❝ SPRAY PAINT THE WALLS WITH BLOOD AND WHATEVER
DRAG YOU OUTSIDE, LET YOU ROT IN THE WEATHER — ❞ plots
OOC: this is my first oneshot ever hehe
The wind wailed; it was a hollow cry, wordless sobbing that rattled occupied branches like thin bones. It was a muffled symphony, muted by weathered stone - but still it filled the gloom like a tragic song. A shape filled the cracks within a distant den, manifesting like a weary phantom, so painfully slow, as a face emerged from crooked shadow. If not for what sprouting monster lurked beneath it, the stone ceiling would have been a welcome escape from the warmth of a muggy evening - instead it had felt crowding, suffocating. She felt it, too.
She had been a spill of pale gradients against a damp, sandy floor, of ashen freckles that had been scattered across a canvas of mismatched greys and slates; the colors of a storm that brewed in the distance, the aftermath of a devastating wildfire, good colors to hide the bruises that had ached over rosy skin. Shadows gathered in the deep creases under icy pools, sapphire eyes the mountain brook water for what inky beasts leaned in to drink - and oh, how sunken in they had looked in the dim light, slowly being consumed by a still brow. She had only been a child, a few moons, and yet the exhaustive toll of her short existence had beared a weight on her shoulders far too great for her to carry - All but one sibling had disappeared from her life, her mother was not truly her mother, and cannibalism had introduced itself to her during the floods. And god, did it hurt. It was all confusing and all a mess and all of her was chaos and backwards and wrong.
She had once been a star, surely, brilliant and burning and bright - but she had been snuffed out now, once the blinding heat of a great nova, and now the cold grasping of some great black hole. And certainly, that anomaly had been her pupils now, bloated and wide and strange, hungry and eating until it had devoured the still waters of her pale stare, the frost of chilled glaciers swallowed by it’s inky nothingness. She could not reverse this. No one could. No one could fix this. No one could fix her. No matter the effort, no matter the push, no matter the tears, there was no antidote, no remedy. And the thought of it caused a twitch in a muted jaw that had sent fire along the ghastly wound carved beneath the angle of her cheek, a trophy the floods had shaped into her flesh. It had been impossible to see it, for she had not turned around, so it was left simply to the imagination to picture how jagged and raw the fresh laceration appeared.
One could quickly take notice of the disorder in the den; much unlike Stormykit, who had kept it rather neat before the torrents of water. The bed had been destroyed, shredded and discarded into cold clumps of unused moss - she rarely slept now, anyhow, and her nest had little use. A mangled patch of webs had been buried in the dust that whirled and gathered against the grains with each breath of quiet wind through the entrance, a solidified mess of dried blood and herb poultice, unwanted and unneeded. She ripped it off with frantic claws, and judging by the new scars left in the wall she had focused so intensely on, her bandages had not been her only victim. Odd to picture such loud fury in a child; a child who had seemed so cheerful and collected in the past. That was no more. There was no cheeriness in her cold glare, no gentless in the way teeth gnashed, no kindness in the violent jerks of sloped shoulders or love in the way her scarred skin folded across a snarling jowl. Only the tempest in her chest - only a storm. Only Stormykit. "☁"