here we go again
Jun 13, 2022
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    ── ( ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ. )  He's starting to accept that there's no running away from your problems. Not really a lesson he likes, truth be told– is it ever? For anyone? It's not even the first time this has been shoved through his skull, but he'd rather ignore it than accept it, apparently. Maybe it's optimism, or maybe he's just an idiot. Actually, now that he thinks about is most definitely not optimism. Optimism would mean not expecting the worst of people. It'd mean opening up to these groups that live around here, maybe actually making friends. Not moping around in the no man's land, scrounging up what he can find and sleeping in (hopefully) abandoned fox dens. Having a community again is admittedly tempting, but what good would that do? The threat of war looms over everyone here.

    There'll be deaths, heartache, he shouldn't– he can't do that again. No way. Not for anything.

    He curls up beneath the shade of an oak tree, grooming the spaces between his toes to free prickly strands of dried grass and pine needles. A desperate part of him remembers how much easier something as mundane as tidying up had been with someone else around. It's been so long even his voice is rusty. He doesn't know how to exist around anyone, as much as he wants to. What a sorry existence this is.

  • n/a
  • ──── karth. cis male, he/him pronouns. wanderer, hangs by the pine group.
    ──── adult, probs around four or five years old, but he doesn't talk about it.
    ──── bisexual,  currently grieving his former mate  who has recently passed.
    ──── a strong-shouldered  brown tabby with  medium fur and  amber eyes.
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    ── You can't sneeze without catching someone who has dark shadows behind their eyes, and not solely because two large, desperate groups of cats are a puffed-up tail away from unsheathing their claws on each other. They've all got something to lug around day in and day out, 'til eventually they'll keel over and something spills out everywhere. Guts, metaphorically.

    So it isn't surprising that there are haunted, weary faces out there, struggling to move from point A to point B without stumbling a little. It's more unnatural to see someone cheery and completely untethered, but even that's likely to be a façade cooked up to hide all the mildew and rot. Nobody enters this world without paying for it; just all a matter of when the taxes are collected.

    And Roseal is a nosy son of a bitch in the thick of it. He can't remember ever minding his own damned business, and truth be told, he doesn't really want to. Prodding the many sleeping bears lumbering around might not be the best idea, but none of them are here because someone kept their distance for all of eternity. They're all products of connection, and it doesn't feel right to pretend he's a lone clod in the ocean when he keeps bumping into other small, individual islands.

    This is one he's side-checked before. Good to see that little's changed, but this time, he really looks troubled, like he has a heavy weight to get off his chest before he can breathe again.

    Roseal slinks up from behind, almost completely silent, and he leans in to try tugging free a twig from the tabby's back. "Missed a spot. Several spots, actually. Need someone to talk to? Because it looks like you do."

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  • ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
    ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
    ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
    ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​

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