more than you know [mariko]

[flyaway]

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Meadowlark was on the pursuit. Most said that she pursued happiness, other said she was endlessly searching for an escape. Neither of these things was true. They would never and could never be true. No, Meadowlark was in the pursuit of truth. The notion was both blatantly simple and hopelessly confusing. She wasn't looking for any one truth in particular, but every truth there was to find. She devoted her life to pursuing the answers to life's questions. She distanced herself from others, had no need of them. It all stemmed from a life of abuse, but not one she was willing to dwell on nor speak of. It was her own business and so far, no one had gained her trust nor her faith. She doubted anyone ever would. She just wasn't the type.

Meadowlark's lynx-point markings made her stand out. In short, others took notice of her, and all attention was unwelcome attention in her mind. Whenever she happened to encounter others, she took time to question them deeply - though not on the common subjects. She didn’t care who they were or what they enjoyed. She wanted to know their goals, their fears, their triumphs, their opinions, their beliefs. And yet, when anything resembling a question was asked of her, she responded defensively. Immediately on her guard and aloof. She never knew truly who they were, she only wanted the truths they had to give her.

Meadowlark heard a cacophony of screeches and her ears perked. Her first instinct told her to flee. The cat, whoever it was, sounded like they were in intense pain. Meadowlark had had enough of pain, she'd suffered enough of it at the paws of the clan. Why did she need to add others' pain to her own? Her second instinct, however, told her there were truths to be found in the midst of pain and horror. With a slightly annoyed sigh, but filled with devotion to her cause and her name, Meadowlark began cautiously making her way towards the cries. She soon found herself looking at a field, eerily peaceful and serene despite the cries that had echoed in it not minutes before. Meadowlark picked her way into the long grass. It brushed against her paws and her belly and if she pressed against the ground, she found herself concealed. She laid there for a moment, but there wasn’t truly a point to such wandering. She glanced up. Soon enough, she would be required back at camp. She lifted her head, a certain regal paranoia as she picked her way back to the camp site. She entered, slinking to the side, oblivious of even the most casual of eyes.

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[mariko]

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Rocks poked their heads out from the soil, dappling the ground with hues of brown and grey. The grass that swayed in the wind was brittle and crisp beneath Gingerpaw’s paw pads. He unsheathed his claws and swiped at the dirt, revealing shoots of green. New life was blossoming everywhere around him, even though it was not always visible to the naked eye. The ginger faced apprentice had left the heart of camp to hunt. He felt like he was capable enough to at least bring home a rabbit or two for his clan. The visions that haunted his eyesight hadn’t appeared in the last few days but he was still on edge.

He picked his way through the rocky landscape, his jaws slightly parted. Gingerpaw rolled the scents with his tongue, distinguishing and separating the various items. The tom froze, his front paw hovering over the ground. His ears stood erect, poised in the direction of a rabbit. Windclan was known for their agility and speed, and their natural knack for catching rabbits. It should have been an easy hunt. The tom knew the small mammal would hear him before it would scent him. He had to act quickly.

Gingerpaw inched forward, his muscle bunching as he anticipated the leap. However, the rabbit’s head snapped to face him. Its eyes were missing—gaping, puss filled holes. Its white fur was riddled with claw marks and maggots squirmed inside the wounds. The tom gasped, his paws overturning sheets of stone, and ultimately sending the rabbit fleeing. His heart climbed up to his throat and his ears throbbed. The rabbit, of course, was simply a white furred mammal—completely intact with no lesions to speak of. Gingerpaw watched it speed away and dive into a hole. Anger collected in the pit of his stomach, like acid.

He swiped at the ground causing deep groves. The green sprigs he had admired before shredded. His fury consumed him as he tossed his head from side to side—as if that could erase the images from his mind. However, there was nothing he could do to stop the distorted hallucinations. They crippled him, clawed at his brain until it would eventually turn to soup and he would be labeled insane. Perhaps they’ll kick me out, make me fend for myself, he thought as he stomped through the moors, throwing clumps of debris in the air. The notion was unnerving. He had no idea how he would be able to fend for himself if the apparitions continued to infect his stability but moreover; he feared hurting someone, someone he truly cared about. It was the reason he preferred to stay uncommitted—taking on multitudes of felines who needed comfort or a therapist to avoid his own problems. They were all distractions, distractions from his own self-hatred and volatility.

Gingerpaw did not notice another feline’s presence; he was too wrapped up in his thoughts to care about anyone else. He would have been an enemy’s prime target—a young tom alone and seemingly defenseless. If there were such an enemy his only thought would be to make it quick.


words - 523
tagged - flyaway's meadowlark
notes - <3

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[flyaway]

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Meadowlark stopped short, though not of her own accord. She attempted to move forward, but something tugged her back. Her heart clenched in her chest. She felt a tug, heard a rip. Pinpricks of pain shot up her leg. She craned her neck, her gaze immediately falling on a spiral of brambles. The thick thorned tendrils wound all about the Windclan moors. They were subtle, hidden in the long waving grasses. More than one foolish apprentice had returned to camp with disheveled fur and a few nasty scratches. And these particular thorns, brambles Meadowlark had been utterly oblivious of, had wrapped around her back paw. She tugged experimentally, but the brambles only wrapped tighter. An irrational sort of panic began to build up in her. She turned, twisting so she could fasten her teeth around the branch. She grunted, tugging at the brambles. This only caused the thorns to dig in deeper. She hissed, low in her throat. She unsheathed her claws, intending to simply shred the branches and be on her way. Little beads of blood were welling, threading their way down her ankle. She pawed at the brambles, realizing too late how foolish it was to dangle her long thick fur over the snagging brambles.

The brambles stuck, now ensnared in her forepaw. She growled, tugging. But it was all in vain. She could feel the brambles now, under her skin, lodging in her fur. Every movement she made only made her more tangled. She had pulled the patch of brambles from it’s hidden place in the grasses. It was a long twisting mess. New tendrils were being yanked, finding purchase in her fur. In a matter of minutes, the brambles had consumed nearly half of her body. She was bleeding from a number of pricks. It was foolish. In a logical portion of her mind, she knew to simply relax. She knew she could snip the brambles with her teeth, slowly methodically work her way out. But nothing of the sort occurred to her. Instead she struggled, growing more and more frantic. She would be trapped. She would bleed out, starve, be preyed upon. Her body would be found, torn to shreds. Would there be enough of her left for a vigil? Would anyone care enough to hold one? An angry bitterness rose inside of her. She should have fled when she had the chance, pursued her own interest. If she had, perhaps she wouldn’t be facing her death.

Her lip curled in a snarl. Two of her limbs were held down. She was utterly immobile. Yet to screech for help, to beg and cry, it would only provide gratification for those who mocked her. She had a wild look about her, her paranoia had reached a peak. It was bubbling over, dangerously so. And still she fought the brambles. Her fur was torn, rumpled and fluffed in all directions. Little rivulets of blood ran down her legs and flanks – but she was oblivious to it all. The pain had numbed, in favor of her panic and anger. She would rip herself from the brambles, no matter what she left behind.

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