes wherever his job may lead him, no matter the climate of the planet he’s skulking about. Maybe he’d jokingly call it a vice or a weakness, but that’s something he’d say at a party if he was caught gazing at the light drizzle just outside. The occurrence is lucky, to him, the person sick of fortune and what it leads to. 

That’s what triggered this flight response. The storm on this planet (one he cannot recall the name of now, and cares not to) was brewing long before his arrival.

Trip advisory remains a small part of debriefings, but he was told of the drought. 

“It’s really nothing to worry about, Mr. Aventurine. It hasn’t rained there in almost five weeks now, but it shouldn’t impede your directives; you have my assurance. The locals may be a bit… standoffish, but it’s not like you’re part of the Special Debts Picket Team, haha! Just be aware of the wilting vegetation and depleted resources. It must be quite a depressing sight. Your accommodations are still top notch, however!”

His lackeys certainly agreed, voicing their concerns about the darkening sky and the streets devoid of people. That didn’t matter to him. Why would it, when there is no risk he hasn’t taken?

But when it all came pouring down, it was different. Different how? Aventurine’s heart thundered in his chest - fear so raw that it was isolating and all-encompassing. It dredged up things deep within him, things that were buried so far down he’d be reluctant to call them human. Things so animalistic, so prey-driven, that he up and vanished from the task at hand like a wounded deer. 

The man (if he can even be called that), notices the landscape narrowing further. He’s getting close to something greater, someplace that will be safe from the maw of the past ready to swallow him whole. His shades, along with every other part of his signature wardrobe, have long since been stripped away along with his wayward shoe.

His fur boa that normally lounges across his shoulders is dirtied, yes, but also fraying after it snagged on a protruding branch. Cursing and gulping heaving breaths, Aventurine discards the accessory with haste. It will only slow him down.

He feels like Kakavasha, for the first time in a decade or so. 

When he reaches the illustrious clearing, he slips.

His body connects with a slope after his foray with the air ends. It’s a steep drop; there is still no pain, but a gasp of finality escapes his throat as he tumbles, mud and leaves embracing his form due to the harsh impact. Either way, it cannot and will not be heard. Cold, cold, cold. He lands knee-deep in frigid water, the surface of which being battered with the force of the rain. If his adrenaline is gone, it’s then replaced with shock.

Clumsily dispensed into the prone position, his chin digs into the rocky sediment lining the bottom of the creek while his arms flail outward. He swallows enough of the murky water to cough and hack a few times before his vision goes dark.

He can still hear the rhythmic sound of dripping.

Splat! Splat! Splat!

But this time, the repetitive symphony is deep and clanging, almost metallic. It’s loud, rousing him. When Aventurine opens his eyes, expecting to see that he’s still in the forest somewhere - that assumption is proved wrong. He’s now warm, surrounded by downy blankets boasting knitted patterns. If he stares at the swirls of indigo and black long enough, they dance. Just where is he, and why does it feel like he’s in more danger here than indisposed at the creek?

…is this a dream? It certainly feels like one.

The springy surface beneath him is no doubt a mattress, and when he blinks the remaining bleariness from his vision, his surroundings become even clearer.

A voice startles him.

“Oh. You’re awake, then.”

Aventurine wrenches his head to the side - the bedside - where someone he doesn’t know is perched on an old rocking chair. There’s an expectant but curious look on your face, and the gambler is disconcerted by the fact that he can’t get ahold of himself immediately. He doesn’t speak, mouth drawn open in terrible vulnerability.

“I’d be speechless too. How are you feeling?” you probe, tossing the book you were thumbing through aside. It lands with a thud near a pail that’s attempting to contain a leak plaguing the high, logged ceiling. Aventurine watches the source of the earlier clanging, enraptured. “Do you remember anything?”

Assess the situation and make a move.

“I feel—” he winces at the hoarse quality of his voice, “—fine. Would you mind filling me in? I can’t say I have the best grasp on things at the moment, friend.”

He tries valiantly to save face, clearing his throat before pulling himself up to sit against the headboard. Mercilessly, he’s bombarded with pain. Hot, white needles stab at his lower extremities - the ones still obscured by the blankets. Agony circles and constricts his torso like a vice, the telltale aching of a few broken ribs.

The way you react to his answer is unfavorable. Your lips purse - Aventurine can easily place the look on your face as suspicion. He’s been regarded that way more often than not, and he can’t say it bothers him. He’s practically a living, breathing warning sign for any enemies of the IPC. But it’s not good, not good at all, to be on your bad side after you’ve presumably saved him; not while he’s in your care.

“We’re not friends,” you correct. “And I found you on my property, floating in the bank behind my cabin.” Hopping off your rocking chair and standing, you sweep your arms out as if to show him around.

Once you notice him adjusting again, you snap, “Hey! You’re lucky to be so unscathed, boy. Quit moving or else you’ll make it worse.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the blond chuckles, trying to disarm. There are bandages winding around the full length of his arms, the (most likely) mangled remnants of his clothes replaced with a plain undershirt. Aventurine suddenly mourns the loss of his gloves. His hands are on full display, having been bared to himself and to you.

Faded scars mar the skin around his knuckles, similar abrasions littering his palms. Calluses that will never smooth pool around his fingertips. 

Look how much you know about him already. 

Aventurine will not run again, even if Kakavasha is screaming at him to do so. He already has to deal with the fallout of his… uncharacteristic outburst. “I’m here on business, to put it plainly. Seems I got caught up in the downpour and got lost.”

