bury me at makeout creek − sharing a meal

− ♱ ABOUT : blinding rays of white - gold sun threaded heavy through his mottled coat, dark hues warm to the tough and alight with the fury of greenleaf. radiance now so bright it made his eyes ache, still somehow unaccustomed to a life outside of the shadows he had so often lurked in ; blending into the background and avoiding the spotlight as if the very touch of golden attention could leave him howling in pain. the marshland had been an easily - adjusted home. the clouds now clustered around the slate heavens, flowers a pantheon of new life. there had been rain recently, too much of it -- hollow and trembling and hovering in sunbeam mist, layering upon dew - slickened grass. it leaves his heart sore and glistening, but grown over with hedera, begonias growing within ivory confines of his curving ribcage. petals rubbed against the rumbling marble of bones, cello in his mind, a waxwork song dripping steadily into his frantic thoughts. the heat - wrought showers had flooded creatures from their watery homes and into the open, leaving them hopping about to find shelter once again. cicada had gotten up early to watch the early morning rain, stretching his lengthy limbs out on a dawn round along the mud - slickened land and coincidentally, happened about a particularly plump amphibian lurching its way towards an open, sludge - lined burrow.

he'd leapt without a second thought, sharp - knuckled paws landing just at the base of it's skull and ending its life swiftly, efficiently. the marsh frog goes limp beneath him, air billowing from its vocal sac and limbs releasing. cicada dips his head, icecap luminaries closing briefly and rubber black lips moving in silent, reverent thanks to the land he lived from. delicately, he would lift his prey, making his way back towards camp with his tail lifted just slightly. the thing left a bitter slime on his tongue ; frogs were far from his favorite meal, but meat was meat, and he couldn't afford to be picky at this point. the group in the marshes had picked off nearly all chipmunk and squirrel that could find its way over the thunderpath, and the tom considered himself lucky to have gotten what he had. he sighs, as best he could around the frog, entering camp and letting his gaze wander. he couldn't eat this all himself, and he was sure someone was hungry -- so he drops the creature in front of the nearest marsher he sees, allowing a small, tired smile to grace his features, " little appetite, today." he admits, as if that were the way to enter a conversation, " eat with me? "


╰☆☆ A relatively solitary creature, Flicker does not partake in the customary grooming and chatting the group cats call 'sharing tongues.' While she is in camp, she is either sleeping, eating, or taunting some stodgy feline for fun. She stares now at two cats who are in repose, relaxed and chatting about nothing at all, with an expression of bafflement.

I can clean my own fur, she thinks. There's a memory locked away somewhere, of her mother ensuring the flecks of dried mud are scraped away from Flicker's dark tortoiseshell fur. Of her sister making fun of her for always returning home filthy, and as a result, for being subject to an immediate bath upon the end of their games.

She shudders and looks away from the cats who are enjoying one another's company. As she does, flame-colored eyes light upon another mottled pelt. Cicada strolls into the clearing, a marsh frog clamped in his jaws. Might not like to gossip, but I'll never turn down a free meal!

She pads toward the pale-eyed tom and gives the frog a cautious sniff. "There somethin' wrong with it?" They've all been a bit hungry lately, and normally Flicker would not even bother to ask. But the owl Soot had brought back to camp had upset her stomach worse than anything she'd ever eaten before. Even crowfood.

But the suspicion is momentary. Hunger wins, as it always does for Flicker. The tortoiseshell leans down and bites into the frog's bulbous underside. "Shouldn't give all your prey away," she chastises Cicada with a cheeky grin, speaking through a mouth full of frog. "Any minute, we could all be fighting each other for scraps of crowfood." She wrinkles her nose, and anger sweeps low over her body like flames. Damn kittypets.
Warm moments of kindness within the group would always be gazed upon with fondness in his eyes. A soft nostalgia of how things were before Rain moved in. Before there was any need to hiss and spit over the forests they lived in. He understood the frustration, felt it himself past his exhaustion. A frown would tug at his lips as that frustration dug into Flicker's words.

"We're not quite there yet now, are we?" Frog's Croak rumbles, padding towards the duo with downturned eyes and a barely-there smile. He reaches to cuff her over the ear, breath shaking with an amused puff of breath. "Enjoy the food ya' got, first."

