The feeling of paint on her face and shoulders clung to her almost uncomfortably thick and heavy to her fur. This was only the second time she’d put any color into her fur- the first time having only been a light dusting of pigment among the white. Today, she was adorned by bold, bright markings in blue and black: a bluejay’s cowl on her face and head and wings spread across her shoulders. It was a striking look on her normally pure white self, and she was proud of it despite how odd it felt at times.

More out of curiosity than genuine hunger, Larksong had picked her way through the cave past the bonfire and paint-splattered wall to where the savory scent of meat hung in the air. (It didn’t hurt that eating meant that cats here had to remove any masks obscuring their mouths, either. Just in case she wanted to talk.) Her eyes lit up upon seeing Emmylou’s half-eaten meal, recognising it through description and Crowsong’s horribly-decayed example as a burger! Carefully fishing one out of the crinkly paper bag they were in, Larksong unfolded the wrapper and began to delicately nibble at it.

The burger was different than she could have imagined. The meat was so different from freshkill, strangely savory and salty; no blood was there to wet her mouth, yet an odd grease worked to fill that void. And the bread... It was practically divine- she was barely able to pace herself from stuffing it all in her mouth at once.

Of course, that was until she nearly choked on it.

Her sensitive sense of smell was suddenly and awfully assaulted by utter rankness, fruity and sour in her nostrils. But it was the source of the smell- the black cat with those luminous yellow eyes in front of her- that made the bun catch in her throat. Taking a moment to cough it up, she stared up at the- stranger?- eyes wide.

”Ah-“ Larksong huffed, still trying to clear a few pesky crumbs from her throat. ”Ah, s-sorry. You... look like a- a friend,” she explained, smiling sheepishly. ”I am Larksong. You...?”

”Hm- I could get some, if you... would like. A patch... there is one in the meadows,” Larksong offered helpfully. It wouldn’t be too terribly difficult to help this cat with their, um. Problem.

At their confirmation of a mutual familiarity, Larksong froze for a moment. Then she stepped closer, making up the distance Redacted had made. Her head tilted, carefully surveying the black cat’s features. Their fur, their size, their... eyes.

”We... haven’t met,” she stated, voice leaning breathy. ”I think... ah, but my friend was... much younger. Dreamer... and I also,” she admitted, tail vibrating in a strange flash of anxiety. While it was broadly accepted amongst those of the Courts, and in the Clans by virtue of her connection to StarClan, but this cat... Well, it might strike outsiders as strange. ”I met them in a dream.”

Larksong looked up, attempting to gauge their reaction to her words. ”How you know me... I cannot say.” But...

An... odd sentiment, she supposed, but not a horrible one. Unless you counted it being entirely predicated on smelling obscenely bad. [Maybe tansy...] Larksong mused to herself, secure in the knowledge that her conversational partner didn’t know just how strongly she thought they smelled. Tansy really would be the only thing capable of covering that up...

She smiled softly, then, her eyes narrowing. ”Ah... we are alike, in that. Mine are... quite real, though... Dreamer taught me what this is,” she hummed, nudging her lightly eaten food as demonstration. ”A burga,” she pronounced proudly. ”Twolegs eat them, so I did not know.”

She fell silent for a moment, then twitched all at once as if a stray current of electricity had run up her spine. ”Ah-! But I did not, did not ask your name yet... how rude...” She glanced away briefly, sheepishness taking priority over practicality for a mere moment before she came to her full senses. ”You are...?”

Her ears flicked back, hot with sudden embarrassment at Redacted’s correction and subsequent derision. ”Ah... yes,” Larksong mumbled, front paws shuffling beneath her. They likely hadn’t meant anything by it, but- she couldn’t help but feel- It reminded her of her mother, was all. It was fine.

”It is... nice to meet you, Redacted,” she greeted with a small smile after shaking off her strange bit of melancholy. Her words had grown clipped and overenuciated, something she didn’t seem consciously aware of but was prominent nonetheless.”Yes... I am glad, to- to have. Purpose, here.” She was meant for group life, she thought... and apparently it was obvious enough to others that this... stranger... could tell.

The name probably had something to do with it, she figured in hindsight.

Wow! Good thing she'd never been one to have been made uncomfortable by silence.

Larksong studied Redacted right back, though admittedly with far more levity than they seemed to be using. It felt as though they were memorising her face before a long journey, a closed locket around their neck to only thing to tide them over for a trip across the sea from which they would never return. It was very nearly too much attention put on her, especially for someone she's... never met before.

Then they turned, and that moment of connection, of desperate recognition, broke again. For a second, they were just another face in the crowd, their black pelt an uncommon sight but not a unique one, not...

"Ww, what do you mean?" Larksong meowed, utterly shocked. She shifted back a step unconsciously, suddenly-wide eyes flickering over Redacted's face in search of some answer. "You are... young, yes? Are you... ill? Hurt? I can," she stumbles, "I can help!"

Whatever the joke is that they're laughing at, Larksong doesn't see it. She didn't know what exactly they meant by their dreams, a life already lived in them, the singing canary... she doesn't know. But what she does know-

"You can't live to, to die," Larksong interjected, volume rising beyond her perception. "You can't. If you were, were meant to, you would... not be born at all." It was a topic she'd thought a lot about, before. What reason was there to be alive, if-? She'd thought nothing mattered, and had lived like it too. It was painful, to live like that. She'd thought she was numb, but it was just hurting too much for her to begin to acknowledge. She- it hurt, to see Redacted anywhere close to that; it hurt to the point of anger.

The mention of the script unnerved her, and without prompting she recalled the jarring feeling of going off course in the dream when she'd asserted her own name. "Miss the, the Dark-Forrst-damned cue!" she half-growled, tail lashing like a whip in her agitation. "You can't wait for, to die!" She was too upset over this, too angry, she knew, but she couldn't- "Go forwards," she urged, echoing her dreaming. "You have a path to walk, paws to walk it, and I-"

Larksong cut herself off, drawing in a shuddering breath. "I can help," she repeated, quieter but not in defeat. "I will."

The wave of feeling that had washed her so totally away began to subside, depositing her gently at a shore before withdrawing. She was left metaphorically dripping there, the only indicator that she’d ever been in that em-ocean at all.

”I...” she said, voice faltering with uncertainty. It was all well and good to say someone should do something, but... She didn’t know Redacted’s life, the parameters they worked under, the things they wanted and the options available to them. But she can’t just leave them alone based on that. She has to... to find out those things. Yes.

Shoving aside the feeling of hurt that comes as they admit to not wanting to stay with the Court (they’d lost everything, here, hadn’t they, when the Cave wasn’t Green, hadn’t they? she wasn’t certain exactly) Larksong’s head tilted in questioning. ”Wwh, why would they crush you?”

Before she could continue- or even get an answer to that one question- she jarred aside, like a puppet under a master’s fingers, and departed the cave. ”Ah... aah,” she keened loosely, a garbled sign of distress as she Walked.

What happened???????