[mystoxxiide]

Username; mystoxxiide
Storkie Name; whisper
Nicknames; whisp, ghost
Coat Description: silver marble tabby with mid white
Gender: female
Born Magic Type; plant
Additional Magic #1 -
Additional Magic #2 -

Traits:

-

Parents:
Founder | Founder

Children:
-- with bramble
- muddle
- arson

[mystoxxiide]

Storkatten Name: whisper
Born Magic Type & Level: plant, lv 1
MP Allotted to Born Magic: 10
Second Magic Type; locked
MP Allotted to Second Magic: -
Third Magic Type; locked
MP Allotted to Third Magic: -

MP Total: 10
i - stormy discoveries

[mystoxxiide]

FEATURED STORKIES; pyrite, whisper
PROMPT: “You find another cat, injured and needing your help. What do you do?”
WC; 867
POV; pyrite

---

Dusk was falling. Pyrite glanced at the smoke-coloured sky - it was due to rain again. With his fire ability under his belt, he was sure that winter-season would be a breeze for him. Still, sometimes it got lonely. Being a lone storkie sometimes got to him -- he’d never been part of a Colony, ever, always wandering by himself. It had been a long time since he’d even set down camp.

A droplet of water hit his nose. He glanced up as the sky began to weep, and quickened his steps. He could see trees in the distance, and the promise of shade made his light trot convert to a swift sprint as the wind picked up. Mane flying in the wind, the marbled tabby reached the thick forest and slid in. The undergrowth was wet but the trees provided enough cover for him to begin to find some drier bracken and sticks before the rain bled through. He found a nice little hole beneath the roots of a rotting tree and under another fallen stump, pushing together walls of branch and leaf together. Then he assembled his campfire, and inhaled, before breathing out a steady stream of flame. Once it was alight, he sat back, admiring his work. You could almost call him a master at it. The heat and warmth radiated on his fur, and he curled up in his little makeshift hut, preparing to sleep through the storm.

A faint, squeaking cry split his thoughts.

Pyrite’s ears pricked, and he stood, listening intently once more. He’d had auditory hallucinations before, and it had led him into many wild goose chases. But that hadn’t been for an extremely long time… and something about this felt different. He was so still and so quiet that he was a little scared his ears would hurt if he strained them too hard.

Another whimper.

The storkie exited the den, following the sound. He grimaced at the feeling of wet paws as rain pounded on his head and he sloshed through a puddle, but he refused to stop.

It took an embarrassingly long time to locate the noise thanks to its sparsity, making it harder to alert him and draw him in. There was a nest half-hidden in a thick bush, and when he peered inside, he could see a pale form. He used his paw to push the opening aside and see more clearly, and when that didn’t work in the dark light, he breathed a small spurt of flame out - enough for him to just barely make out the form of a kit. His brows furrowed, and he pushed his head in further, sniffing the bundle of scrap. The kit was thin and there was something wrong with its breathing. A sickly scent was clinging to its coat.

“Oh, love.” Pyrite murmured with sympathy, still nosing it. “What’s happened to you?” The den smelled old and musky -- there was no new odour of any cats, especially a nursing one. The only food left was a mostly eaten mouse crawling with ants.

There was no choice. It wouldn't survive without him.

Pyrite wasn’t sure if he minded at all, actually.

His teeth latched onto the scruff of the kit, which could only cry softly and helplessly as it squirmed. Despite wanting to get out of the rain as fast as possible, the larger storkie kept his pace slow, making sure to not jostle the kitten around. He was glad to see his den had held fast against the rain, and his fire was still crackling pleasantly inside. The surprising quality of his quick efforts made him happy.

He put his newfound ward down, making sure it wasnt too close to the flames, before dragging in the driest grass he had found to assemble some sort of nest in the dirt - but it was stringy and there definitely wasn’t enough, so he finally gave up and curled up into a ball around the kit, making sure to keep it warm. He watched as it sniffled and wriggled in its fur, breathing still shaky, body wracked with coughs. Each harsh hack that left its maw pained him. He had never seen another storkie this small and helpless before, and it brought to him an overwhelming sense of paternity - a need to care for something too weak and young to care for itself. The absence of a colony or family to be bound to hadn’t removed Pyrite’s sense of bonds and intimacy; it had merely strengthened his craving for them. As he looked down at this kit, he felt as if the weight of the world had been placed upon him. He was going to be a good role model. A good… father. Whatever it took. This poor thing had never deserved to be abandoned like it did, left sick and to die - but boy was he going to make the rest of its life the best he could to repay for it.

For now, though he was tired. He laid down fully, head on his paws, yet still tilted to watch the now slightly calmer kit out of the corner of his eye.

Yes. Yes, Pyrite didn’t mind this one bit.