here we go again
Jun 13, 2022
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    ── ( ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ. )  After the storm, this is a welcome reprieve. The ground is still wet and the leaves a little heavy with remnant droplets, but the sky peeks through the coverage and there's warmth to that. It fills him up, smooths down his back like a gentle caress. This place is still mostly peaceful– which is great, really, because Karth is getting kind of sick with all the nonsense. It's been too long and not long enough since he had dealt with this kind of thing, and he's really not looking forward to it again. Not that anybody really looks forward to this stuff, right? No, no, he knows that's not true either. Some of them revel in the violence, he just– he hopes nobody here is like that. There's no real way to soothe those sorts of feelings. They'll eat themselves alive if war is all they want.

    Is this stuff just an excuse? Well it wouldn't be like they were the only ones with excuses if that were the case. He stands here, full of them, basking in the sunlight on soft-wet ground as if that's the only reason for him to be here. Yeah, right. No, he's hoping for...for something. It's a little bit ridiculous that he doesn't even know what that is. Food? Warmth? Company? No, it is most definitely not that last one. Everyone here seemed poor company, anyway.

    No, yeah, he definitely doesn't want company.

    [ only one or two cats per group, please! three max? don't want a super big thread alsdfkjds ]
  • n/a
  • ──── karth. cis male, he/him pronouns. wanderer, hangs by the pine group.
    ──── adult, probs around four or five years old, but he doesn't talk about it.
    ──── bisexual,  currently grieving his former mate  who has recently passed.
    ──── a strong-shouldered  brown tabby with  medium fur and  amber eyes.
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( ) Stars, he rarely ever regretted his decisions, if at all. A pure vessel such as him has no room to make errors, to backtrack. This one had time to keep, stars to tend to, sun to reap... But perhaps there was a slim chance of such a thing... a mistake.

The sky had opened up practically the breath he'd stepped into the forest. Something had dropped itself upon his nose. Cool, clear liquid; water (he'd tasted it to be sure) simply... fallen from the sky. A treacherous thing, having the gall to do such without his permission. And with one came two, then three, then four. An entire party of the ghastly things assaulting him from the clouds. He's yet to grow his wings. Cowardly, cowardly, mocking him while he remains mortal. His chin lifts to the sky. Pale things, barely trained. They needed a good talking to. But alas, it only leaves his eyes vulnerable.

He trills, high and whiny as he's blinded. Normally-graceful strides are reduced to inept wobbling as he panics. So this was... rain.

The next he recalls: the barrage has ceased. Yet he is completely and utterly... lost.

"Ohh... you warned me, you warned me, Mother," The tom laments. His head hangs low in shame. Pale paws carry him wherever they would like to go. "You told this one not to go... and yet he finds himself here. Washed up, alone..." he heaves a heavy sigh, tail curling around his paws, adjacent from those of an older tom.

Another breath escapes him, heavier this time. He attempts to lean against this tom he is barely conscious of like his life depends on it. "I didn't even want to come, you know? I told him, I told him... The Mother does not will such a thing, but he begged me. Begged me, Mr. Twigs. No patience, that one."
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    ── People don't change. Wherever he's gone, wherever he'll go— self-interest is divine. Not everyone prays to it, 'least not consciously, but just enough of them do with enough of a veneer that it'll look like selflessness. A small, quiet part of him –a part Roseal worries isn't kind either– thinks that this isn't about who deserves to survive but who earns it. And all those helpless kits depending on the people who brought them into this world will wait to be orphaned or worse.

    What are any of them doing but scrambling up overgrown glens of bones, all so they can suffer a little longer? But that's not what he wants to believe in, provided convictions are something anyone can choose like where to sleep and what to say— and not involuntary, like when to sleep and what to hear.

    Seems a disgruntled tabby's learning the truth of that, leaned and sighed on by some cloud-headed fool mumbling nonsense.

    "Oh, are we sharing our feelings with complete strangers?" Roseal takes the tabby's other side in an attempt to effectively sandwich him in place. "I think you should go next— you look like something's troubling you."

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  • ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
    ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
    ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
    ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​

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