Jun 14, 2022

✵ ღ ☾ I'LL LET YOU DOWN - It finally broke. The heavy humidity that had been terrorizing long-furred individuals like herself.
Cloudy found herself taking deeper breaths than normal that morning, chalking the weight on her chest to her lungs being murky from the swamp-lands air.
Still, that did not stop the adolescent from stepping outside of camp for a walk, deciding she would hunt later- she had been doing that a lot lately, hunting, her only coping mechanism for the tension that hung heavier than the heat in the air.
She had barely left camp when she heard them, the soft sing-songy chirps from somewhere above. Stopping in her tracks, the alabaster molly craned her head, mismatched gaze curiously swiveling from one sparse branch to the next.
The melody came again, and this time the ever so observant Cloudy sat, her head tilted distractingly sky-ward.
A soft humming broke from under her breath as she mimicked the chants of the birds, though unable to match their pitch, she echoed after them, taking note of the two directions they seemed to be coming from.
❝ Speech. ❞


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    ── Rose can't say he's very fond of birds. They're decent enough as a meal, and he supposes some of them have pretty feathers and pretty songs, but they're either chirping at obnoxious times of the day or –in the instance of predatory birds– stealing his quarry. Not so much in the marsh, but in areas where birds have clearer lines of sight, it's infuriating to say the least. It might be why he tends to take some vindictive pleasure in hunting them from time to time.

    Sighing and freeing a clod of dirt from his leg, Roseal returns to gingerly stepping through the marshlands, intending to find the clear water for a drink. What he finds is a cat imitating the birds for some unfathomable reason. A hunting tactic? Does she mean to lure them down and strike?

    "Pretending to be a bird? I don't know if they'll fall for that— too many legs."

  • 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.​

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Berry did not often find himself interested in bird-watching. Their socialising was barely interesting most days, and most mornings he was inclined to listen to their song as some sort of lulling lullaby, pulling him along a silver mist and into slumber. Sometimes, however, he found himself distracted by the flurry of wings, too high up to hope to be prey but nearby enough to watch as earthy feathers flashed through meandering tree-bark.

Much like Stretch, he struggled through the thick marshland, especially on his imbalanced legs. Usually his movement was surprisingly fast, but step on the wrong portion of the path and his coordination was completely cast off, very-particular balance spoiled by a glob of dirt beneath a white-toed paw. Pure white against darkness and gloom, Stretch and Nimbus faded into his vision; he narrowed his eyes, one eyelid drooping lower than the other, a subtle movement that hardly jostled his statuesque face.

Nothing was said- no words, at least. Hearing Cloudy attempt to hum the tune of the songbirds, Berry let out his own soft, low hum; it was barely audible and distant as ever, but it was there.