- May 31, 2023
- 225
- 71
- 28
It had not been difficult to convince Scorchstreak to accompany her to the graveyard.
She asks because she must, mostly, because warriors cannot leave camp on their lonesome, but she also asks because of all the cats to grieve beside, her mother is her favorite. Her mother the deputy, WindClan's keeper. Sunstar may lead them, but sometimes Scorchstorm finds more marvel in her mother's feat. After all, she is mortal. When so many mortal sentinels have fallen before her, it becomes a feat to remain without the aid of star-blessings or extra lives (though, of course, Scorchstreak is on track to receive those, too).
When their mirrored paws hit the soft soil of WindClan graves, they search for Rattleheart's, marked by stones and flowers. It is... comforting, she supposes, to see it kept up well. She knows she is not the only cat to tend it. Rattleheart had been beloved among them all for her tender heart and fierce loyalty. Venomstrike surely dresses the grave in floral ornament, something to keep the loneliness away. Rattleheart may be dead now, but Scorchstorm would hate for her to see her grave and think it lonely. If she is looking down on them all from StarClan, she will at least see that she continues to be loved and cared for.
But visiting the grave is no quiet comfort. Despite making it a habit to visit, to ensure she pays her respects as often as is appropriate, each time Scorchstorm lays eyes upon the grave-dirt it rends the heart from the chest. The burial was weeks ago now, and still the soil feels fresh. As if they could dig it all up and find her aunt there, fresh, ready to spring back to life. But it could never be. Scorchstorm had seen the wounds — had been coated in the blood, had felt the final breath against her neck.
It was a noble sacrifice. This is what she tells herself, half-hearted, as she presses her gift in among the rest of the grave's decoration. The moth's wing flutters in the breeze as if it were still alive, flashing its spot, fixing her in its faux gaze. Surrounded by flower petals and other mournful foliage, it might be considered out of place, but it is the gift that feels right. She hopes Rattleheart likes it — hopes he cannot read her tangled thoughts as the oil wicks up them, black and thick.
It was a noble sacrifice, but not one that Scorchstorm can support. RiverClan had done nothing to deserve it, and they scorn it even after his passing. She can see Beefang's glib smirk through the red mist of fury. Rattleheart had thrown his life away for her apprentice, and she was not grateful for it. He had thrown away a future with his kits, a future with Scorchstorm's kits, someday. The thought makes her sore. The soft bruise of an apple. She hopes that Roepaw counts each stolen heartbeat, hopes that he remembers Rattleheart's face for as long as he lives. It seems impossible, illogical, to hold the two ideas in her head: it is a good thing that Rattleheart saved Roepaw's life and Roepaw should have been the one to die instead. The scales lean heavy in ill-gotten favor.
But it is a poorly-kept secret that Scorchstorm would be the first lemming off the cliff if Sunstar ordered her to be. If she thought she needed to be. The same righteous passion for good causes fueled Rattleheart's leap towards the harrier, did it not? What makes them different, then? What allows her to scorn Rattleheart but maintain faith in her own cause?
Grief, perhaps. It is difficult to keep the mourning sword in its scabbard. And besides, no cat had ordered him to save that apprentice, not even the warrior code. She does not think other Clans' young ought to die for the sole crime of being non-WindClan — rather, she does not see what had driven Rattleheart to tether the responsibility of Roepaw's protection to himself. It had dragged him down in the end. It should have dragged Beefang instead. Scorchstorm's claws itch to be commanded; itch to be held against the throat of the RiverClanner as a blade, but no such order comes.
Perhaps it is strange that, for all of the revenge her body craves, she cannot turn her claws against one of WindClan's biggest enemies.
Rumblerain's bones do not lay beneath her paws, but they might as well be. Her littermate had not just turned traitor — they had taken up the mantle that Granitepelt and Sootstar left behind. They had led an attack on WindClan, they had left Nightingalecry's body cooling in front of her very kits, they had allowed Periwinklebreeze's kit to be stolen. Her hackles still raise at the mere idea of Frostwind's sentiment: "I should have fought them," he'd said, and she had not understood then. If she is truthful, she still cannot understand it — still cannot find the will to raise her claws against the traitor, despite the rotting kinship between them. In that regard, she is perhaps less like her mother than she seems.
Dappledsun had died for his disloyalty to Sootstar, and it seems that Rumblerain may die because the cannot shake their allegiance to her. But at least Scorchstorm knows that she will not be the one to end their life. She just has to wonder if they would feel the same.
The sun is at its zenith now. If there is one thing she is certain of, it is that Rumblerain is no longer the littermate she had grown up with; they are no longer the littermate behind whose ear she carefully tucked a butterfly's wing. That cat is dead. She will not give up on the cat that they are now — she refuses to — but she can mourn the cat that they were. In the fiery golden light, Scorchstorm harrows a minuscule plot of soil nearby Rattleheart's grave. Into the pit, she deposits another wing, flaming orange and peppered with ebony. It is only after a few breaths that she finds the will to bury it in full.
It does not satisfy her. But the act is complete all the same — Scorchstorm nudges her mother to her paws, and together the two depart for camp once more.
