- Dec 2, 2023
- 14
- 1
- 3
His first day in this new place, he sees someone struggling in the snow.
He watches from the underbrush for a few moments. An elderly moggy wrestles with a bramble bush, a patch of her silver-lined fur ensnared in some thorns. His own pelt still smells of mossy-rich and faraway places, but her old nose doesn't seem to catch it. He lingers just as long as it takes for her to start swearing.
The tattered patch of her fur is freed with only a bit of tugging.
She tells him her name—"Miriam, dear."—and her story—"I left my housefolk fer a bit'a walkin'."—and asks if he's one of those clan-cats.
"No," Fang responds instinctually.
"Thought so," Miriam concedes. She's got a glint in her eye and a wide, crooked grin that shows off a yellowed snaggletooth. She looks like the kind of grandma who sneaks treats to her grandkids when their parents aren't looking. "You watch out for 'em, in that case. Mean suckers, the lot of 'em. Though the group this side'a the neighborhood ain't all too bad."
She gestures out behind her, where a few more lengths of forest give way to leaf-fallen fruit trees, to fenced backyards, to frosty asphalt and strange machinery. Fang has never seen one of those two-legged creatures up close—he doesn't stray too far from the wilderness, and rarely stays in one place for very long at all.
"Well, 'm off now," Miriam proclaims. She throws a paw at his shoulder in a way that might've once jostled him, in her youth. "That's enough adventure for one day. Thank ye, deary. And do come an' visit if ye ever feel inclined!"
Fang watches as she hobbles away, then disappears through the snow once she's gone. He'd never even offered his name.
Two days pass and he spots a squirrel snuffling at the floor, skittering through patches of snow for scraps and things left untouched by winter. He sinks low to the ground and follows its path. Careful to avoid the crunch of frost underfoot or the rare unsnapped twig. Hoping, perhaps, to find its burrow.
He prepares to give chase. Muscles coil like a bunched-up spring. But before he can leap, the squirrel hops through an invisible wall.
He stops. Strays no closer to the scent-marked border, but eases up from his hunting crouch anyway. No clan cats jump out at him. They don't seem to be nearby at all. The forest is calm and quiet and empty; nearly void of prying eyes that linger in secret, poised to attack the missteps of those caught unaware.
The squirrel is startled by his movement. It flees further into the marked territory.
Fang watches it go. He turns and leaves.
"Despicable," a voice sneers at him.
He ignores it.
There are other cats within the forest. Some trail in from the nearby neighborhood. Fang can tell because they're usually young enough to still be wide-eyed and curious, venturing just far enough into the woods that they could scamper back home if called. They treat the wilderness like some adventure to be had. Sometimes, colorful baubles jangle from around their necks; winter birds avoid the places that they're near.
Some live within the forest, filling the spaces where clan cats do not. A few are amiable, and chatter freely with their neighbors. Others are hostile.
Fang speaks to none of them. Observes them from small, hidden places. Aware of his surroundings and those that reside there, making note of who he can allow himself to be caught by and who he has to make sure to avoid. Regardless, though, he tends to avoid all of them.
He finds the places and times to be alone. Catches little woodland creatures looking for sustenance around the snow.
Soon he will leave this place. Until then, he finds somewhere to rest.
The wind is howling. Sharp, whistling through bare tree limbs, grating over the murmurous dark which looms atop the snowfall. Fang tucks himself into his dug-out, made both of packed snow, frozen soil, and spindly, mossy brambles. A blessing in this storm. Warmer than the blizzard which rages just outside, surely; but still, he shivers.
The forest seems to shift and snap with the strength of the wind. The trees to their best to adapt. The old-growth stands impervious, immovable, though younger saplings are bent nearly in half beneath rapidly growing snowfall. Pine needles fly past the hovel opening. The ground is a shock of pale blue against the tenebrous pitch of the stormy background.
It is not the first windstorm he's lived through. It will probably not be the last.
Fang curls around himself, the wiry fur of his tale shielding his nose from the cold. His breath wisps across his cheeks in misty clouds before being carried out into the wind.
"Deplorable."
A tree shivers somewhere nearby, releasing a flurry of snowflakes and pines.
"Look at you."
Fang lifts his head to the mouth of the hovel. There, wind which whips across the forest, throwing writhing branches this way and that through wicked tremors of sleet and snow. The figure standing at the center of this small clearing is hard to spot through the fray. Its blue eyes pierce him through like pins on a specimen moth.
