twolegplace prophet ╱ open, ranting


Jun 27, 2022

The rumors that have come pouring out from every stray's mouth say a million different things. Shifting through the lies has taken too much of his time, but damn if he couldn't say it was worth it. A bunch of cats with their hearts all up their asses, thinking they're better than those soft city cats. Making homes for themselves in the forest and thinking that it means something. He's a live and let live kind of creature, most of the time, but it's gotten to the point of troubled sleep. The more and more he's been hearing, watching the whole world around him shift. Maybe someone else would say it's for the better. Archangel, though– no, he's grown tired of it. Of the prey they claim, of the lands they stake out. Already the tensions are rising, and who is it that suffers?

Fuckin' right. It was always, always, the ones at the bottom of the pile. The strays, the leftovers, the ones who didn't or couldn't toss themselves to these roundups. He wasn't one of 'em that couldn't, none of those closest to him were, but Angel couldn't help the fire this stoked up in his chest. A bunch of self-aggrandizing pricks out to make their story into the theme of everyone's life, and he can't stand it.

The lanky tom has been pacing along the ruined concrete topper of this half wall for the better part of an hour. Vegas and Kerosene mark the beginning and end of his path, Kerosene with his lazy lounge on one end and Vegas with his watchful crouch on the other. "They think they have some divine right to the ground they walk. As if they're the first to do it, or they'll ever be the last." This clearly isn't the beginning of his rant, and he has most certainly not reached its end either. V watches him with those cautious blue eyes, agreement written in the prick of his ears, and Angel takes it as tacit encouragement. "A whole war because half of them couldn't stand where the others came from, and now they've caved in? Decided to live alongside them?" He scoffs, and jumps from his perch to the broken overhang that barely supports his weight. "It'll never turn out."

ooc: located in the city, in a back alley by an abandoned dive bar kind of place.

check the next slide for basic tags!
full information.
ARCHANGEL,  angel.   might accept others, rather begrudgingly depending on who from.
──── uses he - him - his and mascuine titles; accepts others with vague bemusement.
──── approximately 39 moons old, born during the full height of greenleaf. acts older.
──── bisexual, single?  mostly here for a good time. not particularly interested in love.
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Stephen King knows better than to wander alone, but he does it anyway, because his curiosity about the newly-discovered outside world just cannot seem to be sated. And the last time he’d wandered alone, some stranger in the woods had just brought him back. He knows, for one of his first times leaving the comfortable safety of his home, that he shouldn’t be here, if all places, where fleabitten street cats prowl the alleys like vampires. But who’s going to stop him, he wonders, because despite the feeling of being watched that prickles his skin, he knows he’s just being paranoid. Surely that whole “survival of the fittest” thing isn’t real, right? They’re still in the city, which is miles more benevolent than the wilderness where cats refer to mice as prey.

Not many of the cats he’s seen so far have spoken to him—or spoken at all, he realizes. Maybe that’s a street cat thing. So upon hearing a stranger’s voice, Stephen King is intrigued. He doesn’t know the full situation that had happened with the forest cats, but from what he’s gathered many of them don’t particularly like outsiders, especially ”soft-pawed kittypets”. Kittypet, leaving their mouths as if it’s such a terrible thing to be. And sure, Stephen King has had it good for the entirety of his life, but that’s better than going to war over a forest, right? He draws up to where a few cats are gathered, with the black and white one seemingly giving a speech or something.

Listening to the guy talk—it’s not eavesdropping if it’s loud enough for the whole street to hear, okay—the tom can’t help but to agree, just a bit. For a moment he feels guilty for thinking of the SkyClan cats in such a way, but it’s very easy to believe that these clans will never work out—if two of them couldn’t get along, then surely splitting into five is counterintuitive. He definitely isn’t as worked up about it as this cat is, though.

He’s never been anything but a bright-eyed optimist, so he levels a friendly green gaze upon the black and white stranger. No thought is given to the idea that these cats might be aggressive, and he lifts his chin in what he thinks is a sign of, like, respect or something. "They don’t seem all bad," he begins, only to realize how stupid he sounds. But he is kind of stupid, so he plows on. "They’re kind of like street cats, you know? Eventually things will settle, and they might get along for a while." He says it with the blind confidence of someone who has never met a street cat before, but his cheery expression doesn’t falter.
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They're on the same page, Ker and Ange. V, too, probably. Difference being Angie's eaten up by it; sometimes Kerosene thinks he's just a vessel for fury, that anything else poured into him'll evaporate 'cause it can't handle the sheer intensity of him. Rage's all that thrives in Angie, even though Kerosene's spent years following him around wishing there'd be enough room for a passion not dependent on ashes. Maybe there is and it's Ker who's the problem, s per fuckin' usual. "Think maybe it's got 'em all spooked," he says, glancing at V and back at the pacing dark shape of Ange. "I give 'em two moons before they forget enough of it to remember why they were pissed off. Then it'll just be a buncha different groups tearing at each other instead'a two."

