- Apr 23, 2024
- 23
- 14
- 3
To Cygnet's Cry, the moon was a beacon. With his one good eye, his gaze followed the silver stream in the sky, swimming slowly against a tarred sea. It was his guide, his arrow, his steed.
The smoke point feline flitted through the gloom of midnight, as though he lived and breathed vicariously through the shadows he wove through, blending in quite well with the darkness despite his moon-stricken hues. He was more of a nocturnal beast than most, taking solace in the quietude of night, settling into the crevices where errant din did not dare to lie. Occasional flicker of a stray sound made him freeze up, before the mercenary ingressed murk once more, stranger to the mire and transgressor to the borders. Short whiskers twitched as he detected that all-too known scent of the swamp dwellers, of which he had kept his oath of vengeance closely burning to the heart's hearth. So, why had he returned for so many moons? There was little for him here, aside from being a place where his grievances came to wither and rot. Pushing through tough ferns, he came across a miniature clearing that seemed almost like a second home to the eternal vagabond. In the same grove that he and his lover always met, he waited for the familiar face of the half-toned tom, comfort gleaned only in the increments of the spaces between unspoken words. He sat, allowing the light to swallow him whole in salivating white, a grace he had rarely afforded himself. It was too risky for a feline such as him.
Cygnet told Valleysong to meet him right before the moon had regained its full sight, where only a claw's-mark sliver of shade was left on the great celestial body. They had met at the half-moon before, so this was a strange change in the routine, an approach predating the projected. He trusted Valley to come, but the smallest part of him wondered if he had been dragging the other tomcat away from his oh-so-important duties. His arrival had not been for nothing, as with his emersion he had brought white orchids in his mouth, as pallid and as ghastly as the moonbeams that glared from above. Cygnet had plucked them from a Twoleg's garden, careful to twinge just the bulbous heads of the flowers off. He had never been one to give gifts, let alone something as transient as a floret, but he figured there was little else to do to show his appreciation of companionship. Though, the tom couldn't help but feel as though he were being stared at in turn, as though the strings of tension had run just below attentive footfall, where even the most perspicacious could not evade it. Keen eye gazed around, though saw nothing... This was not the warm glaze of a lover, but rather the smoldering contention of a hunter in wait.
( @Valleysong )
The smoke point feline flitted through the gloom of midnight, as though he lived and breathed vicariously through the shadows he wove through, blending in quite well with the darkness despite his moon-stricken hues. He was more of a nocturnal beast than most, taking solace in the quietude of night, settling into the crevices where errant din did not dare to lie. Occasional flicker of a stray sound made him freeze up, before the mercenary ingressed murk once more, stranger to the mire and transgressor to the borders. Short whiskers twitched as he detected that all-too known scent of the swamp dwellers, of which he had kept his oath of vengeance closely burning to the heart's hearth. So, why had he returned for so many moons? There was little for him here, aside from being a place where his grievances came to wither and rot. Pushing through tough ferns, he came across a miniature clearing that seemed almost like a second home to the eternal vagabond. In the same grove that he and his lover always met, he waited for the familiar face of the half-toned tom, comfort gleaned only in the increments of the spaces between unspoken words. He sat, allowing the light to swallow him whole in salivating white, a grace he had rarely afforded himself. It was too risky for a feline such as him.
Cygnet told Valleysong to meet him right before the moon had regained its full sight, where only a claw's-mark sliver of shade was left on the great celestial body. They had met at the half-moon before, so this was a strange change in the routine, an approach predating the projected. He trusted Valley to come, but the smallest part of him wondered if he had been dragging the other tomcat away from his oh-so-important duties. His arrival had not been for nothing, as with his emersion he had brought white orchids in his mouth, as pallid and as ghastly as the moonbeams that glared from above. Cygnet had plucked them from a Twoleg's garden, careful to twinge just the bulbous heads of the flowers off. He had never been one to give gifts, let alone something as transient as a floret, but he figured there was little else to do to show his appreciation of companionship. Though, the tom couldn't help but feel as though he were being stared at in turn, as though the strings of tension had run just below attentive footfall, where even the most perspicacious could not evade it. Keen eye gazed around, though saw nothing... This was not the warm glaze of a lover, but rather the smoldering contention of a hunter in wait.
( @Valleysong )
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