"Stupid child," the figure says through a mouth wet with blood. A jagged wound glints across its temple and a fresh weft of red bleeds into its eye. "Hiding away. You would be out here if you knew what was good for you."
Fang nearly loses sight of the figure as another wave of wind crashes over the undergrowth, kicking up flurries of snowy seafoam from the forest floor. Its inky form seems to warp in and out of the background, flickering like a memory; clinging to the forefront of his mind in the same place that he daydreams and lingering, therefore, whenever he closes his eyes. When the wind settles, a raven-furred tomcat still stands there. Snowflakes neither catch nor melt on his coat, and the snow does not meld beneath his feet. He is tall, broad. He has a stern face turned hateful.
"Fool," it sneers.
"What do you want me to say?" Fang asks. The wind outside shrieks, carrying his voice away. This doesn't matter to the figure.
"Say?" it spits, crimson flying from its twisted maw in a bloody spray. Its wounded frame is jostled into reaction—it heaves forth, dragging a useless hindleg behind it, clawing closer in agonizingly uneven steps. "Speak not, boy! Your words have no meaning any longer! You will either do what you know you must, or continue this pitiful existence as the coward you are." Closer still, the figure jostles to the burrow's front. It leans down to peer at him. Face contorted with rage and hate. Eyes aglow. Blood dribbling from its exposed teeth. "Though by now," it hisses bitterly. "We both know what it is you will choose."
At once, the figure is gone. Fang stares at the empty space it left behind for an indeterminate amount of time, watching as flurries of snow dance and swirl outside the protection of his dug-out, and listening to the howling wind. Eventually, this exhausts him enough to sleep.
Fang tests his paw against the frost-coated blanket of snow, frowning thoughtfully at its harsh crunch under his foot. The days since the blizzard have yet to produce a convincing thaw. Cold, silvery sunshine spreads across his pelt, though the thin rays do nothing to warm him nor the frozen landscape.
The snow is familiar to Fang. In that way, he knows not to underestimate it. At one point in his surveying he spotted the jutting spine of a mountain beyond the forest, and that fails to give him the confidence that anywhere on his path forward would prove less frozen than this.
The food here has a lot of competition. The territory even more so. But the weather has locked him in its fraught, snowy borders—and here, at least, he's found a place to sleep.
He might be staying for a lot longer than intended.
He watches from the underbrush for a few moments. An elderly moggy wrestles with a bramble bush, a patch of her silver-lined fur ensnared in some thorns. His own pelt still smells of mossy-rich and faraway places, but her old nose doesn't seem to catch it. He lingers just as long as it takes for her to start swearing.
The tattered patch of her fur is freed with only a bit of tugging.
She tells him her name—"Miriam, dear."—and her story—"I left my housefolk fer a bit'a walkin'."—and asks if he's one of those clan-cats.
"No," Fang responds instinctually.
"Thought so," Miriam concedes. She's got a glint in her eye and a wide, crooked grin that shows off a yellowed snaggletooth. She looks like the kind of grandma who sneaks treats to her grandkids when their parents aren't looking. "You watch out for 'em, in that case. Mean suckers, the lot of 'em. Though the group this side'a the neighborhood ain't all too bad."
She gestures out behind her, where a few more lengths of forest give way to leaf-fallen fruit trees, to fenced backyards, to frosty asphalt and strange machinery. Fang has never seen one of those two-legged creatures up close—he doesn't stray too far from the wilderness, and rarely stays in one place for very long at all.
"Well, 'm off now," Miriam proclaims. She throws a paw at his shoulder in a way that might've once jostled him, in her youth. "That's enough adventure for one day. Thank ye, deary. And do come an' visit if ye ever feel inclined!"
Fang watches as she hobbles away, then disappears through the snow once she's gone. He'd never even offered his name.
Two days pass and he spots a squirrel snuffling at the floor, skittering through patches of snow for scraps and things left untouched by winter. He sinks low to the ground and follows its path. Careful to avoid the crunch of frost underfoot or the rare unsnapped twig. Hoping, perhaps, to find its burrow.
He prepares to give chase. Muscles coil like a bunched-up spring. But before he can leap, the squirrel hops through an invisible wall.
He stops. Strays no closer to the scent-marked border, but eases up from his hunting crouch anyway. No clan cats jump out at him. They don't seem to be nearby at all. The forest is calm and quiet and empty; nearly void of prying eyes that linger in secret, poised to attack the missteps of those caught unaware.
The squirrel is startled by his movement. It flees further into the marked territory.
