private CREDENS JUSTITIAM — scorchstorm

[BLUEFROST]

The sun sets late today over WindClan’s camp. The sky is torrid, ablaze with scarlets and pinks, and it casts a carmine glow over the heather. Bluefrost sits alone, as she always does now, her teeth working at a clump of tunnel-dirt that stubbornly stays lodged in her thick gray pelt. She had learned from Sootstar to groom her fur after a long stint under the earth, but unlike her mother, she has no loving mate to help clear the dust from her coat; she has no followers, no adoring felines to lounge about her and hear about her day.

Bluefrost is eclipsed by the solitude she carries on her shoulders, the loneliness she’d let Cottonpaw glimpse only once. The clump doesn’t budge, though, despite her best efforts; a shadow casts upon the sunburnt earth, and the tunneler lifts her head, green eyes squinting against a sunset pelt. “Would you mind helping me? I cannot get the dust from my shoulders,” she murmurs, acquiescing her head in a slight nod.

This would be the first time in many moons she had shared tongues with another cat—it would be the first in a lifetime she’d have shared tongues with a cat who stood so stolidly against her mother’s regime. Scorchstorm’s eyes are like the sky above them, blue hiding dappled gold, and Bluefrost dares to search them for judgment—for disdain. Should the she-cat settle close to her and begin to initiate grooming, she will shift her tension-filled shoulders and mew, “Thank you. It will be good to rid my mouth of the taste of ash. I do wonder when the rains will wash the moorland of that filth for good.”

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: @SCORCHSTORM
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[SCORCHSTORM]

Scorchstorm does not give much thought to Sootstar's kin. At least, not ordinarily; she supposes she thinks of Cottonpaw the most of all of them, if only for her time spent in the medicine den and the weight of her responsibility in the clan's structure. Past Cottonpaw, the bulk of Scorchstorm's mental energy is spent focusing on her own family, her own duties, and her own connection to the moors — not the connection she has (or, rather, doesn't have) with Bluefrost, Addervenom, and Moorblossom.

But it is hard to deny Bluefrost attention when she asks for it.

Scorchstorm is stopped in her tracks by the other molly's beckoning. She had been planning on picking up a piece of prey and settling down with a meal, but the detour isn't entirely objectionable. When she turns to face the ice-pelted molly, she doesn't hide the flecks of suspicion that are embedded in her golden gaze — but she tries to manage it, at least. Sunstar had bestowed an apprentice upon Bluefrost. Surely if she is worthy of a life to mold, then she would also be worthy of a few moments of fleeing daylight?

"Sure," Scorchstorm agrees, settling at the warrior's side to work at the spot between her shoulders. There is a beat of hesitation before she starts, though not because she dreads the taste of ash on her tongue.

It does, of course, taste acrid, but the taste of the dust she grooms off of her clanmates is never the point of sharing tongues. Scorchstorm is silent, taking in Bluefrost's words as she speaks them. Perhaps she reads too far into the simple remark. Washing the moorland of its soot is what they all need now, isn't it? The rasping of her tongue pauses as she murmurs a faint assent.

"We can only hope it will be soon," she meows, tufted ears twitching. "I miss the grasses and the butterflies." She misses a good number of things, really, and if she would give Bluefrost the grace she would assume that the other molly did, too. She misses Luckypaw; misses Rumblerain, both lost either during the war or in the wake of it. She knows Scorchstreak misses them too, though her mother doesn't often speak on it. The flame-pelted molly returns to her grooming for a few more rasps before another thought inevitably comes to her: "What's it like training an apprentice right now? Is Brackenpaw doing well?"

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

​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Scorchstorm stops in their tracks, sunlit eyes meeting Bluefrost’s emerald. For a moment, she feels pinned in place by their golden glamor. “Thank you,” she murmurs gratefully as the tortoiseshell warrior folds her lean body into place beside Bluefrost’s smaller figure. She nearly starts at the sensation of a tongue parting the fur between her shoulder blades—and, though her shoulders still carry the tension she cannot ever seem to release, she forces herself to relax under her Clanmate’s grooming.

“Newleaf should be a time for butterflies and new grasses,” she agrees in a quiet voice. With some hesitation, she twists her head around, gaze scouring Scorchstorm’s painted pelt. The ginger meets black like flames lick smoke-darkened sky, and she lowers her face to the other warrior’s fur, tasting the fire rippling along her flank. She finds she is more self-conscious than she could have anticipated—could the tortoiseshell tell, could she feel the way Bluefrost holds her worry in her shoulders?

