HIDE AND SEEK | scorchstreak

[SCORCHSTORM]

Bluepool is dead. And so soon; so soon after being mated to her mother. It twists Scorchstorm's stomach to remember their conversation only a moon ago, discussing Scorchstreak's excitement for her new love, discussing Scorchstorm's own aspirations for it. And now it had been torn away as if she had only been a thorn in one's paw. How... demeaning. How humiliating, to find such wonderful love and then to lose it so quickly. She does not like to see her mother humiliated; does not like to see her grieving, does not like to see her suffer so much more than she deserves.

WindClan's deputy does not stop for her grief. This is not a surprise to her daughter, but she gets the sense that she should make Scorchstreak rest, at least for a while. She had tried to rest during the gathering, and look how it had turned out. But they are safe from DuskClan, at least for now. Sunstar lives again. There is a lull in their never-ending turmoil, one that Scorchstorm aims to take advantage of for the sake of her mother.

Not to say there is nothing bothering Scorchstorm, either. Not to say that she does not see Rumblerain's lithe figure behind her eyelids whenever she blinks. Not to say she does not want her littermate back in WindClan, safe, fed (or as fed as they can be during this famine), happy. Were they happy in DuskClan? Were they happy, attacking their home, attacking their family, attacking their friends? Her chest feels hollow, as if Rumblerain had scooped out her heart themselves. What had happened during the journey that she could not save them from?

Scorchstorm finds Scorchstreak in her nest. Her flame-streaked pelt burns low in the evening sunset, charcoals rather than wildfire; she is dulled, but her daughter understands. She nudges her mother on the shoulder, soft berry nose wet and cold. "Hey," she greets, throat rasping with its constriction. It is hard to see Scorchstreak this way. Fearsome, fiery, indomitable Scorchstreak. "Want to go for a walk?" The borders probably need securing anyway, but she does not disguise her doting as duty just yet.

/ @SCORCHSTREAK

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

​

 

[SCORCHSTAR]

༄༄ Now, more than ever, her duties seem more important than her health, both physical and mental. She is run ragged, fiery patches splitting at the seams and threatening to tear away from her body. Claws barely clinging to the ledge of awareness—of consciousness. But even the most dedicated tunneler must have their moments of rest, and so Scorchstreak finds herself curled into her nest when the gentle touch of a nose rouses her. Immediately a golden eye cracks open, hackles quivering defensively, but the mirrored gaze shining back at her gives her pause. Her daughter must surely be suffering, having watched her own sibling wage war on the clan she’d been born and raised in, and yet the deputy has not been there to support her through all of it. Scorchstreak simply does not have the strength.

In response to her daughter’s greeting, the deputy lifts her head, awaiting the question that’s to follow. And it comes, a request to go on a walk. "No." Her response is swift, brutal as the gnash of fangs through the soft flesh of a vulnerable throat, as the falling of a cat into the depths of the gorge. She is honest, blunt. She does not want to go on a walk. But… she also does not want to neglect the kit who has remained at her side through everything. The kit who has grown to be a full warrior, who looks so much like her father despite wearing a close imitation of Scorchstreak’s own skin. Nearly everyone who she once loved has fled, vanished from her life in one way or another. The ones left behind… she will cherish them. She will hold them close, and she will defend them until she breathes her last rattling breath upon the earth. And then, from the stars above, she will watch over them for eternity.

For now, she is content to amend her first statement. A walk could be good for them both; to get out of camp, to clear their minds of all but one another’s company. Mother and kit, as they should be. Scorchstorm’s steadfast lingering at her side tells of loyalty that the deputy could not dream of denying. "Let’s go, then," she says, though her voice is no less blunt as it had been before. Still, the calico tunneler stands and stretches, a chill running down her spine at the rush of cool air that brushes her exposed flank. Empty space beside her—she had grown unused to it after only a short time. She had grown accustomed to consistent company in her nest, to being loved as she believed she deserved. And now she must live with having it all ripped away just as she’d gotten used to it.

