sensitive topics goddess of white noise — lost kit


fey wanderer
Jul 24, 2022

They began their life in a place of dirt and rust and rot, Daffodil and her mother. Her mother, who had kind eyes and a soft face and was far too young to be burdened with a child. Daffodil doesn’t understand any of this, of course, but she remembers it anyway. She’d been born into that place of death and disease, the only surviving kit of her litter, and her mother had worked hard to keep them both safe. You deserve a better life than this, my sweet Daffodil, she had said once, a sad expression coming over her face. But what better life could Daffodil have when all she knew was that place?

Mama is gone now, and she doesn’t think this is better at all. All she can think of is the sickening crunch, the lone wail that broke from her unbidden, the deafening silence of the place of filth. Unforgiving. Crushing. She’s alone.

She’s got to fend for herself now, she knows. But the monsters that prowl this place are larger than the tiny scrap of a kit, and she’s hardly bold enough to stand up to them when they skitter past the shiny black plastic that she cowers beneath. Rats, her mother had called them once. Dangerous creatures. Just like the tall-things and the bright yellow, shiny monsters.

She darts out from her hiding spot into the pale light of the early morning, tiny paws carrying her as quickly as they can to the silvery wire that surrounds the terrible place. Her first obstacle. She manages to suede beneath a pulled-up section, white belly dragging on the dirt below. She isn’t sure where she’s going—only away. Her breath comes out in pants, and she runs aimlessly until she comes across her second obstacle.

The second obstacle is too wide to step or jump over it, but it doesn’t look like the puddles of liquid that had collected back in the dark, stinky place she’d been born into. This water looks clean. Bright. Fresh. And because she’s a curious, terrified child facing a new obstacle, she plops a tiny paw directly into the stream. And then she squeals, because it’s cold, because it’s strange. She trembles. She can’t do this.

Tall and willowy frame slips along the fencing to the Carrionplace. She has been hunting, looking for something that will at least be palpable to her senses. Yet everything she comes across is not what she wants. So then what is she looking for? There is almost exasperation as she halts her search instead to witness something scrambling out of the place infested with rats. She blinks her molten gaze and for a moment she just watches the tiny fluffball scamper away from the place of diseases and death. It takes her another moment to follow after. It seems she finds kits when she doesn't even know the reason why. With ease she keeps her distance and just watches the child, watching as she steps paw on water before jerking back with a squeal. The stream seems to be cold today and the woman finally sighs.

Let's her presence be known as she step with long pale limbs from the thin bushes and spread apart leaves. "Are you okay?" Not the first question she used to ask but now she does and she frowns as she looks about the area, head looking back over her shoulder to the place the child ran from before she focuses back on the small kit. "I'm Bonejaw, I mean you no harm, I promise. Where is your mother?" Even gruff she attempts to be nice enough.
Pitch does not fancy the Carrionplace; the stench alone is enough to ward him off. It's infested with nasty creatures of rot and decay, beady eyes glinting underneath the pale moonlight and yellowed teeth strong enough to rip one open. But sometimes, traveling into the midst of the plague is essential when prey elsewhere is scarce.

Pitch trots alongside his aunt, his tail swaying just high enough as to not dirty itself in mud. Rustling from the Carrionplace does not alarm him, the rosette tabby assuming it to be a rat or scavenging crows. But the squeal that follows heartbeats after is far too catlike to ignore. Marbled ears perk, his molten gaze following his aunt's. There, a child trembles beside the stream, her underside caked in grime and her paws damp. Bonejaw strides over to the kit, and Pitch follows. "My, my, my, I almost mistook you for a rat," Pitch sing-songs, rising onto the tips of his toes for a split second before plopping back down. His voice is light yet concerned; his dislike of outsiders does not extend to helpless children, of course. Like Bonejaw, he wonders where her mother is... Dead, missing, or simply nearby? "Why are you wandering the Carrionplace, starchild? You do not belong to such a wretched place, do you?" He could not imagine being raised in such a dreadful atmosphere.

The kit is startled by the sound of a stranger’s voice calling out. She’s never heard any voice besides Mama’s. Hazel eyes shift upward until her gaze meets a pair of impossibly tall felines, both with spiky fur and mean appearances. She would run, but where could she go? They don’t seem hostile—not yet—but Daffodil has never known anyone apart from her mother. She feels very small, smaller than ever beneath the piercing gazes of these strangers, and she can’t help but stare at the woman with wide eyes. Bonejaw, she says her name is. What a scary name. Bonejaw doesn’t comfort her in the slightest.

She turns to run, to scramble away, to do something, because she’s small and running is all she’s been any good at so far. She takes two steps, realizes her legs are shaking too badly to make any progress. She turns back. Faces the two of them. And to Bonejaw, she replies in a tiny, quivering voice, "No." Because she isn’t okay. She’s afraid. These cats are much larger than the beady-eyed rats of the filthy place she’d been born in.

