POKER FACE ✮ thirteen

[IGNITION]

✮ ⋆ ˙ Ignition is getting more and more accustomed to this place by the day. He is not much of a scrounger, but he takes what he can. A purr and some winding around legs is enough to coerce the dumber twolegs into giving him food, the clinking of his bell enough to keep them from scooping him up and taking him away. It's a much different existence than what he was used to, but not wholly terrible.

Maybe he's just lucky. He was born lucky, the curling pedigree of his ears is proof. Life comes easy to him; his abandonment was merely a setback, but he will learn to survive. He lounges, lax in the sun, upon the top of a wall. There's a passerby below. Narrowed eyes rove over the scars tracing their pelt; not all are so fortunate as he, it seems. "My, you look like you've had a rough go of it!" the tom trills, voice smooth as silk. He does not move from his perch. Better to keep the high ground, just in case. "A wanderer like myself, I'd assume? No housefolk to keep you pampered?" Clearly, with how scraggly the thing is - but it feels polite to ask.

‎‎┌── STOP DROP AND DRAG ME INTO PLACE ✮ ⋆ ˙ LOCK THE FIRE ESCAPES ──┐‎

• @Thirteen.
  

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  "SPEECH"
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• 
  IGNITION ✮ he / him, twolegplace rogue, fifteen moons.
  ⭃ a curly-eared tabby of swirling black and deep red-brown bearing a burgundy collar.
  ⭃ left eye is blind and permanently dilated.
  ⭃ charming and manipulative, willing to do anything to get ahead.
  ⭃ npc xx npc, former kittypet.
  ⭃ peaceful and healing powerplay permitted / / underline and tag when attacking
  ⭃ penned by SATURNID ↛ saturnids on discord, feel free to dm for plots.
  

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[Thirteen.]

MAYBE I'M BETTER OF ON MY OWN
HISTORY SHOWS I'M ACCIDENT PRONE​

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thirteen & 07 moons & demi-boy & he/they & loner ​

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Thirteen is... unlucky. There is no other word for it, truthfully.

Day after day he survives - and yet, that's all he ever does. He's hardly living, a skeletal creature with bruises and scars painted across nearly every surface, patchwork pelt and balding tail. He is not pretty, chased away by twolegs with long sticks and hunted by dogs with snapping jaws and snarling fangs. The cats he comes across on twolegplace streets are, perhaps the only kindness he is spared - and even in that, life is cruel.

Parents who die for him, because of him. Siblings he knows must exist, for surely, his parents can't be so mad as to think thay'd had twelve before him when they hadn't, and yet he's never seen hide nor hair of them. A kind word thrown his way only to witness snapping jaws of a fox snatch them up, or to have them turn around and turn teeth to his neck when his use has run up

No, perhaps cursed is a better word, far more apt for his situation.

He's slinking about, as he always does, when a call causes him to nearly jump out of his fur - mismatched eyes rolling wildly for a moment before settling on the figure perched above. Perhaps it's foolish of him, but the sight of the collar wrapped around the others neck is a comfort - cats with housefolk in the past are often a lot nicer than those without, less angry, less territorial. Perhaps it's the memory of full bellies, or the ever rumored cutters, but they're usually slower too, then the wild born ones - and he finds himself unwillingly relaxing just a fraction.

" S-sure... something like th-that, " Thirteen wouldn't call himself a wanderer really - just a stray without a home.

━ actions & " speech, " & 'thoughts/quotes' ━

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