rattlin' bog ╱ singing (ish)


Jun 7, 2022
❝  The summer heat's muted by the shade of the marsh, but hell if he can't still feel the worst of it beating down on him. Hunting's gotten more and more troublesome the longer this's gone on. There's plenty of world outside these grounds, but not much of it is meant for cats like these. Spreading out's a danger to all of them, and each trip he takes out feels like less and less comes from it. Such is the way of their life, that even the fullest'f seasons is troubled. At least when he's away he can keep his mind on other things. The river he'd been around was cool and running smoothly, and the fish there still seemed plentiful enough. Few others found their way there, and he could distance himself from them anyway. And so Hound would pass the hours by in contemplation of the water before coming back, paws still a little damp and his catch hanging in his jaws.

His eyes adjust to the quiet darkness of camp for a moment 'fore he tosses the fish to the center where anyone who'd want it may claim, and starts about tidying some moss for a nest as his voice draws out of his throat. "Well in that hole there was a tree, a rare tree and a rattlin' tree– the tree in the hole and the hole in the bog and the bog down in the valley o," he hums lowly, paws moving to the rhythm. The story's an old one, repeating and easily remembered, familiar enough that he can recite it with busy paws.

  • man's just vibing
  • ──── complete information can be found here.
    ──── hound. trans male, he/him pronouns only.
    ──── approximately 30 moons old, or 2.5 years.
    ──── bisexual with firm male preference; single.

    ──── a chocolate tabby with ( stylized ) low white and intense lime eyes.
    ──── lean and lanky,  with whiplike musculature and a long, quick stride.
    ──── hound's notable features include his impressive height (fifteen inches at the shoulder), the long scar across the left side of his face from nose to jaw, his very deep, dense fur, and the confident manner with which he conducts himself.

Singing- or well, humming in this instance was a shocking love of Rust's. He grew up with his ma and pa always singing stars knows what... Both have sung him his fair share of lullabies and tales, it was safe to say he knew a couple of songs of his own. Rarely did he share them with anyone though, and rarely would he straight up sing in front of his group-mates... The thought makes the cinnamon tom cringe.

But humming?

He could do that.
As Hound walks on nearby, he joins in with a low hum coming from the depths of his throat. He doesn't know this song or tale, but he does his best.


╰☆☆ She's giving herself a haphazard grooming in camp, tongue flicking lazily over each pad on a forepaw, when Hound strolls into camp with something silver in his jaws. It catches the light, iridescent, as he drops it in the center of the camp.

Flicker's half-lidded eyes blaze wide. Everyone can admit the hunting's been poor lately, and even the pickiest of eaters have been quick to adjust their palettes. She's heard talk of some cats thinking of going to the carrionplace for a meal, and though it might disturb others, Flicker is not far behind them. If she gets hungry enough...

But for now. The fish. She springs to her paws, and in a flash the tortoiseshell is poised over the catch, orange eyes glowing like burning coals. "Didn't know you were a fisher," she says to the dark tabby. He's messing with the moss he sleeps on, humming something nonsensical to himself. It seems Rust is impressed, but Flicker barely notices. She's not the most musical or artistic cat. "Y'mind if I dig in?" She glances around, waiting for someone to reprimand her before she takes a bite. Maybe she should share it... but her belly rumbles, and she groans inwardly at the thought.

Three guesses at what Berry was doing. In the limbo betwixt awake and asleep, he drifted- formless, voiceless, at peace. The bustle buzzed around him, but it was simple background noise, white and static. It was a scent- and an abnormal sound, a chanteur's voice weaving a tale of bogs and trees and holes. An entirely abstract string of concepts, but that was what piqued Berry's interest about it. From that pleasant purgatory he was pulled, beryl eyes opening to settle their lids crooked. Already, Furrows' sassy tones had joined in- but his gaze fell upon the singer, the Chanteur, dark pelted with a granny-smith gaze. Berry knew his name, and had surely called him something else before- but this was so entirely enrapturing that he could not think of anything else he might want to call the other.

For once, his attention was not upon the food that Fire-eyes so readily tucked into, but the tune- low and peculiar as it was, he wished to learn it. Ears stayed angled, posture upright. To imprint such eccentricity into the stocked shelves of his mind would be quite the task.