private COME HELP ME DIE, MY DAUGHTER

[SCORCHSTORM]

The moors look different at night. Even before they'd been burned to salt and soil, even before the rabbits had withered at the touch of heat, even before all the newly-ashed wildflowers had taken to the wind like pollen, it had taken on a different quality at night. During the day, it had sparkled golden as fleece, a rolling ocean of rushes and grasses and flowers and scrubs. She would swim through it, leaving rivulets of jade in her wake, spilling ruby blood of the rabbits she could manage to chase down. Though as a kitten she'd wished desperately to be a tunneler, she has since found the fortune in witnessing the moorlands in all their sun-warmed glory. At night, they grew purple and lethargic. The owlish wind would cut through her short fur to the bone. Where the grasses grew tallest, visibility became a very real issue — making the constant swaying of grasses nearly overstimulating with sound and touch.

Even once the grass burnt away, even now that the moorlands were bald and black, the moors are still sort of... beautiful. Ash and soot glimmer in place of its old grassy fingers; sprigs of new growth crown beyond the soft soil; the few floral survivors catch moonlight in their pale petals as if to drink it. This is the moorland that Scorchstorm traverses now in search of the sun-warmed pool.

Her leg is prone to aching in the wake of her healed infection. A part of her frets that she might see it return in all its painful glory, but for now her solution is to soak the limb in the shallow water. She feels fortunate to have convinced her mother to come with her during this moon-high night. The young warrior can see Scorchstreak's pelt in the reflection of the water, and for a moment she feels almost as though she is looking at herself. Her jaw parts to speak, but words stay perched behind her teeth. She has never been good at this sort of intimate conversation, least of all with her mother. But... it's been a while since they've talked, really and truly, and Scorchstorm finds that she has things she'd like to say. How to say them is another matter.

"Um..." she finally starts, "I don't think that I ever said congratulations. There was just so much happening." Her head bows towards the pool. She can still see Scorchstreak's eyes in the water, though she can't tell where the older warrior is looking. "I'm excited for you. About Bluepool, and about being the new deputy."

/ @SCORCHSTREAK

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 ✧ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌

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• 
  
  — scorchkit . scorchpaw . scorchstorm
  — she/they ; warrior of windclan
  — short-haired tortoiseshell she-cat with low white and orange/yellow eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — signature by dreamydoggo, template art by sixbane
  — penned by meghan

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[SCORCHSTREAK]

༄༄ When asked if she would go with her daughter to the sun-warmed pool, the deputy had readily agreed. Time spent with her kin is time well spent; it will also help to ease her concerns for Scorchstorm’s safety, at least. As she sits at her daughter’s side, her golden gaze is fixed on the water—their reflections are echoes of one another, a pair of near-matching wings upon the moonlit pool. Scorchstreak’s eyes trail from her own and then to her daughter’s, comparing and contrasting. Scorchstorm is grown now, a warrior of WindClan who no longer requires the guidance of a mother or a mentor; Scorchstreak is uncertain whether she prefers things this way or not. Of all her kits, Scorchstorm is undoubtedly the one she’s closest to, but still the younger calico’s stature is almost too much like her father’s. Of course, she has grown to be so much more than her father’s shadow, but still hints of Badgermoon hover about her like wisps of smoke.

The moor runner congratulates her belatedly on her promotion, and on her mate. There has been so much happening, she says, to excuse the lateness. "I understand," she responds, and it is truth. She does not care for the congratulations of others; her accomplishments are all the praise that she needs. The acknowledgement from Scorchstorm only serves to make her think of Badgermoon, anyway. She has stepped into the tom’s paw prints, and although she is under a different leader, she cannot help but to wonder in what terrible way she will slip from her heightened perch. Each and every last deputy of WindClan has seen bloody ends to their terms served, and Scorchstreak can only think of the worst for herself. But she is set onto this path now, and there will be no stepping back from her fate.

