tequila for one ─ gift

  • rev_custom_t_by_aleskay_df7cn2t-pre.png_tokeneyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCI.png
    ── So far, Roseal thinks he's managed to be fairly nonconfrontational. He might have offered the occasional unwanted commentary from the sidelines, but he hasn't interjected himself directly between arguing parties, hasn't thrown himself straight into the fray or aligned with one group over the other. He doesn't particularly care to. The problem is that he knows he can't rely on neutrality forever; for his mistake of offering a reasonable explanation for the marsh cats' presence, his own was questioned. Not as thoroughly, and it was little more than a throwaway comment, but he won't lie to himself and pretend that it will end there, that this group of former kittypets and rejected loners will always be so magnanimous as to turn a blind eye to him.

    They've already claimed this land as theirs. They will dictate who can and can't be here, and he's sure he'll be the latter as soon as they lose more prey.

    Naturally, instead of simply bowing out and attempting a life in twoleg streets, he's decided to burn a bridge before they can do it first— and not even in a spectacular fashion, despite the temptation to leave a gift of rat shit.

    Four birds, all caught by his own claws. Nothing remarkable; they're bony as birds tend to be, and not as plump as others he's seen. He takes two for the marsh and leaves the other pair for the pine cats in the name of a malnourished decency. He doubts they'll even recognize it for the au revoir it is.

  • n/a​
  • ──── surr'oseal'isme (roseal). he/him pronouns. roamer; goes where he pleases.
    ──── approximately thirty-eight months old; not entirely certain of his own age.
    ──── single & uninterested in any romantic attachments; possibly open for flings.
    ──── very tall, scarred albino with sharply-peaked ears and a bobbed, scruffy tail.​

  • unebebebebbebe.png

( ✧ ) Bird. The scent hits him before his eyes can catch sight of them. More than one. Typically, it was a scent he'd be happy to ignore. He isn't one to bother clamoring into trees so he could deftly swing at open air, hoping for a chance at snagging feathered prey. So much energy for barely a worthwhile meal. Brittle bones that would break with the slightest jostling, feathers that clung to the roof of his mouth.

But this wasn't live prey, no. It was tainted by the presence of... someone else.

He quickens his pace, just a notch, effortlessly avoiding anything that would get in his way, be it twig or stump. Marshers, are his first thought. Another attempt at encroaching on territory they didn't own. But even as he draws closer, he finds his senses still attacked. No, his nose isn't assaulted by the stench of bog water and carrion. Instead, it's lighter, something strange.

He finds them. Prey, caught, and deliberately left. He prods at it with a paw. His tail raises as a signifier. Found something. "Bird." he announces plainly. "Looks like someone left us a little gift." He regards it with a sniff, unsure what to make of it.
  • Like
Reactions: hitch

╰☆☆ Blaise follows the confident white tom through the trees, tail perky and flowing behind him. He's in high spirits, and he would hum to himself if he didn't know it'd earn him a sharp reprimand. Hunting, he has to remind himself, is a silent activity. Not a humming one. Or a tripping and stumbling one.

The flame point pauses, quirks his ears as Blinding Star stops before something he can't quite see or scent. It's fresh-kill, as the colony cats call it; he can tell that by the faint taste of its blood on the air, the almost intoxicating essence of prey on his scent gland. But he's still learning to differentiate scents. A mouse is a bird is a squirrel to him, though he's becoming a bit of a connoisseur. He likes all three, but has to admit bird is a particularly nice flavor. He likes the way the bones crunch; it reminds him of the kibble he used to eat, only more tender, more flavorful.

He purrs at the discovery, nearing Blinding Star and looking at the birds with a grateful expression. "That was nice of them," he says. "But I wonder who would have done that?" So far, it seems prey is something ferals are quite competitive over. Sharing prey between friends or family is one thing, but...

He bends close to one of the birds and gives it a tentative sniff. "Another cat?" He looks at Blinding Star, unsure if the white tom can tell the gifter's origins. He knows how Rain and his group feel about who they term the 'marsh cats,' but... surely they can't be all bad. Not if they're gifting prey. Not if Little Wolf lives with them.
  • Like
Reactions: hitch

Haku's nose had never been particularly incredible, but there was something remarkable about the scent of bird and something else that twisted through the breeze. Behind Blinding Star and Blaise did he tread, keeping to himself as he was often inclined to do; but he did not protest when the hunt was taken to a side, and upon a pair of pre-prepared birds they stumbled. Craning his neck to look down on them, he was expecting some kind of messy kill- a grim warning from the feral beasts he had heard stories of when he was a housecat. But no- they were neatly killed, neatly laid, neatly presented. There was nothing to be suspicious of.

"Must be," he hummed quietly in response to Blaise's question, for he could not imagine another animal that could kill so perfectly. Dogs, though he knew not all of them to be terrible, were not neat in the way they hunted- they ripped, tore. Most predators were, and airborne ones carried their food to high-up nests. "Maybe a marsh cat who's got some sense..." Someone who knew the whole forest was not theirs alone, just because they had made their home first. Someone a little more welcoming.
  • Like
Reactions: hitch

Finch isn't quite sure why he's following behind the white tom and the flame-pointed newcomer, but he finds himself doing so anyway.

Perhaps, it was the smell of fresh-kill that led his paws to trail behind the duo. Perhaps, it's the smell of an outsider that lingers around the kill.

An outsider so close to home wasn't something new. No, it was typically a common occurrence - there was plenty of new faces to be seen all the time, what with Rain's welcoming ways. But, something about the scent - and the lack of its owner, only the presence of two dead birds - left Finch's fur standing on end.

He finds himself sniffing at it as well, an unsure look on his face, half-expecting the sour tinge of mouse-bile - or worse, the swamp - to fill his nose. But, no, it's just... a couple of birds. His ears twitch at Haku's suggestion - that the kills were gifted by someone from the marsh.

The same marsh cats that felt the need to jump him over a measly mouse? Those marsh cats? Finch was expected to believe that they could catch anything themselves, let alone would be kind enough to gift their kills to an opposing group? Something wasn't right.

"As if," he replies, a sour tone in his voice. He gives the birds another sniff, before looking at the older cats around him. "I don't trust it."
Last edited:
  • Like
Reactions: hitch and Marquette

Red’s nose wrinkles at the strange smell emanating from the two birds that his clan mates had stumbled upon while out and about. He looks up and around first, wondering if the culprit is still lurking around here somewhere, he supposed it was a possibility. Those Marsh cats could be pretty shifty. Maybe this was some way of them taunting the cats of the pines? Showing them how much better of hunters they were, letting them have their scraps. Just the thought of such things made him unsheathe his claws and bury them in the earth, irritation making him blood boil.

“We should bury them” he says with a nod in agreement at Finches words. He doesn’t trust it either. “Even if it’s not a trap, who knows, maybe they’re mocking us” in his voice is a low growl as he once again swings his head side to side, certain that there was a strong possibility they were watching them. “We can’t let them even have the smallest victories” without waiting for anyone to agree with him, he begins pawing at the dirt, making a small hole that he believes would be the perfect size to fit the two creatures. “Anyone wanna do the honors?” he asks when he is done, blue eyes flitting about the gathered cats.
  • Like
Reactions: hitch