She asks because she must, mostly, because warriors cannot leave camp on their lonesome, but she also asks because of all the cats to grieve beside, her mother is her favorite. Her mother the deputy, WindClan's keeper. Sunstar may lead them, but sometimes Scorchstorm finds more marvel in her mother's feat. After all, she is mortal. When so many mortal sentinels have fallen before her, it becomes a feat to remain without the aid of star-blessings or extra lives (though, of course, Scorchstreak is on track to receive those, too).
When their mirrored paws hit the soft soil of WindClan graves, they search for Rattleheart's, marked by stones and flowers. It is... comforting, she supposes, to see it kept up well. She knows she is not the only cat to tend it. Rattleheart had been beloved among them all for her tender heart and fierce loyalty. Venomstrike surely dresses the grave in floral ornament, something to keep the loneliness away. Rattleheart may be dead now, but Scorchstorm would hate for her to see her grave and think it lonely. If she is looking down on them all from StarClan, she will at least see that she continues to be loved and cared for.
But visiting the grave is no quiet comfort. Despite making it a habit to visit, to ensure she pays her respects as often as is appropriate, each time Scorchstorm lays eyes upon the grave-dirt it rends the heart from the chest. The burial was weeks ago now, and still the soil feels fresh. As if they could dig it all up and find her aunt there, fresh, ready to spring back to life. But it could never be. Scorchstorm had seen the wounds — had been coated in the blood, had felt the final breath against her neck.
It was a noble sacrifice. This is what she tells herself, half-hearted, as she presses her gift in among the rest of the grave's decoration. The moth's wing flutters in the breeze as if it were still alive, flashing its spot, fixing her in its faux gaze. Surrounded by flower petals and other mournful foliage, it might be considered out of place, but it is the gift that feels right. She hopes Rattleheart likes it — hopes he cannot read her tangled thoughts as the oil wicks up them, black and thick.
It was a noble sacrifice, but not one that Scorchstorm can support. RiverClan had done nothing to deserve it, and they scorn it even after his passing. She can see Beefang's glib smirk through the red mist of fury. Rattleheart had thrown his life away for her apprentice, and she was not grateful for it. He had thrown away a future with his kits, a future with Scorchstorm's kits, someday. The thought makes her sore. The soft bruise of an apple. She hopes that Roepaw counts each stolen heartbeat, hopes that he remembers Rattleheart's face for as long as he lives. It seems impossible, illogical, to hold the two ideas in her head: it is a good thing that Rattleheart saved Roepaw's life and Roepaw should have been the one to die instead. The scales lean heavy in ill-gotten favor.
But it is a poorly-kept secret that Scorchstorm would be the first lemming off the cliff if Sunstar ordered her to be. If she thought she needed to be. The same righteous passion for good causes fueled Rattleheart's leap towards the harrier, did it not? What makes them different, then? What allows her to scorn Rattleheart but maintain faith in her own cause?
Grief, perhaps. It is difficult to keep the mourning sword in its scabbard. And besides, no cat had ordered him to save that apprentice, not even the warrior code. She does not think other Clans' young ought to die for the sole crime of being non-WindClan — rather, she does not see what had driven Rattleheart to tether the responsibility of Roepaw's protection to himself. It had dragged him down in the end. It should have dragged Beefang instead. Scorchstorm's claws itch to be commanded; itch to be held against the throat of the RiverClanner as a blade, but no such order comes.
Perhaps it is strange that, for all of the revenge her body craves, she cannot turn her claws against one of WindClan's biggest enemies.
Rumblerain's bones do not lay beneath her paws, but they might as well be. Her littermate had not just turned traitor — they had taken up the mantle that Granitepelt and Sootstar left behind. They had led an attack on WindClan, they had left Nightingalecry's body cooling in front of her very kits, they had allowed Periwinklebreeze's kit to be stolen. Her hackles still raise at the mere idea of Frostwind's sentiment: "I should have fought them," he'd said, and she had not understood then. If she is truthful, she still cannot understand it — still cannot find the will to raise her claws against the traitor, despite the rotting kinship between them. In that regard, she is perhaps less like her mother than she seems.
Dappledsun had died for his disloyalty to Sootstar, and it seems that Rumblerain may die because the cannot shake their allegiance to her. But at least Scorchstorm knows that she will not be the one to end their life. She just has to wonder if they would feel the same.
The sun is at its zenith now. If there is one thing she is certain of, it is that Rumblerain is no longer the littermate she had grown up with; they are no longer the littermate behind whose ear she carefully tucked a butterfly's wing. That cat is dead. She will not give up on the cat that they are now — she refuses to — but she can mourn the cat that they were. In the fiery golden light, Scorchstorm harrows a minuscule plot of soil nearby Rattleheart's grave. Into the pit, she deposits another wing, flaming orange and peppered with ebony. It is only after a few breaths that she finds the will to bury it in full.
It does not satisfy her. But the act is complete all the same — Scorchstorm nudges her mother to her paws, and together the two depart for camp once more.
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ooc. happy 200 posts scunior!
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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
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