of earthly kind ─ complaining

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

• 
  
  
  ── Given the territorial tensions between the two groups, Roseal has decided that he should at least attempt some caution─ namely in hunting, and sleeping, and everything else required for existence since they seem to be the points of contention. He's considered leaving, but that is even less of an option than getting mauled by aggrieved cats. He's managed so far. Granted, he hasn't even hung around for a week yet; there's still plenty of time for that to change, that referring to his condition of being alive, obviously.
  
  But he's starting to wonder whether it might be the marsh that gets to him first.
  
  There are many, many downsides to fur as pale and skin as sensitive as his. The sun is an obstacle that blinds and burns far more quickly than it does for most others, but it isn't the problem here in the shadowy, overgrown swamp. That would be the mud. The fucking mud. Dirt, leaves, and creepy crawlies between the toes have never bothered Roseal, and he's never thought of himself as overly meticulous with his hygiene. He's never fallen apart over unclean fur.
  
  Not until the mud.
  
  It cakes his legs, splatters of it even managing to reach as high as the top of his head and the curve of his cheeks. There's a section of his pelt at the back of his neck stiff where mud has dried and hardened, and Roseal is convinced the marsh cats must have made a pact with local spirits or some-such creatures, because he hasn't seen them as miserably coated as he is now.
  
  "It seemed so nice at first," he says to himself, lifting a paw with a spine-wrenching squelch. "Less sunlight, clean water, and─ well, that's it, really. I'm finding a desert next time so I can fry before I realize my suffering." He sighs heavily, flicking mud off of his toes unsuccessfully. "Maybe I'm meant to be a sacrifice to the swamp to appease it. Terrible decision, unless it likes stringy and bitter."​
  
  

  ---

•  
• n/a​
•  
• ──── 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.​
•  
• 
  
  

 

[CICADASTAR]

− ♱ ABOUT : low, velveteen laughter marks his arrival ; bicolored paws bringing him to a step alongside the scarred porcelain feline, " tell us how you really feel, why don't you? " a purr, amusement painting clear on his sloped features. he'd long since accustomed to the mud, pelting his curls and clumping heavy against his lithe form, the feeling of crusting dirt crumbling against sharp - knuckled paws. he rounds the albino felidae, pale luminaries alight. he's been there, that's for certain. he'd been raised on pavement, on sodden dirt, water - rotten wood trampled by twoleg kits who'd ventured too far from their nests. it had taken moons for his hardened pads to adjust to the softness of nature, to the dew - studded grass and mucky, sticking soil. cicada didn't know the tom well, but adjusting to the environment was hard. . the mottled bicolor knew that more than he'd like to admit.

" though . . stringy and bitter is a favorite among these parts . . " he muses, finally settling aside roseal and allowing his two - toned expression to convey contemplative. a wicked curve of lips, ice - blue luminaries lifting, " lean over, i'll help clean your sorry pelt. the swamp doesn't like its sacrifices dirty, believe it or not. " if accepted, he would attempt to tilt his head forward and lap at the matted fur along his ruff, hopefully dislodging the larger, more hilarious clumps of mud coating his fur. it was how he adjusted to the marshlands, truth be told. elder warriors offering an amused swipe of a tongue after his trapeze through the sodden dirt, clumsy and unaccustomed to the uneven footing. it happened to the best of them, honestly.


​

 

[LAKEMOON]

✵ ღ ☾ IT TOOK ME BY SURPRISE - She wanted to leave, in all truth. The only problem was that she would be on her own, left for the monsters of the night- and even if she survived that, she had nowhere to go.
Still, she could complain in silence towards the mud that caked her beautiful fur, how it was a daily struggle to keep it maintained, and how grooming it off left a bitter taste on her tongue.
She silently shares Roseals sentiments as she listens from nearby, ❝ usually, once you learn the territory, it’s easier to avoid getting drenched in mud ❞ she offered her two cents, ❝ though with the downpour lately, it’s more of a struggle. ❞ She mused, narrow optics watching as Cicada began to aid the peculiarly white tom, her eyes floating to her own mud-speckled paws.
❝ Speech. ❞

THE HATRED IN HER EYES​

​

 

[hitch]

in character   out of character   character tags   reference

• 
  
  
  ── Someone's come to laugh at him, apparently. Failure is the oldest form of entertainment, after all, and Roseal has failed spectacularly on several counts: cleanliness, humility, and silence. Still, at least the dark stranger's not cruelly amused as far as Roseal can ascertain, and he'd like to believe he'd know if someone has a sadistic streak. Tends to be a bit obvious in his experience.
  
  What he can't place is the odd vocalization, syllables shaped differently than he's used to. It isn't an accent he's encountered before, and he's met many colorful people as a roamer. "Well, if you're offering," he says dryly. "I'm feeling a bit lost and more than a little disgusting. Not the 'ew, it's sticky' sort of disgusting, but the 'that is a putrid pile of rot and shame' variety." He smiles cheerily until the marsh cat offers to...wash his back?
  
  Stranger and stranger.
  
  Roseal watches him carefully, and though he doesn't stiffen up when a coarse tongue rasps over his muddy neck, it's a very close thing. He merely twitches instead, not quite a flinch. His throat burns and he works his jaw for a moment. "Since you seem to be on speaking terms with this bog," he finally starts, "maybe you should mention it could stand to be less dirty itself."
  
  Silly, hypocritical marsh.
  
  Staring down at his muddied paws, Roseal swallows. It'll be like eating mud at this rate. He doesn't know how the dark feline can stomach it.
  
  He lifts his gaze to the new arrival, a bit dirtied herself, though not so terribly as he is. He might just ask for some advice if it comes free of teeth. "You're still much cleaner than I am, regardless. Don't tell me you're all living off of a diet of mud; I'll believe you." ​

  ---

•  
• n/a​
•  
• ──── 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.​
•  
• 
  
  

 

[BERRYHEART]

Dirt and muck had never been Berry's best friend. Though he cared not for being well-groomed, for that did not impede on one's comfort, he did not wish to have mud woven into his fur. It was a terrible pain to get out once it had settled in- and now he was a kit no longer, he could not rely on his mother to clean him up when he'd rather not do it. Thus, he was careful in his travail and travel, learning each inch of the marsh well so that he could manoeuvre it to deft perfection, even with the ailment of his missing paw.

Knowing the land so well meant he had found himself getting rather bored of it.

Toward the group did Berry trudge, taking a place alongside his niece just in time to hear the pale tom, who was being cleaned off by someone with quite the opposite colouring- how funny- murmur something of a 'diet of mud'. "We might as well be." Tone low and even, his words were given as indisputable truth. The frogs- they tasted grimy enough that perhaps they would be better off feasting on swampwater.​

[ PENNED BY PIN ]​