Hi I finally wrote something for one of my ocs so here it is,,,
Warnings for: Death, blood, injury, dogs, horror, and nightmares. (The deaths did happen, but this is all just a nightmare reliving them)
The night was cold, dark, and a bit drizzly. It couldn’t be much later than midnight.
Startled awake, amber eyes shot open and quickly scanned the stuffy den around him. Heavy, labored breaths were visible in the crisp night air thanks to the bright light from the nearly full moon. The only sounds other than the breathing of the cats around him were the rustling of tree branches that draped over the forest around them all.
Nobody was up at this time of night, not usually. This was the time of night where, if you woke up, it was because you had problems. The troubled staring from the ticked tabby tom aimed at the larger grey tabby tom next to him proved that much. Slowly, tentatively, a dark brown paw was raised and began drifting towards the comforting broad shoulders of the other cat, only to freeze and quickly retreat.
A silent thought shot through Cavestalker’s mind, chastising him for nearly making his problems public again. It made him want comfort so much more, but he pushed them down as he decided to lift himself from the warmth that clung to the nest. Casting one last glance over his shoulder, the lean tom exited the den into the open of the camp’s clearing.
The first thing his eyes landed on was the empty spot where Honeyleaf’s body had once been days before. Even with Stoneheart’s comfort that night, the pain still stung his heart like venom. He could swear he could still scent the smell of death clinging to his pelt from her. Roughly, he shook his head and forced the memories from the front of his mind, though they continued to cling to the back of his mind like a stubborn tick, slowly draining at his willpower.
He forced himself from his frozen stance, turning his body away from the sight of the clearing and stalking towards the entrance of the camp. The thorns and branches that lined the entrance, protecting it from unfamiliar cats, scraped harshly against his fur, but he paid them no mind. The calico cat guarding the camp for the night glanced over their shoulder at him, but the look on his face probably told them not to bother him with questions, as they turned their face away from him before he could get a good look at their expression.
Shouldering his way past the cat, Cavestalker continued on his trek away from camp and its eerie familiarity. The forest around him was heavy with the sound of rain, the water making everything glisten in the night in a way he had never seen from the forest before. It almost felt like an entirely different forest; it was refreshing.
As he continued walking, the sound of rustling grass and wet pawsteps behind him caused his pace to slow and eventually come to a stop. With his ears pricked, Cavestalker scanned the area around him through narrow, focused eyes. It must be the cat that was on duty. He wasn’t sure who else it could be. His pelt prickled with irritation, he could have sworn they would know better than to follow him.
Opening his mouth to sneer at the approacher, his vocal chords faltered. He wanted to tell the cat to go away, but as he went to say their name he realized he couldn’t come up with a name to say. His frustrated expression turned confused and suspicious. There were no true calico cats left alive in Thunderclan, only tortoiseshells and torbies.
Ahead of him, the darkness of the forest echoed with approaching, heavy pawsteps. The walking pace sounded strained and slow, but confident and intimidating. The tense air thickened, the feeling of it choking the lone tom.
Though a terrible feeling rested in his gut, apprehension warning him wordlessly, Cavestalker arched his back and hissed at the unknown cat. His usual calm, more collected air that he would have for a battle was nowhere to be felt; only the growing intensity of his now-fearful instincts. All he knew was that he should be scared, kicking-in his fight or flight instincts… and right now, he wanted to fight, defend his clan from this trespasser.
Cautiously, he took a step back in preparation just as a white paw stepped forward into the light as it shone from an opening in the canopy. Long, calico fur draped over a worryingly skinny form duly shone in the light. Pale blue eyes stared ahead at him, almost right through him, chilling him to the bone.
Recognition shocked him to his core, causing him to shake unsteadily on his trembling paws. Eyes wide, he stood still, staring back at the eyes of his mother, a cat who had died many moons ago. Confusion and fear swirled together, hope flashing in between and clashing with the other two.
