frankenstein's monster | intro



Within the shadow of the reeds a figure wakes up. Amber eyes gleaming as he allows his maw to part in a yawn. Today has been slow for him, not that he doesn't mind it but he normally does this or that for the clan. His eyes close for a moment just to relish he slow stretch that comes with the movements of his body. Shaking himself a soft pink tongue slides from his jaws to run across exposed gums and teeth. Just to moisten them a bit, the feeling of dry and cracked gums is not one he wants to relive so he takes extra care of it as best he can. Dark chocolate figure finally slips from the shade and he starts to make his way to the fresh kill pile. Here he sniffs at the fish there, maw pushing against a rather large cod before he finds a small snapper. It's a small meal just got himself considering he doesn't intend to share right now.

He gets much too nervous when around company for too long. Something he apologizes for when he can. Gripping his fish by the tail he begins to make his small journey back to his secluded spot only to pause for a second and glance over his shoulder. Ears prick up and the sounds of cats chatting and talking affirm his safety. He is okay. There he steps forth and settles down to eat at his small meal as he watches the others around camp.


Fishing sucks. It’s an awfully boring way to pass time, and Clay is terrible at it. If there were no prey on land, he would surely starve in this territory. But fish taste good despite the difficulty required to catch them, so anytime he’s hungry, the brown and white tabby is quick to snatch a fish (or two) from the pile of prey in camp.

Clay is on his way to the pile of fresh-kill when another figure—lithe and tall and dark—cuts into view. The other cat snags a smaller-sized fish from the pile, and when they lift their head he catches sight of the other tom’s face. Bright eyes and facial scars that expose teeth and gums and look like they must have hurt. He’s not ugly, though. Clayfur just wonders what happened for the other feline to receive such injuries. He’s intrigued, though, and follows the other without really thinking about it.

He slams down his paws heavily as he approaches, intending to make the other aware of his presence. "Hey! Mind if I sit here?" Without waiting for an answer—not even considering that the other might want to be left alone, that he might be sitting on his own for good reason—Clay settles down not too far away, just barely in the shade. His wide eyes are trained on the other cat’s face, but his mind is on the fish between his paws. "Are you any good at fishing? I’m, like, awful at it," he chuckles, nose scrunching up slightly.
The sudden heavy steps of paws make him jolt, eyes widening for a second as he looks up at the cat that is approaching him. He calms his racing heart as he is asked about the other joining him. Jaws part to answer but before he gets to voice it the other is already sitting down in a spot not that far from him. That's fine. Having company is not bad and he doesn't mind it but the wide eyed staring makes him nervous. His ears twitch and he turns his head slightly in an attempt to hide the disfigurement of his face. It's not something he is comfortable with and he is always conscious of how it can look. Despite that he doesn't intend to make the other leave and in fact he glances up slightly from his fish to look at him again.

He has seen this tom around before and a name slips across his mind. Clayfur. Yes. Right. He is a good fellow and he tries for a small smile but it looks lopsided on his mangled features so he drops it. "I'm okay at fishing. It's...relaxing for me in a way." It's also safety for him but he keeps that to himself before he looks back to his fish. "Do you want help fishing? I can give pointers, I guess, if you want them."


He isn’t expecting the other cat to be so okay with him encroaching on their meal, anticipating a harsh go away or just utter silence in response. But the other tom offers him a smile, or an attempt at one, despite his face. Clay grins back, a broad, toothy thing that remains on his face even as he speaks. "That’s so cool, dude! I guess I can see how it can be relaxing, if you like water." The admission comes with a shrug, a contemplative tilt of his head, and he holds back the rambling that’s on the tip of his tongue.

The dark-furred feline offers his help with fishing, and he brightens even more—if that’s possible. He hadn’t been searching for help, but he’ll take all of it that he can get. He knows he’s hopeless, but perhaps some tips from someone who’s better at it could set him in the right direction. "Actually, yeah! Pointers would be cool. I’m not the best learner, but I’m sure you’re a good teacher." Or at least a good explainer, he supposes.

Was dude...not an insult? The way Clayfur used it was beginning to make him second guess having been offended by the word prior. Not that he still knew what it meant but he highly doubted a cat as jovial and polite as the earthen tabby was going to go around throwing insults. Now he felt somewhat silly for having been bothered by it initially. It's one of those days where he's restless and knows it, realizes his energy can be dedicated to better and more productive things than pacing the camp and feigning checking the structure of the dens. When the discussion of fishing catches his ears they twitch and he considers his options; it might be nice to go out hunting and though he was much more comfortable doing so alone he had responsibility now that didn't necessarily dictate him ignoring him clanmates. And after all...didn't he need...practice with socializing? What better cat to observe and learn from quietly than that tom that just never stopped talking. Smokethroat debated internally a moment longer before exhaling a deep sigh that he felt shook him down to his tail. Alright.
Swift dark paws, barring the one solid white one, carried him over to the chatting duo and he put on his best neutral expression that did not look like he was scowling, "'Fishing is it? I was just considering heading out myself if you've room for a third." His orange gaze moves from Clayfur to Cretin who he only just knew in passing; a tom who made his own scars look like minor inconvienences but seemed perfectly amicable all looks aside.
"Some of us like water." He remarks casually, before attempting what might be his first go at a joke? If you could even call it that, "Though I can see why a cat named 'clay' woud be less enthused by it."