How is she meant to weather a storm that will rage for the rest of her life? One step at a time seems too insignificant.

☽♰☾ IT WAS WAR, IT WASN’T FAIR

• ooc: —
• 
  SCORCHSTREAK ❯❯ she/they, deputy (tunneler) of windclan
  ༄ small, slim flame-streaked calico with fiery golden eyes. cold and closed-off, ferociously protective of her clanmates. rarely seen aboveground.
  ༄ mate to bluepool ; sibling to rattleheart & rabbitclaw
  ༄ mentor to pinkpaw
  ༄ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted
  ༄ penned by foxlore

​

​

 

[SCORCHSTORM]

No. Deft as a swinging axe; final as a guillotine. Scorchstorm's gentle expression hardens minutely. Still, she cannot find it in her to be angry with Scorchstreak for her refusal. She likely would have done the same, had she suffered the same losses. She stands there, though her mother's answer had been so final, as if uncertain of where to carry herself, when Scorchstreak's conviction seems to roll over. A white-tipped ear flicks; the forge-and-ore gaze softens; they step away in ambling, grieving sync, and Scorchstorm is happier for it.

Scorchstorm leads her mother southeast, pelts smoldering in the weary, scarlet sun. The new grass shoots wear amber crowns, interrupted only by the deep indigo shadows the two mollies cast on the molting earth. In the back of her mind, she wonders where Rumblerain and their band stay — wonders if there is lots of grass, and water, and trees; if the sky is open and beautiful like it is at home. Do they even consider WindClan home? She doubts it.

It seems fitting that the kit to stand the test of time at Scorchstreak's side is the one that looks most like her. It seems fitting, but not pleasant; the rest of their brood scattered between nebulous spaces outside of the clans. At least Frostwind remains — he, an inverse of his sister, Badgermoon's pelt and Scorchstreak's wiry, slim build. Scorchstorm is more than happy to fashion herself into a pillar; some eternal structure aiding in keeping her mother aloft. After all, her mother is much the same to her — a fierce WindClanner, a heart that brays like hounds, sometimes punishing in love but deeply loving nonetheless. They wear the same fur, the same name. Scorchstorm would be lost without her. Perhaps there is some amount of irony in her shepherding Scorchstreak about now.

She wants to speak, though each sentence starter dies like ash on her tongue. The grass is finally growing back in. I miss the poppies — Cottonpaw brought the kits poppies the other day. You look good for having laid in your nest all day. Oh who am I kidding, you look like shit. It all feels vapid, a distraction from the pain they both carry in their gaits and hearts. When Scorchstorm finally does speak, she does so bluntly: "Did you see Rumblerain? They looked awful." Leading her mother, she does not turn back to reveal the tears that have already sprung to golden eyes, though a loud sniffle would easily give her away. "You look awful. And Sunstar. Everyone looks awful." And what can she do to change that?

Scorchstorm's steps stutter, but continue towards outlook rock. "I just... I want to take it all away. But I... I don't know how to do that." Finally, she turns back, black and amber cheeks streaking with spilled tears.

𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄, 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐑𝐌 ✧

• ooc.
  
• SCORCHSTORM —— warrior of windclan, mentored by sunstar & badgermoon . scorchstreak x badgermoon . littermate to rumblerain, frostwind, and luckypaw ✦ penned by meghan
  
  ✦ a broad-shouldered tortoiseshell with low white and dual-toned amber eyes. extremely loyal to sunstar and her family, and enjoys a deep connection to the moorlands
  ✦ demigirl / she they pronouns / lesbian / 14 moons & ages every 1st
  ✦ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / underline & tag account when attacking
  —— will start fights / will not flee / may show mercy. fights honorably and with great ferocity. can tank a few hits, but is not the sturdiest cat in windclan. starts fights with the intention of finishing them permanently, but will not aim to maim or kill obviously young cats
  
  ✦ "speech", thoughts, all opinions are in character
  ✦ full biography — msg on discord for plots — toyhouse
  

• 

​