Hesitating, he quickly scanned the forest around him. Suddenly the darkness no longer felt familiar and comforting, and the cold was much more apparent. His paws and nose began to sting from the icy chill as the wind changed direction. A strong breeze blew over him from behind his still-approaching mother, the wind lifting her fur and revealing her form underneath, an awful rancid stench suddenly hitting him.
Ribs actually visible, bone and all, pieces of flesh rotting and close to falling off of her body, and skin dry and clinging to what remained of her body. Parts of her were torn and bleeding bright red blood, wounds that looked old and fresh at the same time. The gashes on her neck left behind a trail on the ground as they dripped a constant flow. A cat could not be alive and look like this. At least, he hoped that was true.
“M-Mom?” He mewed in a tight, quiet voice. No response, just the sound of pawsteps following his words.
Taking a few more steps back, Cavestalker was at a loss. He couldn’t fight a cat that looked like that. He couldn’t fight his mother. But what choice did he have? A strange adrenaline coursed through him, urging him to do something, anything. It felt like he had already been in a fight, that he was falling from that high.
A sudden wail pierced the silence, the sound high-pitched and pained. At the same moment, Cavestalker felt his pelt set on fire. He couldn’t help but add to the fading wail himself with a hiss of pain as his once-strong standing position was drained of its energy and forced into a slouch.
The pain was familiar, those of claw-marks and cat-bites, but he had never felt them at such an intensity before. He felt no blood rushing to heal him and close the wounds, nor any wounds in the first place. Just the pain that they could cause him.
Stumbling, his basic instincts finally made a decision. Seeing as Birchdream had done nothing but wail, still not close enough to lay a claw on him, but cause him this much pain… his gut told him he wouldn’t be able to survive this. He didn’t want to believe it, that his mother would do anything like this to him, not of her own free will, and he still didn’t. She was in pain, just like him, and now they both were relying on only the most basic actions of survival: Fight or flee.
Casting her one last longing look, he saw as she had stopped moving and moved to sit and crouched in on herself. She released another pained wail, her body trembling from the effort. As the sound reverberated, the pain Cavestalker had begun to feel flared again. That was all it took for him to turn tail and run away through the underbrush.
The wind in his pelt felt icier and wetter the more he ran, the drizzle turning to sleet and the water freezing to his pelt in sharp icicles. The feeling slowed him, the cold seeping away the last of his warmth and making his body beg for him to focus on heating up again. The heat from the pain was still strong, but did nothing to stop his violent shivering.
That’s when he noticed the snow-covered ground directly underneath his paws. The undergrowth around him was still as it was, wet and warm, but anywhere he stepped seemed to change even the weather itself. As he was catching his breath, which now left him in icy clouds, and examining the snow trail he was creating, a branch above him snapped.
His attention quickly switched as his body went to react, but he wasn’t fast enough and the weight of the surprisingly-heavy limb hit him square on the shoulders. The breath was knocked from him, leaving him gasping for more as he laid stunned and disoriented. Scrambling for something to grip and drag himself from under the branch, his paws hit something warm and fuzzy.
Reaching further to grip whatever it was in front of him, the object lifted itself and moved away from his grasp. Blinking forcefully, Cavestalker tried to focus his spinning vision on the object. It took a few moments, but it slowly shifted into focus and left him with the sight of a dark brown tabby paw stepping away from him. As it moved, a large weight lifted from his back, giving him just enough room to finally fill his lungs fully with air.
Staring at the cat, his whirling mind first assumed it was Smallflower, then once again recognized the cat as he realized they looked much younger than his clanmate was. The feeling of rushing adrenaline was back, his body fighting against the pain of the wounds and the crushing weight of the branch, as well as his losing-fight against losing consciousness.
Staring up who he now recognized as Owlpaw, who just stared blankly back at him, another limb above them both creaked a late warning before it, too, snapped. Having no energy to try and move, Cavestalker’s vision flashed to black and his mind went blank as it made contact with him.
Just as quickly as it hit him, he was awake again. He shot up, a heavy weight still feeling stuck to his shoulders, but nothing as bad as the large branches that had once been there. His forelegs buckled and trembled under his weight as he sat up. He could breathe, though his breaths still came in labored gasps.