"Mama’s… gone." She doesn’t know the right words, to describe what’s happened to her mother. All she knows is that it was quick—and yet so agonizing to watch. When the second cat speaks, their words more difficult to understand, the child’s black-and-white ears pin themselves to her skull. She doesn’t know what a Carrionplace is, or what a starchild is, or what a wretched is. She shrinks back once again, cowering beneath the duo’s eyes. "Mama lived there."
She turns to run, and Pitch's muscles tense in preparation to intercept her. No child was going to be left to rot in the Carrionplace. But she swiftly stops herself, a quivering voice hushed and barely audible. No, she replies. She isn't okay. Her mother, who had lived in the Carrionplace, is now gone. Whether she means dead or truly... gone, Pitch isn't certain; he has a terrible suspicion which tells him it's the former.

Regardless of if his intuition is correct or not, she's all alone now.

"That's no good, is it?" Pitch coos, molten eyes narrowing. What a lonely existence. He understands the pain of losing a parent, but he still has a family. She does not. They've traveled the same journey of grief on diverging paths.

Selfishly, he's grateful that he still has his mother, his aunt, his littermates, and now his baby siblings.

"Come with us." It is not a request, but rather a demand. Pitch knows that she has no other choice aside from a painful ending. "A flower cannot bloom in the midst of rot." Perhaps it is too philosophical for a child to comprehend, he realizes too late... So, leaning down to be more level with her face, he whispers. "In other words, you'll die without us." His reassuring smile does not match his macabre words.

Straightening himself once more, Pitch aims to ruffle the top of the kit's head in a manner that is too rough, although it is well-intentioned.
Like her Clanmates, Twilight does not make a habit of adventuring in the Carrionplace. It's full of dangerous Twoleg objects, of vicious disease-ridden rats, and to her, it stinks like only the dead can. She knows some of her Clanmates don't mind eating here if it means their belly can be full, but Twilight can't get past the smell. She'd rather starve. At least, that's what she tells herself.

The black and white queen trails behind Bonejaw and Pitch, disinterest clouding her pale green gaze. She'd volunteered to patrol with them, but all she really wants to do is rest in the nursery with Sandra and Briarstar's babies. They're getting so big, so fast -- she doesn't want to miss a second of their growth.

The sound of a small, frightened voice jerks Twilight from her thoughts, and she picks up the pace until she's staring at a scrap of patched fur. Her mama's gone. Her mama lived there.

Twilight shudders, unable to suppress it. Her misery for this abandoned kit is instant, wet like like blood drawn from a wound. The misfortune the poor thing has had, encountering Briarstar's gruff sister and strange son, before anyone who can offer her comfort.

She creeps closer to the kit, lowers herself so she's at their level. "We can take you somewhere safe. It's our home. There are other kits your age there, and food. Nothing will be able to hurt you there." This is blatantly untrue, and Twilight knows this, but she presses on, promises sweet on her tongue. "Would you be okay with that, little one?"

The woman holds a frown onto her muzzle st the idea thst she had been born into such a harsh place. That place is death and decay. The only time anyone goes near it is if they are desperate for food. When the rats are plenty they get to have full bellies and despite the fact that they are tough they will have to do. There is a conflict in her and she looks down at her paws for a moment. The words from the child buzzing in her ears. Her mother is gone. She's alone out here and all on her own. It reminds her of herself and her sister, their parents taken from them and she remembers the days they both had to spend to survive. Getting hurt, struggling to get food. No child needs to go through that. Her maw parts to speak but she stops as her nephew speaks up. In some ways he is right.

The best option is to come with them. It is better that way and she nods her head before finally hearing Twilightd voice. To her it hardly matters if the child wants to or not. They can't leave the child out here to die but she holds her rough tongue and instead looks back to the child. "It is safe. And our leader will love to have you as a member of the family."

The confusing tom makes some sort of statement about a flower—which is ironic, she thinks without realizing what ironic even means. Daffodils are flowers. She is Daffodil. For Mama’s favorite flower, a flower that Mama said means hope. She is the flower that he speaks of, perhaps. He confirms it with his next words. Die without us? She doesn’t want to die. Not like Mama did. "Daffodil," she says, raising a paw to the tall tabby. But then the tom is reaching for her, too quick to move out of the way, and she forgets what she was going to say. "Ow," the kit takes a stumbling step backward, knocked off balance by a too-rough paw atop her head. But this big cat is being… nice? She thinks.

Another dark-furred feline trods over, and the way that she draws herself downward, lowering her face to Daffodil’s eye level, is comforting in a way. The she-cat seems much smaller this way, less frightening. And she promises a home, with safety and food and other kits. Hope sparks in the kit’s chest, warmth flickering for a moment before dying out, fading back into confusion. "Other kits? Like me?" She isn’t sure what like me means to her right now—whether she hopes for other lost, parentless kits, or whether she hopes that these other kits are playful, strange creatures with no worries like her own.

But the promise of a safe place, a home, makes her nod slowly. She wants that. Since Mama was gone now, she needed to care for herself. And maybe the way to do that is to find a new home, one that isn’t crawling with filth and rats. "Safe. Yes."

The tall, scary black she-cat turns that molten gaze back to Daffodil, and the kit resists the urge to shrink back a bit more. Even if the woman is intimidating, there’s an underlying sense of safety that she exudes. A big, strong cat who wouldn’t let a little orphaned kit get hurt any more than she already has. "Family?" She questions with a tilt of her black-capped head. She doesn’t understand—why would she be a member of any family but her own? Would they accept her that readily into whatever family they have?