It’s the best thing he can come up with to tell you, one of the “standoffish” locals. He stuffs his hands under the covers and quilts to hide them from view; when he does so, he also feels the scratchiness of gauze around his legs. Being indebted is never a good feeling, even though it’s something he experiences every waking moment. Aventurine knows you’ve saved him… and he knows you’ll, humanly, want something in return.

“Let’s just say I believe that,” you mutter. “I treated you the best I could, but it’s not much. Medical supplies have been scarce around here lately. Your torso’s pretty busted up, and you have a swollen ankle. I dunno how you were so fortunate, but you’ll need to see a doctor as soon as possible.” 

“Thank you. To whom do I owe the pleasure…?”

Silence. The tattoo on his neck burns.

You, with crossed arms, observe him again - this time from head to toe. Your scrutiny takes in his dull, multicolored eyes and his guarded posture. You’re a sharp one, for ostensibly nobody.

“It’s probably better if you don’t know my name. You’re not from around here, and you must’ve been running fast to end up face down in the rough like a corpse. I saw the tracks leading up to where you fell.” A strike of lightning and subsequent thunder punctuates your sentence, exacerbating the roof leak. The pail takes a beating trying to collect the new runoff, quickly filling. 

“But if I had to guess who you are,” you turn your back to him, making sure the thing doesn’t overflow. “You’re the rain-bringer. Hah!”

Aventurine understands you’re just joking, that you’re playfully chalking the termination of the drought up to the appearance of a bizarre stranger. The timing would get a laugh out of anyone. 

Well, anyone but him, that is. 

The man scorched by possibility finds it in himself to say nothing. He watches as you flit around the enclosed space - the cabin being about the size of a public restroom. You’re stoking the fireplace, then you’re up again to bring the wood-burning stove to life. 

“You’ve been out for a day at most, goldilocks. Once the storm lets up and the phones start to work, I’ll call the town doctor, and you can call your people. They must be worried, yeah? I made you something to eat earlier, but I…”

Aventurine tunes out after that. Despite the pressing concern that Diamond and his subordinates will be vexed by him going AWOL out of nowhere, he’s an asset for a reason. Even without taking his infernal blessing into account, he trusts his intuition. He’ll be okay in your hands - at least for the time being.

He doesn’t have a choice.

event post here. network members only!

[artaintfartwarriors]

Could you do Falling Feather and Rainswept Flower? Ignore Rainswept Flower if you've already done her I literally looked at every dotc design and then immediately forgot which cats you designed

Ironically, I just did Falling Feather! Lots of requests for her, lol

[amber-tortoiseshell]

Please tell me about the genetically accurate warrior cats head cannons :3

Hell yeah.

You gave me a wildcard warriors ask without any character request, which means i can choose, so i'll go excessive and present you: my color headcanons for the entire Sun Trail travelling group!

I tried to stay as close to their canon description as i could, and at the same time make everyone unique.

Our protagonists: Gray Wing, Clear Sky and Jagged Peak; blue, blue ticked tabby and blue blotched tabby. (Their mother Quiet Rain is a blue spotted tabby for me. Very blue family.)

The girlies: Bright Stream (black mackerel tabby bicolor) and Turtle Tail (black tortoiseshell blotched tabby bicolor; she's heterozygous for white spotting)

Black leadership: Shaded Moss, Tall Shadow, Moon Shadow - obviously the latter two has the same color, but i'm sure we could make them unique enough with different body shapes and eye colors.

Medicine gang: Dappled Pelt - black tortoiseshell (she has white spotting only on illustrations, never is the text*, and i wanted a tortie without white in the cast), Cloud Spots - black with white (white ears are unusual but not impossible, can be added)

*well, except for one time in Moth Flight's Vision, where she supposed to have "Orange-and-white fur". I declared that one a mistake. Even the alligances call her tortoiseshell, never tortoiseshell-and-white)

Background warriors with awesome names: Rainswept Flower (black spotted tabby), Quick Water (blue mackerel tabby with white), Shattered Ice (blue tabby harlequin)

Youngsters: Falling Feather (white), Jackdaw's Cry (black, which is unfortunate, but i'd give him a blue eyes mutation which would put some white on his muzzle), Hawk Swoop (red mackerel tabby; i could keep her kits more canon-compliant if i'd make her a tortie, but she's the only red cat in the group and I want to have one).

Bonus:

Bumble (black tortie tabby with white - i purposefully made her echo Turtle Tail's colors) and Storm (she gets a fun color because this way Thunder can inherit every allele he needs: black tortoiseshell silver blotched tabby with with white).

[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

[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!)

[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

[eggfeather]

rainswept flower

[catsoftheclans]

clear sky

[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. ”

[skyscratch-wcdesigns]

Rainswept Flower - Hunter of Tall Shadow’s Camp

[tragedy-of-commons]

🎧 HIHIHIHIHIHI

Once again, empty horses Gallop through the violet door Follow red, crooked courses Shadows on the moonlit floor O my stars, winged creatures Gathering in silken height Like the last human teachers Once again, we must bleed new Even as the hours shake Crystal blood like a dream true A ripple in the wound and wake You believe, I believe too That you are the river of light Who I love, that I cling to In the belly of the empty night

— simulation swarm, big thief

[shallowbreeze]

Rainswept Flower

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

[myrtlebloom]

good morning rainswept flower nation