Looking around, he saw that he was still in Thunderclan territory, and still in the same area he last remembered being. Next to him, tree limbs were laid on top of each other on the ground. The air was no longer cold, and any snow and ice that had once existed had disappeared. But he was still in near excruciating pain, his ears ringing from the shock of it all.
Looking up to the sky, he stared at the moon, which was still in the same spot as when he last looked. Even the clouds that decorated the sky looked as if they hadn’t moved much at all. It was as if no time had passed at all.
Taking a few moments to gather his thoughts and strength, the warrior looked back in the direction of camp. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he knew it was wrong and he knew he was in pain. Speckthroat or Yewheart could help him.
Though he was exhausted, he grunted and pushed himself up. His legs wobbled from the effort, and nearly let him fall back to the ground. Grinding his teeth, he steeled himself for a long walk. Each step was uneasy and felt risky, but slowly but surely he made his way closer and closer to home, to camp, to the medicine den.
The closer he got, the quieter the ringing in his ears got and the easier it was to hear everything around him. The closer he got, the easier it became to hear barking and yowling and screaming. Alarm coursed through his veins, inspiring to stumble as fast as he could towards the danger.
Camp wasn’t far now, he could see the entrance. Everything was so loud, his pain as strong as ever before, and the feeling of needing to do something still urging him forward. Bracing himself for the worst, he forced himself through the entrance and was met with absolute stillness and silence. No dogs. No cats. Just two little bodies near the center of camp, bloodied and mangled. Spottedpaw and Leafpaw.
The two bodies laid in complete stillness, seemingly frozen in time. But as he approached, they shifted and wheezed. He came to another stop only pawsteps away from them as they pushed themselves to their paws, joining him in standing unsteadily.
As he stared at them, he only barely managed to croak out their names, “Spottedpaw….? Owlpaw….?”
They did not grace him with words, though in their state he couldn’t expect them to. Instead, the pain he still held from seeing Birchdream flared again, bringing with it both the crushing pain of the branches and the new pains of torn flesh and broken bones. It felt as though a dog had used him as its personal chew-toy.
His head dropped, hanging limply and facing the ground as he stared sightlessly at it, his vision blurred to the point of sightlessness. It was all he could manage to not fall over. The pain was so close to knocking him from his paws, his mind blank yet filled with the feeling of white-hot agony.
“I-I’m sorry! I should’ve been here sooner!” He wailed, voice cracking from the strain. For a moment, his words weren’t met with anything, but he could hear a shaky breath being drawn in from the cat in front of him.
“No, I’m sorry. I truly am, Fireclaw was a strong warrior.”
He stood in silence, still staring at the ground as he regained his vision once again. Fireclaw? No, that wasn’t right, he was talking to Spottedpaw and Owlpaw. They were hurt, they were gone, and he hadn’t done anything yet.
His head was heavy with grief, pain, confusion, and pure exhaustion, but still he slowly lifted it again only to be faced with the pitying expression of his leader. His amber eyes narrowed, confused at the sight. He opened his mouth to question her, but he didn’t have the time as the sight of his leader faded away right in front of him, leaving him once again alone with reignited pains, more of those feeling as if they had been left by another cat.
Unable to keep his composure any longer, having seen his mother and siblings once again and reliving the news of his last sibling’s death, reliving their pain and their last moments, the tom crouched low to the ground.
Tears streamed from his eyes as they closed tightly, sobs racking his body and reminding him of the pain burning as hot as the sun in his body. With each one, his head lowered closer and closer to the ground, but before he met dirt he made contact with fur.
He didn’t need to open his eyes this time, the scent of honey and oak leaves filling his nose and reminding him of one of his most recent losses. “Oh, Ho-neyleaf…” He breathed out, words interrupted with a hiccup of emotion and muffled by her pelt.
It felt like an eternity, sitting crouched beside his apprentice’s stiff body, wetting her fur with his tears. He wanted to do something, anything, but nothing would work. He couldn’t bring any of them back. He couldn’t tell them the things he had never said. He wasn’t who he had tried so hard to be. He wasn’t a strong warrior who could do anything his clanmates needed.