But then Scorchstorm asks her about Brackenpaw. Against her better judgment, she relaxes a bit, drawing her tongue up and over the she-cat’s dappled pelt. “It is… strange,” she admits. “Everytime I take her out, I am reminded of… of Sootstar taking me places, teaching me things.” She exhales softly. “Brackenpaw is sharp, though. Their tongue maybe barbed, but they are a good student.”

She finds she means this, finds a swelling of bare-bones pride erupt from the grave of her heart. Brackenpaw irritates her to no end, plagues her purposefully, but she cannot deny the young calico’s talent for picking things up on her own and for adhering to Bluefrost’s ideals. “You must be due for an apprentice yourself any moon now. Are you excited?” She wants to cough the dust from her throat; it has been so long since she’s shared easy conversation with a Clanmate, since before her mother died.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[SCORCHSTORM]

Scorchstorm tries not to startle when she feels Bluefrost begin grooming her own flank. It's not that it's unnatural — this is how cats share tongues, after all — but despite the ice-hued molly's initial request, she hadn't expected to receive anything in return. Still, she settles quickly. She carries only a fraction of the tension that she can feel between the other warrior's shoulders. What exactly strings her muscles together, though, Scorchstorm doesn't know. She's never been too close with Bluefrost, especially after the events of Sootstar's terrible war. Reading her mind was not in the flame-licked girl's skillset.

She works at a particularly tough clod with her teeth while Bluefrost murmurs gentle replies. Her words eke from her like chimes from a reluctant bell. "It should be," Scorchstorm agrees, half-absent as she pictures the green sparkle of Luckypaw's butterfly wing. Maybe he still wears it as a mouser; maybe he doesn't. She hasn't visited since the fire, and she tries to keep her visits short and sparse, anyway. There is plenty to do in warriorhood that cannot be done when she is visiting kin.

They continue on the tense diamond between Bluefrost's shoulders as she replies to their question. Scorchstorm is mercifully dense, perhaps; she thinks of the tension there as little more than the strain of muscles under fire. Tunneling is hard work, she knows, so she innocently assumes that strain is what Bluefrost carries on her back — if she knew of the other she-cat's loneliness; the boulder-sized inability to connect, maybe she would have been afraid of it. Really, they were not so different in that way. Scorchstorm was just fortunate enough to have been on the right side of the war. Even coming to that realization, though, she spares little mercy for traitors; Bluefrost should just count herself lucky that she did not spiral completely down Sootstar's drain.

They talk about Brackenpaw; about the strangeness of training them. Scorchstorm blinks thoughtfully when Bluefrost admits to the struggles she has as a mentor. When they were young, Scorchstorm had thought of her as capable of anything — really, she supposes, that attitude hasn't changed much now. To think that the other molly would struggle in teaching is almost strange to her. But the reasoning makes sense, doesn't it? And, for as much as it irks her, her firebrand heart aches with reluctant sympathy. When Sunstar had first taken her as an apprentice, she had resented the moorland views for reminding her of Badgermoon, back when she'd thought him a traitor. To be so uncomfortably familiar with the moors while training an apprentice....

"That sounds... hard," Scorchstorm decides, head tilting slightly. Does she teach Brackenpaw in Sootstar's ways? It's a question she doesn't voice. Instead, she opts for empathy: "It's not the same, but it reminds me of when Sunstar first began training me." After I got home from the journey. Had Bluefrost resented the journey cats the same way Rumblerain did? "I used to wish he was Badgermoon instead." There is a mote of tension at her teeth as she speaks it, though whatever ire had been stoked is not Bluefrost's fault. Instead she thinks bitterly of the night that Badgermoon had fled the moors, the night that had spiraled a young Scorchpaw's life further out of control. To even imagine that his exile had been for nothing but a rat's bald-faced lie... to imagine she had believed it... it pains her.

Still, she can concede congratulations. "I'm sure Brackenpaw is lucky to have you. You were always very skilled when we were apprentices. She'll learn a lot." And she does believe that, though she still remains habitually wary of what exactly Brackenpaw's curriculum would contain.

