private the room where women come and go | scorchstorm

[downyfur]

The elders say it's going to be a hot day. Downyfur isn't sure who invited who, but they're out early with @SCORCHSTORM today to beat the portent of heat. They hope to be back before sunhigh, before rabbits retreat to the shade of their burrows and birds flock back towards the tree lines.

This bout of yellowcough isn't as bad as the last one, from what they can remember of it and what their seniors tell them, so the (temporary, StarClan willing) loss of extra hunters isn't felt as actuely. Scorchstorm would know better than her too, having been old enough to be one of the journeyers herself. Those were her kit days... Scorchstorm must have been a young apprentice then, maybe on the cusp of when kittens are apprenticed now.

There's a lot they want to ask her about, even beyond the Journey. She, too, had been a victim of inconsistent mentorhood, and she'd earned her scars in the same dark times as Downyfur. Still, more pertinent, modern questions press at her lips. "Bluefrost seems to be settling in well," she says airily. They've never imagined her as a mother, but they're not sure yet how that would go over with their companion. Instead, they remark, "I heard one of her kit's names is Sootkit." She says it casually, as though a child's name were a simple facet of nature and not a reflection of their parents. As though they could not possibly blame, or even entertain the notion of blaming, Bluefrost for it.​

 

[SCORCHSTORM]

The sunrise rakes across the landscape, dividing the moor into shimmering gold and warm blue shadow. It's one of her favorite times of day. The birds still dare to spiral away from the safety of a perch; the rabbits are out to forage before the sun begins to cook the dirt. The moors explode with life under dawn's gentle touch. It makes sense that Downyfur, plush and aloof, is part of that landscape — it makes less sense that Scorchstorm accompanies her.

Not that she dislikes the younger warrior. Far from it; they have grown up together. Scorchstorm regards them and their sister almost as younger cousins, but they have never been close. They had been separated by the journey, and then by Sootstar, ousting the rebels to the barn — but Downyfur hadn't made it there back then. What had they seen? Had Sootstar thought them one of her own? Had they been? No, Scorchstorm tells herself. Sootspot had kept them behind — any DuskClan shrapnel that remained in them would be his fault, not theirs.

But Scorchstorm doesn't prod. It is better not to know, she thinks; better to find out later, if need be. And anyway, Downyfur apparently has other things on their mind.

Bluefrost's name has been tossed about like limp prey in recent days — and Scorchstorm is not free of fault. It is difficult not to gossip, though, when the puzzle pieces paint a sordid picture. She herself has not stopped to wonder if that picture is complete. She finds it easier to cast her blame now, to harden herself with it, and to move on. But moving on is much easier said than done. Downyfur's line of questioning purses Scorchstorm's lips. She tries to school them out of a frown, instead directing her frustration through a flick of the ear.

"At least she is not lonely," she muses. It is bitter on her tongue, but she cannot help herself. The image of Bluefrost and Thriftfeather reunited, their family warm in the nursery, is not exactly in line with how she herself would arbitrate a punishment — a breaking of the code. But she has more stake in this game than she cares to admit. I heard one of her kit's names is Sootkit, they say, and she nods, but not without the hint of a grimace finally finding its way to her face. "You heard correctly. She introduced me to them." And it had been a sad, strange meeting.

Trilling blackbirds wind their song into her thoughts. Pollen and red leaf scraps swirl about them in small eddies. Scorchstorm's tail flicks in time with the wind's rhythm. "I never expected her kits' father to be DuskClan. After all they have put us through...." It is an honest statement. And to think that the father is Thriftfeather, of all cats. She had thought him a friend once, but not anymore. He had turned his back on his Clan. He had attacked them. And now, he sleeps in WindClan's nursery with the rest of their most vulnerable. What is Sunstar thinking?

"What do you think?" she prompts, fixing the cloud-pelted warrior in her copper dagger gaze. "About Thriftfeather? And the kits?"

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍, 𝐀 𝐋𝐈𝐎𝐍’𝐒 𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 ✧

• 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 / 17 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
  

• 

​

 

[downyfur]

It's with some effort that she can guess at Scorchstorm's opinion. She and her mother were more than alike in name, from what she's gleaned from time spent with her sister's former mentor. Two cats solid and stoid as the Tallrock itself, but their displeasure runs as deep as the black in their coats. Her admission bears the faintest touch of acridity; they imagine thin wisps of smoke threading between her teeth as she says it. That even after all she's done, Bluefrost has the respite of company, from her alleged beloved no less. To that, she makes a small, noncommittal mrr of agreement.

Marine hues catch the barest twitch of displeasure upon mismatched lips, the shadow passing through the crossed scars between snowy brows. Within her, the remark lifts a brow of her own. They hadn't known these two lines of WindClan royalty were this close to one another: that the disgraced princess would introduce her bastards to the daughter of two deputies, or that the moor-runner would care enough to visit her prison in the first place.

They hide this minor relevation behind a pleasantly blank expression. Once or twice a strand of cottontail catches in their twitching nose, but it's gone and replaced with a mouthful of pollen when they open their mouth to scent further. Scorchstorm's sudden glance pierces them out of it. There's nothing quite like it. Sootstar's glare was paralyzing, pin-down of dripping snake fangs, static bursting in their skull; Sootspot's is razor-thin, a precipice to wobble upon, a needle pinch into the softest parts of them. Cats like Sunstar and Scorchstreak ran too hot for subtlety like that. They erect their anger into stone facades and bronze coating instead.

Downyfur knows she isn't glaring at her, but still it's a stare shot through with intention. It reminds them of one anyway. "I don't know." It's a sober statement. "I don't think letting him stay in the nursery is wise. Or deserved," they take the risk to add. "The kits are blameless, at any rate. I don't envy them though." Even Sootkit. Too many WindClanners, the pair here even, know what it's like to be the spawn of outcasts. "What I want to know is..." She makes a face here, knitting the softness of her expression a little tighter. "Is how she came to talking with him in the first place. It takes more than one exchange to come to having kits with someone... I would think, anyway." The tunneler shrugs to cover up the faint twinge of embarrassment.​