tomcat disposables — scent marking, tension

− ♱ ABOUT : the tall, curled felidae entered the clearing with naught a word. forest avian sing high in the looming trees, interconnecting canopies of yellow - green dappling the wide, open clearing in shades of agonizing gold. heat ricochets off slate boulders ahead, it’s surface kept just below scalding by the grappling shade from above. greenleaf had taken the forest by force — radiance now so bright it made his eyes ache, still somehow unaccustomed to a life outside of the shadows he had so often lurked in ; blending into the background and avoiding the spotlight as if the very touch of golden attention could leave him howling in pain. there had been rain recently, warm showers feeding into the flora twining eagerly around the opening ; hollow and trembling and hovering in sunbeam mist, layering upon dew - slickened grass. it leaves his heart sore and glistening, but grown over with hedera, begonias growing within ivory confines of his curving ribcage.

a breeze carries the distinct scent of pine.

the kittypets were becoming more and more of a nuisance by the day ; their sickly - sweet twoleg scents twining heavily with the pine just over the thunderpath. teeth grit agonizingly with each sudden, unwelcome whiff of hard food pellets and fresh milk, discarding the promise of a soft, cushy life waiting just behind the odd - shaped twoleg nests, a life away from hunger. starvation. his stomach twinged uncomfortably and the bicolor suddenly couldn’t recall the last time he sank his teeth into the thick, heavy meet of a plump squirrel or chipmunk — the small rodent being formerly copious around the land, feeding on the scraps of the nearby city and notoriously slow. easy to catch. easiness seemed to be most those fleabitten, soft - bellied cats favorite thing.. thus why as dawn made its first stretch over the glowing pink-white horizon, cicada figured it was time to give some of the more.. heavily populated land a visit.

a patrol quickly thrown together, a band of feline with an anger to match his own. a hunger to match his own. the prey that has lived about the wide, boulder studded clearing had been abundant such a short time ago ; when too - soft piners lounged about over the gold - bleached rock, bathing in the sun when they weren’t catching what remained of life themselves and smearing their scent about as to ward the rest off.

they could do that too.

cover as much ground as possible, “ his tone is bitter, overly sharp in his oddly curved vocals. icecap luminaries shift back from the flora he’d just marked heavily with the scent of marsh,” this is our land, our hunting ground. we will not let those kittypet mongrels starve us. “ if there were any of them around, it was difficult to tell already. good.

Char has been here too long. His wounds have healed over, the muscles spry again, the belly full. Every gray-tipped strand of fur on his body screams for him to move away from Rain's group, from the swamp cats who plague their existence, towards times of peace and fields of plentiful prey. He has never stayed in one place this long without a mate to keep him comfortable or steady, and he isn't sure what it is, exactly, that is keeping him here in the pine forest near the Twolegplace.

Nonetheless, he's here, and he's out hunting again. Seeing Petal so sickly and having to rely on greedy cats for food has steeled him to the potential of running into marsh rats who might have something to say to him. There are cats, like Petal and Cosmos, who cannot fend for themselves yet. There are cats, like himself, who are still able to. It's not a noble thing to hunt for another who cannot. It's the right thing. And he'll be damned if he lets some scrawny cat stinking of mud take another piece of prey from their side of the forest.

He's asked a few cats to accompany him--no one in particular, just cats he thinks will bring back a good haul and who could back him up if they run into trouble. Scarred charcoal paws sweep through the growthless forest floor. Moss eyes scan the crevices where cats may hide. He half expects an ambush, even this far into the forest, but it's an outright explosion of scent markers that hits him in the face.

He wrinkles the battered bridge of his black nose and stalks forward. Any semblance he's had of wanting to keep the peace has dissipated like mist in a strong breeze. All he sees are greedy, murderous cats who live in shadows and strike children. Deprive the weak of food. He lifts his lip and stalks toward the nearest cat, a tom with gangly limbs and piercing pale eyes. "How many times do you rat-brains need to be told? You own nothing." He lashes his tail. The stiff fur at his neck begins to spike.

Char is tired of them. He just wants them gone.

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    ── It's steadily becoming increasingly hazardous to live here. If Roseal had better options, this would be his cue to slink away and leave them all to their bitter battles and dead-ends. That sounds selfish— and maybe it is, but what kindness can he offer that won't also be cruelty? If he hunts for one group before the other, they gain a little more ground, a little more weight to throw around. In helping both, he thinks it would only extend hostilities further. If two bucks collide and their antlers lock them irreparably together, feeding them prolongs suffering. Better to bleed out quickly than wait to wither away.

    So he doesn't see either group as more likely to survive than the other, nor does he think that it particularly matters.

    But they do, obviously. Otherwise, none of this would be happening.

    Sighing loudly, Roseal settles onto his stomach a relatively safe distance away, lowering his head onto his paws and watching the spectacle. Another problem, he thinks, is that anger is swelling into desperation, which is never a combination that yields clean victories.

    "I'm a terrible babysitter," he announces to the patrols. "So try to remember that before you kill each other. There are only so many kits I can keep an eye on at once." He is a third-party, technically, and should they manage to salt the earth with their bones, he supposes the remains would fall to loners like him. ​

  • 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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( ✧ ) Blinding Star trails behind Char, a strange tom whom he only knew for his grumbling. All teeth and no bite. Well, it wasn't like he minded.

And his gaze sweeps across the forest, the caution he feels evident in every sharp glare and heavy step. It's not exactly his recommended approach, after all, why let the enemy know just how weary of them you are? But Star can understand, if only a little. The others were growing... more daring, having the Gaul to leave their stench where they see fit. As if it wasn't troublesome enough tolerating it for a bare-bones 'conversation' with them, now he had to worry about the smell of carrion cropping up during his regular hunts. Irritating.