Scorchstorm's ears twitch as Bluefrost prompts her with a new question. The flame-streaked molly lets out a short burst of breathy laughter. "I am," she confirms, tufted tail flicking leisurely. She admits none of her jealousy for this meeting's new mentors, though; she can keep that to herself for now. "I... well, it's nerve-racking. My apprenticeship was not very... traditional. But I hope I could be a good teacher to somebody, and that one of the nursery kits grows into a moor-runner in the next moon." She punctuates her thought with another giggle. It's a nervous little thing, but lighthearted nonetheless; there is an ease with which she and Bluefrost speak that she has experienced with few other cats before. It's odd. She isn't sure what to make of it — maybe Sunstar's show of trust has truly rubbed off on her.

A heaviness creeps into her shoulders. Scorchstorm does not hold her tongue as she ruminates on the feeling. "It's almost strange. How normal things feel. I..." she pauses, golden eyes flashing as they meet the other molly's green pools, "I hope it lasts." She resumes her work, not another word from her.

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

​

 

[BLUEFROST]

Scorchstorm’s mind is whirlwind, a tempest filled with ash and embers, and Bluefrost’s is cavernous, dark, distant echoes calling to her. The gray she-cat is hyper-aware of the absences spaced between their words. There is much to read into those quiet moments—where does Scorchstorm walk in the meandering moor of their melded minds? Does she think of Bluefrost, her claws bloodied, as she tosses Lilacfur and Larkfeather over the edge of the gorge? Does she think of Bluefrost, silent and moonlit, sitting by Sootstar’s side, her imitation? Is she tasting tunnel dust on Bluefrost’s fur now, or something else altogether—something between blood and betrayal?

Her heart hammers in her chest, though she cannot say why. Perhaps it is the newness of sharing closeness with a Clanmate after so many moons of isolation. Regardless, Bluefrost bends her face toward Scorchstorm’s pelt and fills her mouth with crackling fire. “It is hard,” she murmurs after the tortoiseshell warrior speaks again. And there is that split between them again, unspoken and then manifested: Sunstar had been her mentor, moons ago. After I got home from the journey, she tells Bluefrost, and the tunneler tilts her head to one side, ponderous.

“What are your thoughts on the other Clans now? Are you still…” She grapples for the word she wants to use, then settles on, “friends?” She knows nothing of bedding down beside a RiverClan body, sharing prey with ThunderClan, with SkyClan, chasing rabbits into a ShadowClanner’s claws. She knows nothing but the disdain burned into her own heart, seared in place by Sootstar’s careful kindled claws.

She could not imagine being in Scorchstorm’s paws—that’s what she used to think. Daughter of a traitor, designated to travel amongst the other Clans to unknown lands while their Clanmates perished. Her own father had withered away in the abandoned badger set while the tortoiseshell warrior had been traversing mountains.

“You have more to teach than most of us,” she finally settles on saying. “Did you learn the secrets of the other Clans? That would be useful to pass down to an apprentice.” As always, Bluefrost is pragmatic.

It’s almost strange, how normal things feel. I… I hope it lasts.

Bluefrost adjusts herself to the tugging of her fur, to the tangles being separated and worked on with prayerlike paws and tongue. She meets Scorchstorm’s gilded gaze and finds herself unable to look away. I did not want this life, though, she reminds herself, even as part of her trembles and forces herself to steady her jaw. I wanted Sootstar in power. I wanted to follow in her pawsteps. I wanted—I wanted—

And what does that matter now, in the daylight? What does that matter, when the taste of ash is on her tongue, when the sun is sinking behind the horizon and igniting the sky in a poor imitation of Scorchstorm’s fiery pelt? She remembers Sunstar’s words, harsh and bitter, cutting: And who, in her final hours, did she favor the most?

It hadn’t been her. It would never be her again.

“I… I hope it does, too,” she finally says, offering a small and self-contained smile to the other warrior.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring n/a ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​

 

[SCORCHSTORM]

Bluefrost asks her about the other clans, and Scorchstorm pauses in her work. The other clans had become something of a sore subject for the flame-brushed molly; she remembers being scolded for her enthusiastic greeting of Iciclefang on a border patrol and shame burns hot at the tips of her ears. But really, how could she not be excited to see the RiverClan warrior? Maybe they weren't close, but Iciclefang had instilled in her some knowledge of the rivers. How could she not still think of Cherryblossom when the tortoiseshell molly had held her through the pitch black, separated from Luckypaw and thinking him dead? How could she not still think of Honeyjaw, a stranger to all of them now, resolute in his position that Clan life wasn't his path forward? When she faces the brandishing iron of her Clanmates' scorn now, Scorchstorm cannot help but wonder what might have happened if she had stayed with him in those dogtooth peaks.

