- Jan 17, 2024
- 7
- 1
- 3
Ganymede does not enjoy making a habit of visiting the twoleg nests. They're a sore spot, even now that he is past his first year outside of them, though just barely; he still remembers the comfort of that strange, pelted nest, the thundering steps of his twolegs, the bland pellets of food. He remembers it with little fondness, and yet, he'd been devastated to lose it all. Even now as he stalks the fences he misses his mother's oilslick pelt, misses the crackling of the twoleg's controlled flame (what a strange power that had been!) while he feels the aching chill of winter in his smoky limbs.
When time had weathered the jagged edge he'd found himself thrilled by his own freedom. His rosy, calloused pads had seen all sorts of terrain; the outskirts of the grassy moor and its hay-strewn barnyard; the harsh concrete of city sidewalks; the smooth-pebble beaches of the river (and this one he shivers to remember; feels it on the back of his skull). He'd been all over, restless with possibility, thinned with hunger but just beginning to grasp the essential skill of hunting. The sky had opened up and a whole world had fallen out of it, right into his path — and he'd been happy to travel it alone for a good number of moons.
But now he finds strain in the loneliness. Ganymede was not built an introvert, some lone rover; though he'd found fleeting friendship in his travels thus far, rarely did they last longer than a flutter of butterfly wings. It's why he takes a particular interest in the marching ants of Clan cats that fade in and out of view. He's heard about them — even his mother had told him stories of them, of their hatred of kittypets (so don't wander too far, Ganymede!) and the way that their neighbors had sometimes disappeared, only to be seen at the precarious edge of the forest many moons later, haggard and scarred.
So when he'd seen a Clan cat take interest in another loner (Ganymede has seen Fang before, but only as a shadow flicking through the brush, never a greeting passed between them) he can't help but seek the burr-pelted tom out. Sharp blue eyes rake the snow below his perch, turned lilac by shadow as the sun began its descent to the west. Black bushes stand sentry beneath him, stacked along the slats of wooden fence that he trots along. There is little sign of the loner he'd seen the day previous, and Ganymede supposes he should have expected as much, but his shrike heart flutters disappointingly against the walls of his chest. He sits on the fence for a few moments more (though he is conscious of the house's kittypet staring at him with pointed vitriol as he staked his claim over its yard), but there is precious little to tell him there is any life in this landscape at all, much less the cat he seeks.
So Ganymede gives up. The mocha-dusk tom leaps off the fence, back into true loner territory, only to land squarely behind pawprints he'd missed in his cursory search. With his gaze he follows them to the roots of some gnarled oak, and there sits a familiar face.
Curiosity sparks. He moves without thinking much of his intrusion, or the strangeness of his questions-before-introduction approach: "Hey! I saw you speaking with a clan cat yesterday. What were you talking about?"
/ @FANG
When time had weathered the jagged edge he'd found himself thrilled by his own freedom. His rosy, calloused pads had seen all sorts of terrain; the outskirts of the grassy moor and its hay-strewn barnyard; the harsh concrete of city sidewalks; the smooth-pebble beaches of the river (and this one he shivers to remember; feels it on the back of his skull). He'd been all over, restless with possibility, thinned with hunger but just beginning to grasp the essential skill of hunting. The sky had opened up and a whole world had fallen out of it, right into his path — and he'd been happy to travel it alone for a good number of moons.
But now he finds strain in the loneliness. Ganymede was not built an introvert, some lone rover; though he'd found fleeting friendship in his travels thus far, rarely did they last longer than a flutter of butterfly wings. It's why he takes a particular interest in the marching ants of Clan cats that fade in and out of view. He's heard about them — even his mother had told him stories of them, of their hatred of kittypets (so don't wander too far, Ganymede!) and the way that their neighbors had sometimes disappeared, only to be seen at the precarious edge of the forest many moons later, haggard and scarred.
So when he'd seen a Clan cat take interest in another loner (Ganymede has seen Fang before, but only as a shadow flicking through the brush, never a greeting passed between them) he can't help but seek the burr-pelted tom out. Sharp blue eyes rake the snow below his perch, turned lilac by shadow as the sun began its descent to the west. Black bushes stand sentry beneath him, stacked along the slats of wooden fence that he trots along. There is little sign of the loner he'd seen the day previous, and Ganymede supposes he should have expected as much, but his shrike heart flutters disappointingly against the walls of his chest. He sits on the fence for a few moments more (though he is conscious of the house's kittypet staring at him with pointed vitriol as he staked his claim over its yard), but there is precious little to tell him there is any life in this landscape at all, much less the cat he seeks.
So Ganymede gives up. The mocha-dusk tom leaps off the fence, back into true loner territory, only to land squarely behind pawprints he'd missed in his cursory search. With his gaze he follows them to the roots of some gnarled oak, and there sits a familiar face.
Curiosity sparks. He moves without thinking much of his intrusion, or the strangeness of his questions-before-introduction approach: "Hey! I saw you speaking with a clan cat yesterday. What were you talking about?"
/ @FANG