Fang watches it go. He turns and leaves.
"Despicable," a voice sneers at him.
He ignores it.
There are other cats within the forest. Some trail in from the nearby neighborhood. Fang can tell because they're usually young enough to still be wide-eyed and curious, venturing just far enough into the woods that they could scamper back home if called. They treat the wilderness like some adventure to be had. Sometimes, colorful baubles jangle from around their necks; winter birds avoid the places that they're near.
Some live within the forest, filling the spaces where clan cats do not. A few are amiable, and chatter freely with their neighbors. Others are hostile.
Fang speaks to none of them. Observes them from small, hidden places. Aware of his surroundings and those that reside there, making note of who he can allow himself to be caught by and who he has to make sure to avoid. Regardless, though, he tends to avoid all of them.
He finds the places and times to be alone. Catches little woodland creatures looking for sustenance around the snow.
Soon he will leave this place. Until then, he finds somewhere to rest.
The wind is howling. Sharp, whistling through bare tree limbs, grating over the murmurous dark which looms atop the snowfall. Fang tucks himself into his dug-out, made both of packed snow, frozen soil, and spindly, mossy brambles. A blessing in this storm. Warmer than the blizzard which rages just outside, surely; but still, he shivers.
The forest seems to shift and snap with the strength of the wind. The trees to their best to adapt. The old-growth stands impervious, immovable, though younger saplings are bent nearly in half beneath rapidly growing snowfall. Pine needles fly past the hovel opening. The ground is a shock of pale blue against the tenebrous pitch of the stormy background.
It is not the first windstorm he's lived through. It will probably not be the last.
Fang curls around himself, the wiry fur of his tale shielding his nose from the cold. His breath wisps across his cheeks in misty clouds before being carried out into the wind.
"Deplorable."
A tree shivers somewhere nearby, releasing a flurry of snowflakes and pines.
"Look at you."
Fang lifts his head to the mouth of the hovel. There, wind which whips across the forest, throwing writhing branches this way and that through wicked tremors of sleet and snow. The figure standing at the center of this small clearing is hard to spot through the fray. Its blue eyes pierce him through like pins on a specimen moth.
"Stupid child," the figure says through a mouth wet with blood. A jagged wound glints across its temple and a fresh weft of red bleeds into its eye. "Hiding away. You would be out here if you knew what was good for you."
Fang nearly loses sight of the figure as another wave of wind crashes over the undergrowth, kicking up flurries of snowy seafoam from the forest floor. Its inky form seems to warp in and out of the background, flickering like a memory; clinging to the forefront of his mind in the same place that he daydreams and lingering, therefore, whenever he closes his eyes. When the wind settles, a raven-furred tomcat still stands there. Snowflakes neither catch nor melt on his coat, and the snow does not meld beneath his feet. He is tall, broad. He has a stern face turned hateful.
"Fool," it sneers.
"What do you want me to say?" Fang asks. The wind outside shrieks, carrying his voice away. This doesn't matter to the figure.
"Say?" it spits, crimson flying from its twisted maw in a bloody spray. Its wounded frame is jostled into reaction—it heaves forth, dragging a useless hindleg behind it, clawing closer in agonizingly uneven steps. "Speak not, boy! Your words have no meaning any longer! You will either do what you know you must, or continue this pitiful existence as the coward you are." Closer still, the figure jostles to the burrow's front. It leans down to peer at him. Face contorted with rage and hate. Eyes aglow. Blood dribbling from its exposed teeth. "Though by now," it hisses bitterly. "We both know what it is you will choose."
At once, the figure is gone. Fang stares at the empty space it left behind for an indeterminate amount of time, watching as flurries of snow dance and swirl outside the protection of his dug-out, and listening to the howling wind. Eventually, this exhausts him enough to sleep.
Fang tests his paw against the frost-coated blanket of snow, frowning thoughtfully at its harsh crunch under his foot. The days since the blizzard have yet to produce a convincing thaw. Cold, silvery sunshine spreads across his pelt, though the thin rays do nothing to warm him nor the frozen landscape.
The snow is familiar to Fang. In that way, he knows not to underestimate it. At one point in his surveying he spotted the jutting spine of a mountain beyond the forest, and that fails to give him the confidence that anywhere on his path forward would prove less frozen than this.
The food here has a lot of competition. The territory even more so. But the weather has locked him in its fraught, snowy borders—and here, at least, he's found a place to sleep.
He might be staying for a lot longer than intended.
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