Desertrain

        The crisp autumn breeze whispered through the tall grass, and a small, pale golden she-cat weaved silently through them. Just a couple moons ago, she had been living up in the mountains with her old clan, her mind wiped clean of the horrors that had transformed her into a monster. Blissfully unaware of it all, she had reconnected with old friends, even growing close to her mother, Desertstar, and an old flame, Scorchedbones. Fate, however, was truly cruel, and a second blow to the head had shattered that fragile peace, awakening her true nature along with her old memories. Once her past came rushing back, she fled, unable to face those she had grown to care for as her old self.

           Walking ahead, her paws softly padded against the dry earth, the cool air filling her nostrils, carrying with it the scent of decaying leaves and the faint musk of prey. She paused, lifting her head to sniff the air, her ice-blue eyes narrowing as a familiar scent reached her. It was a scent she knew well.

Scorchedbones.

           Her paws faltered for a moment, a flicker of emotion— nostalgia, regret, guilt— crossing her delicate features before she quickly suppressed them. A part of her hesitated, though. Scorchedbones had been surprisingly kind to her during her time up on the mountains, had treated her with care, and a small, traitorous part of her yearned for that simplicity, that warmth. A part of her craved a time when she was innocent, before those haunting events transformed her into something grotesque and unrecognizable. A time when Scorchedbones had been more than just a pawn in her schemes, but a companion, perhaps even a friend.

           Desertrain's tail twitched, betraying her inner turmoil. She knew she should slink away, put as much distance between herself and her past as possible, but guilt, or perhaps a quiet curiosity, rooted her to the spot. Her ears swiveled, catching the sound of approaching paw steps. Scorchedbones was close. Too close. Her heart raced, her mind awhirl with the myriad of ways this encounter could play out as she stepped out from behind the cover of a gnarled oak, locking eyes with Scorchedbones. Her gaze softened for the briefest of moments as she took in his familiar form— his dark pelt, the scar across his pale blue eye, the way he carried himself with a quiet confidence— but it hardened again, her eyes turning cold and calculating once more.

           "Scorchedbones," she greeted him, her voice carefully neutral, like silk sliding over steel. "I didn't expect to see you here. I take it that Windclan has finally returned home."