But she hadn't stayed. She'd come back, just as she'd been told to do.

Something in her posture shifts. "No," she answers, deft, full. "We aren't friends." And it is probably true. Maybe those cats don't think of her anymore; maybe Scorchstorm has become a simple ember-stained blot in their memory. And if she saw them on the battlefield, she would face them with all the instruments of war that StarClan has given her — but until then, she can still remember them fondly, can't she?

"I learned a great deal from them," Scorchstorm continues in the wake of Bluefrost's pragmatic musing. Her whiskers twitch with something akin to humor as she elaborates, "one even taught me to fish." Not that she'd been any good, of course, but Iciclefang's instruction had been steady, a hook caught in the soft flesh of her mind.

The next minutes pass in silence. Scorchstorm rasps her pink tongue across Bluefrost's shoulders, steady in her pace, ash on her tongue. Even this morning, she had not envisioned herself ever grooming Sootstar's daughter. That woman had been a blight on their moorlands; one whose presence in any positive memory cannot be reconciled with the way she'd torn her clan apart. She remembers meeting her for the first time, all wide-eyed and star-struck.

But she cannot let herself think that Sootstar had been... normal. If Sootstar had been normal, had been a loving mother, had been a capable tunneler who once loved StarClan, then it would mean that she was too close to the cats that Scorchstorm idolizes now. Her idols would never raze the moors for the sake of power, would they? They would never denounce StarClan, would never tear families apart for the sake of keeping their claws deep in the flesh of their clan. They would ensure a thriving WindClan — a safe, strong WindClan.

Sunstar claims the tall rock now. Scorchstreak stands as his right paw. He had wrought WindClan back from an adder's fangs, and he had done it through bloodshed — but all that blood spilled was simply a repayment for Sootstar's own violence. If cats wanted to challenge him, if they wanted to succumb to the black bracken tendrils of evil that coursed through their minds, then they would be dealt with as necessary to keep the peace. This is how Scorchstorm sees things now.

I... I hope so too. Scorchstorm smiles back at her, ears twitching. A hallowed beat passes between them. "I think I finished the spot on your shoulders," she mews, but does not pause as her head tilts invitingly, "are you hungry?" Certainly a meal would be welcome after a long day's work. And, to be truthful... Scorchstorm did not want to see their conversation end.

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

​

 

[BLUEFROST]

"No," Scorchstorm answers her deftly, honestly. "We aren't friends." Bluefrost remembers the young she-cat leaving with her littermate and her mother, remembers her words, echoing sentiments like Sootstar's. WindClan doesn't need the other Clans' help, she'd thought, even as Moorblossom coughed and shook; even as her father lay dying. "You know how to fish?" Her nose wrinkles, unable to reconcile the wiry tortoiseshell she shares tongues with the image of dipping her paws into water and emerging with some flashy, silvery bit of stench. "Did you eat fish on the journey? Frogs? Really, the other Clans' prey has always disgusted me, but..." She trails off, trying for a smile. "Mother's favorite prey was frogs. My father used to catch them for her."

She, like Sootspot, likes to pretend there's no marsh-blood in her veins, but Sootstar's jaws crunching through fragile frog bones makes it hard to ignore. Would I share a fish with Scorchstorm? Would I wade into the swamps with her and catch frogs? She thinks of her recent foray into ShadowClan territory, her scuffle with that pale tortoiseshell warrior, and decides to say nothing more on the matter.

"I am hungry. I caught a rabbit under the tunnels. It tastes less of fire and more of dust, if that doesn't bother you," she mews, rising to her paws to fetch the object in question. She deposits the sizeable catch between them, offering Scorchstorm the first bite. "I know how you moor runners are about dust on your tongues, but you should be used to it now," she murmurs, and something almost playful flashes in her green eyes.

『 out of character. 』 ✧･ﾟ:* 『 about. 』

• ooc: —
• 
• Bluekit . Bluepaw . Bluefrost, she/her w/ feminine terms.
  — “speech”, thoughts, attack
  — 16 moons old, ages realistically on the 14th.
  — mentored by Sootstar ; mentoring Brackenpaw ; previously mentored n/a.
  — windclan warrior. sootstar x weaselclaw, gen 2.
  — penned by Marquette.
  
  
  lh blue and white she-cat with emerald eyes. aloof, dignified, poised, haughty, composed, distant.
  
  

​