- Sep 30, 2023
- 158
- 22
- 18
ˏˋ*⁀➷ She has snuck off from her mentor. Not a good move, given Stormywing's neurotic watchfulness; perhaps the proximity to her warrior ceremony has made her bolder. She can handle herself, she's spilled plenty of blood to prove it.
It is a familiar scent which draws her away, trancelike. Something nostalgic and bittersweet, something she can't quite place. Something like mushrooms and bug-hunting, like stale fox-scent and earth. She knows it. She cannot quite place it, too distant and twisted in memory. Cicadas sing a lullaby with the birds forming a chorus. She feels as if she is in a dream. She remembers this scent from dreams and old memories, always just out of reach. Perhaps were she more careful, more alert - she might have realized before she happened upon its source that this was a mistake.
But the scent is so comforting, despite everything. Comforting in a way that makes her stomach turn with want. Her paws move as if of their own volition.
She should not be surprised by who greets her at the end of this sickeningly sweet trail - but she is, regardless.
A single glinting eye stares back at Fallowpaw, golden and sickly as bile. Whorls of fur tangle around a ragged, torn form, more scar tissue than cat. A familiar curl of a familiar lip, just as wild and frenzied as she remembers. The molly smells like earth and fox-scent.
"You," snarls Baying Hound.
And all at once, Fallowpaw is frozen.
Everything seems to stop, then. The dream twists into a nightmare, syrup-slow and agonizing. All the sounds of the chorus raise into a buzzing, a ringing in her ears. All she can hear is the harshness of her breath, the beating of her frantic - bird-flutter heart. She stares into the mangled face of her mother - and she is a kit again. She is small.
Fallowpaw has done everything she can to stop feeling powerless. She hates it, hates that rabbit-skip of her heartbeats, hates the memory of claws digging into her back, of weigh pressing her down into the earth. She has done her best not to feel fear. She has turned herself into something to be afraid of. A snarling, wild thing. Horrible and violent, always smelling faintly of blood. She looks into that looming golden eye, and thinks - is this what I look like, too? Frenzied, terrible as death's own harbinger. An image ripped straight from her own nightmares.
She has done her best to make everyone around her feel as she does now.
Pinned, like a bug beneath another's paws. Frozen and shaking. A helpless kit once again.
She does not fight back as her body is slammed against the forest floor.
It is a familiar scent which draws her away, trancelike. Something nostalgic and bittersweet, something she can't quite place. Something like mushrooms and bug-hunting, like stale fox-scent and earth. She knows it. She cannot quite place it, too distant and twisted in memory. Cicadas sing a lullaby with the birds forming a chorus. She feels as if she is in a dream. She remembers this scent from dreams and old memories, always just out of reach. Perhaps were she more careful, more alert - she might have realized before she happened upon its source that this was a mistake.
But the scent is so comforting, despite everything. Comforting in a way that makes her stomach turn with want. Her paws move as if of their own volition.
She should not be surprised by who greets her at the end of this sickeningly sweet trail - but she is, regardless.
A single glinting eye stares back at Fallowpaw, golden and sickly as bile. Whorls of fur tangle around a ragged, torn form, more scar tissue than cat. A familiar curl of a familiar lip, just as wild and frenzied as she remembers. The molly smells like earth and fox-scent.
"You," snarls Baying Hound.
And all at once, Fallowpaw is frozen.
Everything seems to stop, then. The dream twists into a nightmare, syrup-slow and agonizing. All the sounds of the chorus raise into a buzzing, a ringing in her ears. All she can hear is the harshness of her breath, the beating of her frantic - bird-flutter heart. She stares into the mangled face of her mother - and she is a kit again. She is small.
Fallowpaw has done everything she can to stop feeling powerless. She hates it, hates that rabbit-skip of her heartbeats, hates the memory of claws digging into her back, of weigh pressing her down into the earth. She has done her best not to feel fear. She has turned herself into something to be afraid of. A snarling, wild thing. Horrible and violent, always smelling faintly of blood. She looks into that looming golden eye, and thinks - is this what I look like, too? Frenzied, terrible as death's own harbinger. An image ripped straight from her own nightmares.
She has done her best to make everyone around her feel as she does now.
Pinned, like a bug beneath another's paws. Frozen and shaking. A helpless kit once again.
She does not fight back as her body is slammed against the forest floor.
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FALLOWPAW ⁀➷ she / it, apprentice of thunderclan, eleven moons.
➳ a scarred, pointed brown and white molly with shaggy fur and golden eyes.
➳ standoffish and solitary, always seems to have a dark cloud hanging over its head.
➳ baying hound xx npc, littermate to antlerpaw & doepaw.
➳ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
➳ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