His thoughts were only validated by the feeling of two familiar pelts moving in to join him, one large and muscular, one small and lanky. Stoneheart and Parrotpaw. Two tails intertwined with his, gentle tongues grooming his fur down and soothing his pain as best they could. It wasn’t enough for it all to go away, everything still hurt, outside and in, but he couldn’t ask for anything more.
The feeling of their closeness brought the warmth back to his pelt. He didn’t dare open his eyes, not wanting to see the sight of Honeyleaf, nor wanting to risk the feeling of his mate and his son leaving him. So instead, he just accepted their touch silently as his tears continued to fall.
The longer he sat there, the weaker he seemed to feel, but it wasn’t unwelcome. More and more he lowered himself to the ground, his head pressed deep into Honeyleaf’s pelt as his consciousness slowly began to fade from him. As he faded from the world, he could swear he felt a new group of cats huddle close and join in grooming his fur. They felt like family.
He twitched himself awake, the movement shocking him from his deep slumber he hadn’t realized he was still in. Groggily, Cavestalker blinked his still-wet eyes awake. They quickly adjusted to the dim light of the warrior’s den, the moon hung high in the sky outside and the drizzle drumming gently on the ceiling above. Groaning quietly, he raised his head from the hard ground it laid on. It gave him a few realizations.
He was hardly on the soft, warm nest anymore, most of his body on the cold ground of the den. A leak in the ceiling above had soaked his paws, making them feel much colder than they actually were. A few prickly pains in his pelt alerted him to thorns that had somehow managed to sneak their way into the den. He went to move and pick them out, but his shoulders felt heavy and ached, yet warm, and glancing over he found Stoneheart’s broad head resting on them in his sleep.
Careful as to not wake his mate, Cavestalker slid out from under him and quickly picked the thorns out of his fur, luckily none seeming to have broken the surface of his skin too much to cause any worry. Moving them to make a neat pile to deal with in the morning, Cavestalker shifted to climb back into the nest, but paused just before moving. His gaze lingered on Stoneheart’s slumbering form, the tom looking as strong and as handsome even with a bedhead and moss clung to his fur.
As he examined his mate, he noticed a thorn that he hadn’t managed to get hit with himself resting dangerously close to Stoneheart’s side. Narrowing his eyes, Cavestalker imagined a few choice words towards the object. Not going to let you hurt him, thank you very much. Gingerly, he scooped it away and placed it into his pile of pricks with a sigh.
With that out of the way, the warrior finally slid back into the nest, pressing himself as close to Stoneheart as he could manage without worrying the movement would wake him. Though the memories of the nightmare clung to him, even if they weren’t clear, he focused himself on the rhythmic breathing of his mate and found himself drifting back into a peace-filled dreamscape until morning.
Often seen in cemeteries and places of death feeding on remains, but can be found in the woods, around town, and Gatlin’s farms and fields. There is a highland population in Seven Peaks.
OVERVIEW:
These adaptable demonic beasts resemble some kind of unholy cross between a hyena and small horse. Most have short, spotted or striped coats and hooves that make a rattling noise with each step they take. Hellhounds are common in areas of high supernatural activity, and can originate both from other hellhounds, or from humans exposed to demonic magic.
They’re pack creatures and often hunt in groups of 6 to 10 individuals; even if you don’t see more than one, you can bet the rest of the group is nearby. Working as a pack, they are strongly motivated to eat whatever crosses their path. When their population becomes especially large, it’s a sign that a supernatural threat is looming.
The mouth of a hellhound is full of strong, serrated teeth for tearing apart prey and crushing skulls, and their bellies are transparent, allowing those who get too close to see what (or who) the hellhound last ate. And they will eat anything, dead or alive. Once their stomach is full, they convert the food into a yellow gas that they can ignite at will, allowing them to breathe fire. This gas smells strongly of sulfur, and permeates the air around them, which earned hellhounds their name (they are not actually from “Hell”). They make a distinct “laughing” or “cackling” sound as they eat. Because hellhounds are so motivated by food, some more intelligent species might employ them as “grunts,” taking advantage of their sturdy and aggressive nature. They have no loyalty and will follow the food, but will not harm demons.