When she speaks, her voice is quiet. "To tell the truth, I’m more excited about my mate than my position." The blunt truth comes easily out here, with only her child and the stars above to witness her honesty. "Though, I am glad that you approve. I’m not trying to… replace your father." Perhaps bringing up Badgermoon is a bad idea, but she must know: does Scorchstorm hold any of it against her?

࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ she’s a growing bed of thorns

• ooc: —
• 
  SCORCHSTREAK ❯❯ she/they, deputy (tunneler) of windclan
  ༄ small, slim flame-streaked calico with fiery golden eyes. stoic and shrewd, but clearly cares deeply for her clan.
  ༄ mate to bluepool ; sibling to rattleheart & rabbitclaw
  ༄ mentor to pinkpaw
  ༄ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ༄ penned by foxlore

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[SCORCHSTORM]

To ask whether Scorchstorm prefers guidance is to ask whether a dog prefers its master. In adulthood she is perhaps freer than she was in apprenticeship, but she has been free her whole life; she has trekked mountains, has lived with the mousers, has reclaimed the land she was forced away from. She has the freedom to act on these goals or not, but truthfully, Scorchstorm prefers to be commanded. She'll fight tooth and nail for any cat that lets her roam the moors and stay with her family. She wishes she could have commanded Rumblerain to do the same, but therein lies the problem: they had been, hadn't they? Just under the wrong cat. Maybe she should be more afraid of her own tendencies, then.

She watches her mother's reflection while the strain in her hind leg eases, coated in tingling warmth. She cannot read the elder tortie's expression in the rippling water; even when she glances up to take her in fully, she still cannot read her. Scorchstorm blinks mismatched eyes in the beat of silence that follows, head lifting above broad, squared shoulders. She doesn't think of the historic turmoil that has plagued WindClan's deputy position when she offers her congratulations. Rather, it seems that her own relation to the position has just shifted — once she was tied to it through Badgermoon, and now she is tied to it through Scorchstreak, like she is some sort of bastardized moorland princess in the making. Not that that's anything to boast about.

Finally, though, Scorchstreak speaks again, truthful like tree rings. At first a smile twitches at the corner of her harlequin muzzle; to be the clan's deputy was a great honor, but Scorchstorm understands holding one's mate closer to their heart than their position. After all, she still will scent cherry petals on the breeze and think of the cloying she-cat from the journey — but that's over now, and her mental tangent grinds to a halt when Scorchstreak expresses something else. I'm not trying to... replace your father.

"No, I didn't think so," the girl reassures, though her head tilts slightly. In what way did Scorchstreak mean? Did she mean as a mate? Scorchstorm had never thought her parents were truly in love — they'd raised her together, yes, and they were certainly friends, but love was another story. But if she meant as a deputy, then... Scorchstorm's tufted ears twitch as she thinks. Badgermoon was a wonderful deputy, at least as far as she could remember. He'd been cast out of WindClan, but... surely that had been Sootstar's bad judgment. Surely that had been her duplicitous nature casting him away, making his kit hate him with each string of sinew she contained. Scorchstreak deserved it just as much as he had, though. She always acted bravely, always tried to secure a better future for her clan; for her kits.

Scorchstorm sits up, frowning just slightly, warmth pooling in her moonlit gaze. "You love her, don't you? That's all I want for you." It's all she wants for herself. Granite-glitter fur and citrine eyes; curled fluff and hay-bale scents; Scorchstorm finds herself torn between several pictures of what could never be. Maybe she'd visit Luckypaw in the barn sometime and ask him what she should do. Or maybe.... "I, um..." she stars, a grin twitching at her muzzle once more, "I'm kind of jealous, actually." Her tone comes laced with a playful purr, but she means it more than she knows.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 ✧ 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌

• 

• 
  
  — scorchkit . scorchpaw . scorchstorm
  — she/they ; warrior of windclan
  — short-haired tortoiseshell she-cat with low white and orange/yellow eyes
  — "speech" ; thoughts
  — signature by dreamydoggo, template art by sixbane
  — penned by meghan

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