Their little discussion grinds to a halt soon as a stranger shows up, round and orange and talkin' outta his ass. Kerosene smothers a half-cough half-snicker into his paw before leveling a lazy, mismatched stare on the newcomer. "You think so? That's nice. That's real nice. Too nice for the kinda people who'd orphan a buncha kids 'n crawl back to their holes without so much as a, 'sorry I tore your dear old daddy's throat out.'" He shakes his head. "Plenty of reasons to want revenge 'n not a whole lot to prefer makin' peace."
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❝  It's starting to drive him crazy, watching Angel move. Like staring at a top as it starts to spin, like being aware of the ground beneath his paws. Concerning. Or maybe unsettling's a better word for it. Kerosene's right to see the world of rage beneath his skin, but watching it in action's something else. The time to be lazy with his– whatever Kerosene was to him had been good, apparently. Meant there was real fire to those electric eyes of his when they turn on the stranger that'd been drawn to their little convention, and Vegas follows with the wariness of a human sure they're about to witness a car wreck. What he meets is. . . what, a house cat? A lost little kittypet thinking they can survive out on the streets? He nearly curls in on himself laughing. "Be real careful of what comes outta your mouth next, if I were you," he snickers, "comparing Angel to those feral rats sure wouldn't be my way of saying hi." Vegas stretches up to his toes, all of his watchfulness stuttering out of him for a natural charm instead, mouth and head both cocked.

"We're nothing like them anyway, street cats that we are." Maybe Ker's less so than him and Archangel, but he's close enough to the edge– taking advantage of the up-walkers 's'not quite the same as rolling over for them like this cat must. He can nearly see that gentle heart in his chest, twinging with whatever guilt comes from doubting the kindness of anyone else. "They're just a buncha liars, pretending they're better than all the rest. And if there's one thing I hate, it's watching someone lie to themselves." He leaps from the half wall with a soft thud, putting himself on level ground with the interloper and hoping he seems less angry from eye level. It's not his fault, anyway. "You have much experience with those sorts? Angel here's talkin' with his tail over here; hasn't even spoken to 'em yet. Maybe you've got a better perspective."

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  • full information.
    VEGAS,  vee  or  v.   accepts others, how happily depends on who it's from.
    ──── uses he - him + masc titles ;  will accept others with bemusement.
    ──── about 26 moons old,  born during early greenleaf or late newleaf.
    ──── gay, singleish. crushes on a broad range of men; doesn't act on it.

    a sleek chocolate point tom with some odd irregularities in his spotting, and a soft length of thicker fur from between his ears and down his spine. his eyes are a soft, mellow blue, though they have a more intense glow in certain lighting. deceptively strong, with the build of one accustomed to work.
  • "speech"

The spotted member of the trio greets him with a look that sends a shiver down his spine, and Stephen King suddenly feels very small. Unwelcome, even. Maybe he should just turn tail and run, should go back to his nice comfortable life and never come outside again. Yeah, that’s a good idea. But the cat goes on a short ramble of his own, and the red tabby can’t make heads or tails of most of it but he thinks that maybe these guys just don’t like the wild cats. Or any cats, for that matter. He doesn’t know. The brown cat laughs at him just as the spotted one had, although he doesn’t make the effort to stifle it. Then he drops to the ground from his perch, and Stephen King scrambles back a few steps. They’re all terrifying, and he’s quickly become aware that he’s out of his depth.

He can’t help but to wonder whether these cats, strange as they are, know something about SkyClan and the other groups that he doesn’t. But the brown one’s comment—that Angel, who must be the guy rattling on and on about the forest cats, hasn’t actually met any of them—reassures him that he likely hasn’t missed anything. "Oh, so you guys really don’t know much about them," he says, quietly, dumbly. But in true Stephen King fashion, fear leads to rambling and he’s still trying to look at the bright side here. "I get it, though! You’ve gotta be worried about what happens when they decide the forest isn’t enough and they want to live in the streets, too. Well, I wouldn’t worry about that. They’re actually pretty nice."

He thinks he’s helping to assuage their concerns, but maybe he’s just missing the point, going in a wide circle around the heart of their anger—maybe it’s the superiority complex that living in the trees and drawing blood from one another seems to give those clan cats. "Or at least, the ones I met were nice to me," he’s quick to rectify, because he can’t say anything about them. He doesn’t know much about them, honestly—all that he’s learned about the cats in the woods comes from a single encounter. And perhaps he’s too optimistic, but he’s willing to give them a chance. He just hopes that the scary cat crew won’t eat him alive before then.