SHAPESHIFTERS:
While most hellhound populations seem self-sustaining, new hellhounds can also be created from humans when demonic energy and magic twists someone around in just the right way. More powerful demons may enjoy and make use of this. Typically, if someone has been made into a hellhound, contact with more natural, pure forms of magic may turn them back into a human. This usually comes with great relief and confusion for the person, but they’re liable to shift back again if they end up being around demonic magic once more, and so on, making them a sort of shapeshifter. The hellhound beast is wild and dangerous, but the human shows no signs of anything unusual about them at all and may only perceive “lost time”. Hunters who are aware that hellhounds may have once been human may take extra precaution, but it is difficult to decide how to handle hellhounds who become human again, due to the risk of reversion.
ABILITIES:
Hellhounds are resilient and fast, with muscular bodies that give them impressive physical strength.
They can breathe fire after they’ve eaten, but only until their stores of gas have been reduced (this can be seen in their transparent belly); they have an immunity to fire as well.
Their sulfuric stench can be so overpowering that it can immobilize those nearby with a strong sense of smell.
Hellhounds are ferocious predators and known for their incredible jaw strength, often leaving behind nothing more than bone fragments from their feeding.
Do not have claws, but their hooves are strong.
Because they’re often found in groups, it’s not usually possible for a single individual to take them all out unless they’re spread apart.
WEAKNESSES:
It’s often rangers and slayers who end up running into and handling hellhounds, but exorcists and spellcasters may know a handful of rituals and wards that can weaken them or keep them out of areas. With their help, hunters might have some solutions pre-prepped.
Hellhounds can be defeated by decapitation, or several strong blows to their bodies.
Between their rattling hooves, cackling while dining, and sulfuric stench, hellhounds are not subtle and more than often you can hear or smell them coming.
Not especially intelligent, due to how instinct-driven they are.
Hellhounds do not like water. While it won’t harm them, they rarely cross bodies of water and panic if submerged or doused.
Once-human hellhounds who have regained their human form often don’t understand what happened, especially when not familiar with the supernatural. They are completely human until exposed to demonic magic again, making them vulnerable to hunters who might take them out rather than risking reversion.
VARIANTS
CAVESTALKER:
Cavestalkers are solitary hellhounds that come from a population that got lost in Wicked’s Rest’s cave and mine system many years ago, and have adapted and evolved at an unusually fast rate to take advantage of the darkness. They have only tiny vestigial eyes, and they’re smaller in size than other hellhounds, allowing them to squeeze through narrower pathways. On rattling hooves, they follow anyone who is wandering through the underground tunnels, waiting for them to simply perish from dehydration or exposure. They don’t generally attack and will wait many days for their food to be ready. Cavestalkers can’t survive outside of a cave environment, and bright lights cause them pain. They do not breathe fire, but noxious sulfuric gas pours from their mouths.
HILLHOUND:
This crystalline-coated hellhound variant is found at higher altitudes, including Wicked’s Rest’s Seven Peaks. They have icy breath instead of fire, and only eat the living or dead once they’ve been frozen solid, like a popsicle. Hillhounds tend to be transient, not establishing a territory or regular hunting ground, as they’re used to tracking prey long distances. They are larger than their lowland cousins and are inactive on hot days.
#HappyEarthDay #HappyEarthDay2019 #EarthDay2019 #EarthDay #CaveStalker #Cave #Stalker Cave Stalker In its hard to live environment the Cave Stalker manages to survive is by using its 2 heads that work together to find its prey. One of the heads evolved in a way that allows to hear the sound waves that are created in the caves and the other head evolved its sense of smell to an incredible level. In total Darkness the Cave Stalker can catch any pray with ease. https://www.instagram.com/p/BwlOGayFrwt/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1nso3n6jqxz73
