A collection of Potato drabbles

Basically just a page for short stories and wips that I'm working on! Mostly humans, so sorry if you came for Warriors 😛

## Untitled Piece (Possible WIP?)

The Old God has seen a lot.

He has seen the rise and fall of empires. Has witnessed the birth of civilizations and their inevitable deaths. Sometimes they go out in great fires, sometimes great floods, sometimes in quiet whispers as bodies lay in the streets. Has seen those very same streets return back to the Earth, become overgrown and green and lush, then turn brick-and-mortar once more.

He has seen a lot.

That is why the mortal is such a surprise.

The Old God was content to let this new kingdom fall into ruin. It is one of holiness, light, and gold; all things he has seen rot. But then, there was the mortal.

*A priest,* the other Gods whisper and gossip, *one born on the Holy Day, with golden eyes and heart. They worship and love us so completely, it is magnificent.*

*I hear they’ve been compared to Agapi in their appearance, and Sofos in their wisdom, and yet they deny it all. Isn’t that amazing?*

He admits that the stories get to him eventually. Especially when The Rider mentions them in passing. The Rider, *The Pale Horse*, took note of a mortal. It was almost cause for concern. But alas, The Old God is intrigued.

He watches from afar at first, prepared to be disappointed. But…

*But.*

But he isn’t. The mortal is everything the stories say. Beautiful, graceful, intelligent, devout. But even then, they’re kind, generous, and respectful. And *humble.* The Old God has seen mortals with qualities far less astounding act as if they were a gift from the skies. And yet, the mortal does not. They brush off the praise- the *adoration* from others- with a small shake of their head, starling-dark hair falling across their face.

He is interested.

The Old God circles around the mortal, watching them closer and closer. He even goes so far as to take mortal form, just to see them up close.

And he continues to take that form. He begins a secret mortal life when he is not busy with managing the Earth, and seeks out the mortal. He joins the church, and despite his complicated feelings with the faith, becomes a high-ranking official. Just to be near them. The Golden-eyed. The Golden-hearted.

The Golden Mortal.

## Nothing Rose Gold Can Stay

The white cat snarls, stumbling through the Dark Forest’s thick, thorn-filled undergrowth.

“No! No!” He violently shakes his head, rotten rose petals drifting onto the sluggish marsh behind his see-through paws. He can see through them. He…

He can’t *feel them.*

“No, no, no,” he hisses, now unable to move as the tips of his paws disappear. Something he hasn’t felt in seasons turns in his gut.

*Fear.*

He’s scared. He’s disappearing. They’ve forgotten him.

“Oh my,” an amused voice drifts through the trees, “is it time already, Roseheart?” Lilypelt slips through the trees, their ragged bark visible through her silver sides. “I’m surprised. You’d think all those scary kit stories would be enough to keep your memory alive.” She stands in front of him, smirking. “I guess the idea of a cannibal cat exists without your help, though.”

He growls even as he sinks onto his knees. “Well, if they’ve forgotten me, then what about you, huh? What stories of you have been passed down? None?” he spits, “No, just wait, you’ll be next!” Lilypelt shrugs.

“Perhaps. But it’s you for now.” She turns away, flicking her plumed tail. “Goodbye, Roseheart.”

He opens his mouth to retort but finds he cannot. The forest bleeds away as his body goes numb and nonexistent.

~~~

*"Look at him. He’s precious.”*

*“He’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”*

He’s tired. His whole body aches deeply, as if the fatigue has cut its way into his weary bones. He can’t even find the strength to open his eyes.

He hisses as something rough and wet laps at his back, feebly baring his teeth. Something chuckles from above.

Wait… where is he?

It… smells of milk and warmth. Of fresh moss and a Greenleaf’s vibrant day. Is he… back in the living clans?

“Our little Icekit.”

He’s back.

*He’s back.*

That’s good. He can get back to work.