{$title} TW; past parental death
In her dreams, she sees fire. Golden-red and towering, swallowing everything whole. Licking the walls of her once-home and carving itself into her memory in pinkish swathes of furless flesh. She carries it in her paws, pads calloused, every twinge of tightness a reminder. It is beautiful, in her dreams, as much as it is terrifying. It is beautiful in her memory. She can still taste smoke on her tongue.
In her dreams, too, she is running. Even as the fire burns itself into her paws and the back of her eyelids, she keeps running. This was the only home she had ever known, its red walls a comfort. She sees them eaten by that terrible light, and she does not stop. Fast as her legs can carry her, even as the flames chase her down. It laps at her paws, catches on her pelt. She keeps running. Her mother is caught, her leg under a beam of wood. Run, she says, again and again until her daughter listens. It is all she can hear. Slowing her pace means the fire will catch her too, she knows. In her dreams, she never stops running. She never looks back.
In the waking world, it is much quieter. The fire is long gone, and when she stopped running, she found herself alone. All the world had been swallowed up in the flames, she thought.
She started over.
Found an old badget sett, its owner's scent long faded. Somewhere with solid walls to swallow her up, where she could sleep until the burns were little more than a dull ache. Somewhere that she could dream of fires until the feeling became rote, familiar. No longer an unknown, the walls of redredred just as comforting as her once-home. And then she could wake, and she could hunt, and gather little fronds to make a nest of. They were not much like hay. She did not try to find the place that was once her home; the fires had eaten it, as they had her mother. She did not stray from her new-familiar place. She did not look back.
Until the flood came.
When the sky opened up, Harvest did not run. This was not an all-consuming thing, like her memories of golden-red were. She planted her feet in the badger sett until it felt like they could no longer move, mud grasping at her heels. The coolness of the rain was soothing against the burns that marred her flesh, the sound of thunder a more gentle sort of roar than that of inferno.
She dreamed of flames, and woke to find enough rainwater to drown her. When she pulled her feet from the mud, she knew that it would swallow her just as eagerly as the fire.
This time, she did not run. She left the badget sett, its maw spilling water and her hard-gathered nesting floating between puddles aimlessly. She trudged her scarred paws through the mud, and she walked for days on end. She had no direction; she did not when her world ended the last time, either.
Still, she found her way home.
The horseplace was norhing more than a skeleton of its former self, stripped of its mean and left with its charred bones still reaching skywards. It provided little shelter for the rain, and even littler comfort.
She slept their for a few days. The rain saturated her pelt, weighed her down, chilled her bones. She moved slowly, and did not stray far. She could feel the weight of it, of this place. In her dreams, it burned. The body of her mother was nowhere to be found. The horseplace was empty, the roar of flames and yells of fleeing cats long died to quiet. Only the sound of rain kept her company, and the few willing to take shelter in the carcass of a long-dead place.
After a days, the rain began to slow, and then the clouds began to clear. She blinked bleary, shook the last dregs of rain from where it clumg to her skin.
She slept, and she did not dream. In the morning, she set off. She did not have a destination other than away. She could not stay in this place, or she would spend her whole life sleeping and nothing more.
The sun parts the clouds, and Harvest crests the hillside.
Mud still clings to her paws, hiding the scars amidst the clay-browns of her whorling fur. Deep crimson frames her face, glinting golden in the sunlight. She treks, hesitant. The scent in the air is an oddly nostalgic one - yet fresh, as though someone has passed through recently.
Fresher still, the scent of cats catches on the wind. Nearby. Batlike ears perk up, and the towering molly stiffens, raises her head from where it hung over the sodden grass-blades. Her voice is rough, smoke-tinged and disused. "
In her dreams, too, she is running. Even as the fire burns itself into her paws and the back of her eyelids, she keeps running. This was the only home she had ever known, its red walls a comfort. She sees them eaten by that terrible light, and she does not stop. Fast as her legs can carry her, even as the flames chase her down. It laps at her paws, catches on her pelt. She keeps running. Her mother is caught, her leg under a beam of wood. Run, she says, again and again until her daughter listens. It is all she can hear. Slowing her pace means the fire will catch her too, she knows. In her dreams, she never stops running. She never looks back.
In the waking world, it is much quieter. The fire is long gone, and when she stopped running, she found herself alone. All the world had been swallowed up in the flames, she thought.
She started over.
Found an old badget sett, its owner's scent long faded. Somewhere with solid walls to swallow her up, where she could sleep until the burns were little more than a dull ache. Somewhere that she could dream of fires until the feeling became rote, familiar. No longer an unknown, the walls of redredred just as comforting as her once-home. And then she could wake, and she could hunt, and gather little fronds to make a nest of. They were not much like hay. She did not try to find the place that was once her home; the fires had eaten it, as they had her mother. She did not stray from her new-familiar place. She did not look back.
Until the flood came.
When the sky opened up, Harvest did not run. This was not an all-consuming thing, like her memories of golden-red were. She planted her feet in the badger sett until it felt like they could no longer move, mud grasping at her heels. The coolness of the rain was soothing against the burns that marred her flesh, the sound of thunder a more gentle sort of roar than that of inferno.
She dreamed of flames, and woke to find enough rainwater to drown her. When she pulled her feet from the mud, she knew that it would swallow her just as eagerly as the fire.
This time, she did not run. She left the badget sett, its maw spilling water and her hard-gathered nesting floating between puddles aimlessly. She trudged her scarred paws through the mud, and she walked for days on end. She had no direction; she did not when her world ended the last time, either.
Still, she found her way home.
The horseplace was norhing more than a skeleton of its former self, stripped of its mean and left with its charred bones still reaching skywards. It provided little shelter for the rain, and even littler comfort.
She slept their for a few days. The rain saturated her pelt, weighed her down, chilled her bones. She moved slowly, and did not stray far. She could feel the weight of it, of this place. In her dreams, it burned. The body of her mother was nowhere to be found. The horseplace was empty, the roar of flames and yells of fleeing cats long died to quiet. Only the sound of rain kept her company, and the few willing to take shelter in the carcass of a long-dead place.
After a days, the rain began to slow, and then the clouds began to clear. She blinked bleary, shook the last dregs of rain from where it clumg to her skin.
She slept, and she did not dream. In the morning, she set off. She did not have a destination other than away. She could not stay in this place, or she would spend her whole life sleeping and nothing more.
The sun parts the clouds, and Harvest crests the hillside.
Mud still clings to her paws, hiding the scars amidst the clay-browns of her whorling fur. Deep crimson frames her face, glinting golden in the sunlight. She treks, hesitant. The scent in the air is an oddly nostalgic one - yet fresh, as though someone has passed through recently.
Fresher still, the scent of cats catches on the wind. Nearby. Batlike ears perk up, and the towering molly stiffens, raises her head from where it hung over the sodden grass-blades. Her voice is rough, smoke-tinged and disused. "
...Someone there?
"-
-
TLDR: Harvest fled the horseplace during the fire, and has been living on her own in the loner lands. After her den flooded, she returned to the horseplace until the rains passed. Now, she has stumbled into WindClan territory.
Former barncats will likely recognize her, and may remember her mother Scarecrow, who died in the fire, as well. Harvest was a quiet fixture of the barn, timid yet always willing to lend a helping paw - and her mother was a chatty retired showcat. Feel free to powerplay previous interactions or relationships with your character! Go wild!
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