Dull eyes shift toward the other tom. He can never not-acknowledge the way Cicada's youthful form towers over his own. He snorts at the observation. Such was a trick of fate. On any other day, Croak would have you believe him to be a spry young bird. 'Course, he can't resist pulling out the seniority card with someone like him. "A welcome catch, youngster."

− ♱ ABOUT : since the arrival of rain and his crew of crooning kittypets, the rarity of sharing freshkill had gotten scarce. cicada hardly participated in sharing tongues either, lest he is the one of the giving end -- his curls were wispy, and more than most of his colony mates would want a mouthful of. adding the fact that the marshlands often left him coated in a thin layer of mud and sediment and there, you have the perfect recipe for avoidance at meal time. icecap eyes linger on conversing pairs studding the briar - laden clearing as flicker takes her first bite of the frog's tender, slimy underbelly. they were a strong group, decent in number . . but to keep the camp stocked with enough prey, they would soon have to start sharing each meal. a quiet sigh falls from bitten tongue, the slim tom coming to settle aside the tortoiseshell, compacting his lithe body into a loaf and wrapping curled tail around ivory forepaws.

" aside from the taste? " his aquinine nose scrunched, orbital ears swiveling back to settle heavy along the slope of his skull as his gaze snaps back, leveling the woman with an amused glint to their icy depths. he’s glad she’s enjoying it — so few smiles had gone around lately and he took what he could get, his own emotions heavily dulled by recent events. riding on the ends of laughter, he shakes his head, “ like licking the bottom of a pond, this is.

her next words meet his ears and incite a tip of his head, releasing a hard sigh in response, “ then i can only hope you’ll remember this great kindness . . “ laments the smoke, voice heavy with dramaticism — though she did have a point. a very real possibility lie in infighting, with the slow edge of starvation marching forth each passing second, even now nearly gaunting their soldiers to keep their kits fed. even he had to admit he hadn’t been a fan of how rain and his gang had been handled, but he couldn’t say if he would have done it any differently. putting his trust in briar had come so easily for the majority of his life within these thicket walls, only wavering just slightly, very recently. the time to act was drawing nearer and nearer to pass, and the spike - furred felidae still seemed more interested in keeping peace than ridding the similarly - starved pets from their pine home. if it could even be considered keeping peace still, since patrols started coming back empty - pawed, agitated, and smelling like pine more often than not.

since she’d ripped into the slime - coated surface, cicada finally takes a moment to pull a piece from the red center she’d created, watching with lighthearted amusement as frogs croak ambled forward. he speaks, and the male finds himself nodding absently along with his words, finally looking back towards the amphibian to give the family a mere second of privacy. the burly tom was far better at advice than he was ; he had a large, bustling family to look after, after all. chewing on his strip of meat, he takes a moment to mull the feeling that washes him over, expression odd. family was foreign to him, aside from a mother who he’d realized long ago had hardly any of his best interest in mind. he’d have been lucky for her to think of him at all, much more so to be in a positive light. he looked too much like him, she’d spit, and while cicada had heard many tales about this ‘ him ‘, he didn’t know what to do about that.

he tried not to think about it.

raspy vocals direct once more towards him, then — a welcome catch, youngster. a feeling springs to his chest, sudden and encompassing. a burst of warmth just over his sternum, a smile whipping onto his maw in seconds flat, “ young, maybe — but i feel eeeevery moon. “ cicada bemoans, stretching his forearms out from his loafed position and listening to the pop in his shoulders as if onto enthusiastically prove his point.

  • CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
    − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
    − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers

  • none.

  • Haha
Reactions: Frog's Croak
( ) Orange eyes, round as twin moons, stare at the frog as if it is the holy grail as they saunter over. "Oh, you don't even have to ask," Crow breathes, already trying to wriggle their way between the three cats gathered around the prey. It's hardly enough to feed one cat, let alone four, but they don't give a shit. Anything to appease their achingly hollow stomach...

Settling between Cicada and Flicker, Crow helps himself to the frog, tearing away a chunk of meat. He hums his approval, his tail curling.

A snort of laughter is exhaled sharply through their nose as Cicada bemoans and stretches, with an audible pop following shortly after. That must've felt amazing. "Think you could do that to my back? I can never seem to crack it just right." They arch their back into a lazy stretch as if to prove their point, heaving a sigh.