- Aug 1, 2023
- 150
- 35
- 28
The nursery makes him uncomfortable.
He'd never inhabited it in his own childhood, but for the last few moons, he's been making awkward forays inside to visit his mentor—former mentor, now, he supposes. And every time, the sight of joyful, capering kits; the sound of giggles and singsongs and stories being told; the soft smell of milk and flowers and warm love; all of it stirs an animal discomfort somewhere deep in him, makes him twitchy and quick to pull every inch of his tall, muscled frame as close as he's able.
He's always felt like an overgrown child, but he feels it most acutely here. When he steps in for the first time with a new name, he has to remind himself that he's not that cat anymore, that mewling kit with bug eyes who cried because he couldn't make friends. He's not that . . . weak anymore.
Today, he comes bearing the fruit of his day's catches, ducking in through the beginnings of dusk with a bundle of fish pinned between his teeth by their tails in a wide bunch of fins that makes his jaw ache. Dark curls still dripping with the remnants of the river, limbs sore from a day of diving, he feels alien among all these small bodies. Out of place among all this softness and sweetness, a muscle - bound bundle of hurts.
" I brought these for the queens and the ones old enough for fresh - kill, " he says awkwardly as he settles the other two fish on some clear space near to the entrance. He holds back the day's choice catch and, holding the plump trout by its tail, picks his way carefully through the nursery, ducking his head all the while, to reach his tortoiseshell mentor ( he might just call her that forever ) in her nest. It's a hazardous journey, the space too small, him too big, the nursery full of tiny tumbling bodies underfoot—if he stepped on a kit, the queens would kill him if he didn't die of shame first.
" This one's for you and the kits, " the monochrome warrior states, stooping to set the greenleaf - fattened trout down, blinking bicolor eyes at the tortie queen and the kits that frolick under her watchful eye. Iciclefang's children unsettle him slightly, but he does his best not to show it, and it's his own neuroses rather than anything specific to the kits that renders his face expressionless—he doesn't really . . . smile, as a rule.
Still, there's as much of a softness in his tone as there ever is when he says, " Best of the lot. Help them grow up strong. "
// interacting with @iciclefang & @CRABKIT @CRAGKIT @Pinekit ⭒ but anyone can post, no need to wait!
He'd never inhabited it in his own childhood, but for the last few moons, he's been making awkward forays inside to visit his mentor—former mentor, now, he supposes. And every time, the sight of joyful, capering kits; the sound of giggles and singsongs and stories being told; the soft smell of milk and flowers and warm love; all of it stirs an animal discomfort somewhere deep in him, makes him twitchy and quick to pull every inch of his tall, muscled frame as close as he's able.
He's always felt like an overgrown child, but he feels it most acutely here. When he steps in for the first time with a new name, he has to remind himself that he's not that cat anymore, that mewling kit with bug eyes who cried because he couldn't make friends. He's not that . . . weak anymore.
Today, he comes bearing the fruit of his day's catches, ducking in through the beginnings of dusk with a bundle of fish pinned between his teeth by their tails in a wide bunch of fins that makes his jaw ache. Dark curls still dripping with the remnants of the river, limbs sore from a day of diving, he feels alien among all these small bodies. Out of place among all this softness and sweetness, a muscle - bound bundle of hurts.
" I brought these for the queens and the ones old enough for fresh - kill, " he says awkwardly as he settles the other two fish on some clear space near to the entrance. He holds back the day's choice catch and, holding the plump trout by its tail, picks his way carefully through the nursery, ducking his head all the while, to reach his tortoiseshell mentor ( he might just call her that forever ) in her nest. It's a hazardous journey, the space too small, him too big, the nursery full of tiny tumbling bodies underfoot—if he stepped on a kit, the queens would kill him if he didn't die of shame first.
" This one's for you and the kits, " the monochrome warrior states, stooping to set the greenleaf - fattened trout down, blinking bicolor eyes at the tortie queen and the kits that frolick under her watchful eye. Iciclefang's children unsettle him slightly, but he does his best not to show it, and it's his own neuroses rather than anything specific to the kits that renders his face expressionless—he doesn't really . . . smile, as a rule.
Still, there's as much of a softness in his tone as there ever is when he says, " Best of the lot. Help them grow up strong. "
// interacting with @iciclefang & @CRABKIT @CRAGKIT @Pinekit ⭒ but anyone can post, no need to wait!
" speech "
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