- Nov 26, 2022
- 507
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❪ TAGS ❫ — This couldn't be real.
It's a reality that Slate refuses—or at least wants to refuse—to accept. In all of his moons of roaming the city streets as a rogue, with his wits about him and wise to the tendencies of the bipedal beasts, he had never even strayed close to a trap. However, now living in a clan, Slate had run directly into one! Was life simply telling him that he wasn't meant to be a part of a clan? That he didn't belong in the wilds?
The Maine Coon had completely spent his energy, nearly wearing his paws down to the bone with all of the relentless pacings in his enclosure. It was much too cramped for a large cat like him, suffocating even, despite the stale air that filtered through the cold, shiny vines. A bowl of kibble remained untouched in the corner of his cell—a cheap offering from the humans, as if that alone would make up for the atrocities and the trauma that they had caused with their own bare hands. He was starving, disheveled, and exhausted; he had not gotten a wink of sleep since his abduction, which had only been a couple of nights ago.
However, finally defeated and teetering on the edge of sleep, Slate was curled up on the cushy bed and facing the bare wall of the cage. He still couldn't believe that he was here, after an entire lifetime of telling himself that he'd never end up in this place.
"You're jealous." Silversmoke's voice — his condescending, haughty tone — invaded his mind like a parasite. Time spent in confinement let recent happenings fester like rotting crowfood in his brain. What else was there to think about, besides the rather unfortunate predicament he had landed himself in? Some of the last words the lead warrior had spoken to him were still fresh in his psyche, whipping like a bull's tail, "Jealous that I was able to make something for myself while you were stuck scrounging and scrapping with whoever you could to try and feel something." Much to his annoyance, it does sting. Even when Slate had entertained the idea of contributing to something larger than himself, of making his brother proud and trying to be apart of a community, the twolegs had taken everything away.
Now, he wasn't a rogue any longer, nor was he a clan cat. The purebred tom was bound to be taken away again, for the first time since his kithood, and possibly never feel the earth under his paws ever again.
// tagging @Howlpaw @QUILLSTRIKE @TWITCHBOLT @Ashenclaw
i'm thinking that they've been here for a few days together and already know of each other's presences here! i'm thinking this is just a sad boi hours thread where they all talk from their cages
It's a reality that Slate refuses—or at least wants to refuse—to accept. In all of his moons of roaming the city streets as a rogue, with his wits about him and wise to the tendencies of the bipedal beasts, he had never even strayed close to a trap. However, now living in a clan, Slate had run directly into one! Was life simply telling him that he wasn't meant to be a part of a clan? That he didn't belong in the wilds?
The Maine Coon had completely spent his energy, nearly wearing his paws down to the bone with all of the relentless pacings in his enclosure. It was much too cramped for a large cat like him, suffocating even, despite the stale air that filtered through the cold, shiny vines. A bowl of kibble remained untouched in the corner of his cell—a cheap offering from the humans, as if that alone would make up for the atrocities and the trauma that they had caused with their own bare hands. He was starving, disheveled, and exhausted; he had not gotten a wink of sleep since his abduction, which had only been a couple of nights ago.
However, finally defeated and teetering on the edge of sleep, Slate was curled up on the cushy bed and facing the bare wall of the cage. He still couldn't believe that he was here, after an entire lifetime of telling himself that he'd never end up in this place.
"You're jealous." Silversmoke's voice — his condescending, haughty tone — invaded his mind like a parasite. Time spent in confinement let recent happenings fester like rotting crowfood in his brain. What else was there to think about, besides the rather unfortunate predicament he had landed himself in? Some of the last words the lead warrior had spoken to him were still fresh in his psyche, whipping like a bull's tail, "Jealous that I was able to make something for myself while you were stuck scrounging and scrapping with whoever you could to try and feel something." Much to his annoyance, it does sting. Even when Slate had entertained the idea of contributing to something larger than himself, of making his brother proud and trying to be apart of a community, the twolegs had taken everything away.
Now, he wasn't a rogue any longer, nor was he a clan cat. The purebred tom was bound to be taken away again, for the first time since his kithood, and possibly never feel the earth under his paws ever again.
// tagging @Howlpaw @QUILLSTRIKE @TWITCHBOLT @Ashenclaw
i'm thinking that they've been here for a few days together and already know of each other's presences here! i'm thinking this is just a sad boi hours thread where they all talk from their cages