Here, it hits him at full force. A whole little gathering of them, banding together in the midst of their delusions. Char takes the words out of his mouth. A white tail-tip flickers in his agreement. And then . . .

His head would turn passively as a pale-furred tom suddenly makes his appearance. A sad, beat-up-looking thing. Blinding Star blinks, slow. "Who are you?"

It's a genuine question, but he turns back to the marsh cats in the realization that he doesn't really care. Bright eyes flicker between them, disinterested. "Yes, if you'd be so kind as to leave... Your stench is making the poor flowers wilt." the tom adds with a pout.

− ♱ ABOUT : one already. the breeze picks up just slightly, rustling the trees abovehead, rising tension in the air bringing what remained of howling songbirds to a quiet, uncertain hum. had he not been witness to the pine group's atrocities himself, he could believe that may be real reason for prey scarcity ; rodents driven from their burrows, grown too anxious by the bitter, stinging sound of rivaling hisses around each bend. tale of patrol after patrol stumbling upon brown - red blood and discarded feather was the only proof otherwise, decomposing remains and stringy marrow stinking of pet just beneath the sickly - rose scent of new rot. he'd no idea how many more had been swiftly killed and taken back to whatever mangy, fleabitten mongrel that may lie its sorry tail just beyond the pine. whatever prey lie in their bellies were stolen, whether or not rain's crew believed themselves worthy of any share. the marshlanders could hardly deprive their sorry, pampered pelts of something never belonging to them in the first place.

his approach was marked by several other piners, all approaching with ill - intent and frankly hilarious a sense of entitlement. the head of the patrol was a slate tomcat, stone coat marred by pink - white ribbons of scar tissue, and cicada can't help but feel a sense of glee at the thought of him freshly wounded. what he wouldn't give to be the enemy that shredded this pet's nose ; though, he supposed he was giving most of them too much credit. he would be more likely to assume any of their scars were the result of sniffing at porcupines too close than anything else. their kind were too curious for their own good, what little thought rolled about most of their skulls would never last beyond their ultimate, sickly, starving demise beneath the pine trees . . and he refused to be dragged down along with them.

" marshlanders have been born, have lived, and have died on this soil. " a snarl rips brutally from his maw, the intense overhead sun illuminating the spittle that flies with the force of it. while not established for many generations, they'd cultivated their land ; carved home from the dirt, gave thanks to all life extinguished to lead their way back into the cycle of life and owed it to the marshes that sheltered their young, " your little group wouldn't have to take the kill from beneath the paw of those raised here had they stayed with their twolegs, like good little kittypets," back into claws extend slowly, translucent tips digging slow into grass underfoot, coiling clumps of dirt underneath. the earth was cool beneath his pads and the pine cat is approaching him, tail lashing and tone riding aggression. there is a thrill of adrenaline pulsing just beneath his skin, heart thrumming to pump fast, heady blood through his lithe figure. he was nearly lightheaded with anger, with energy, with the urge to drive them out on his own accord, his group and pacifistic leader be damned. he turns easily, stalking towards the other tom to close what little distance remained between them.

when a whisker away from the tom's nose, his own wrinkled by the violent sneer now marring bicolored features, dark tone seeps from barbed tongue like searing acid, " step any closer to me and I'll rip your ears from your head, filth. "

  • CICADA ; he / him, roughly thirty two months old, marsh group member
    − tall black smoke tortie chimera with icecap eyes and curly fur, homosexual
    − speaks with a german accent, attack in #171717, penned by antlers

  • none.


There is no way that she woulf have let Cicada go with those she was uncertain of. So she too attended this patrol. Her own opinion of the Pine cats is lower than the dirt that they walk on so she has no issues with showing them their place here. They show no respect for the cats that were here first. They don't care that the prey that was once plentiful is strained and they have to leave the marsh to get other food. The fact that they left their cushiony lives to come here and ruin their own speaks volumes of the fact that they care little about how they effect others. All they care about is their silly little child. Even though Briar punished Willow for her insolence in good faith that thid was a cat out of order. Her paws slip along the grass and she moves further along, marking the area and listening.

She knows that it will not be too long before the soft paws show themselves and make a mockery of what it means to be an actual wild cat. Her eyes glitter dangerously and she makes sure to keep herself near Cicada. Just in case and sure enough a mongrel arrives. Spouting that they own nothing when it is the complete opposite. They own everything here. Have lived here for moons and they are the ones that own nothing and are stealing from them. They were never truly welcomed here. Her spine bristles, her naturally spikey fur seemed to get spikier. Blazing eyes lock on Char as her muzzle curls but her jaws remain closed on words. A stranger appears and she looks at him, outsider speaking his part. She does not show him interest right now. Their struggle is their own and so she focuses back on the pine mutts.

Cicada moves closer and so does she. Sharp and waiting.
He dislikes venturing very far from Rain, particularly as the taut rope between their groups has frayed considerably. It is not a simple position of absolutes for any of them; right and wrong are not decisive mediums to rely on, but then, Tora's loyalty is not to any moralistic ideal but the history he shares with Rain.

Some of the marsh cats are eager to disavow each of them as plump, pampered creatures fresh from lounging across pillows. But safety for Tora was always tenuous, regardless of whether he slept below a twoleg roof, and Rain found him, helped him without expectation or repayment. He does not think the marsh dwellers are as capable of that same kindness. Perhaps he is wrong, but he will not hold his breath after animosity is the face they have seen, often shoving aside reason.

He does not initially respond to the marsh cats' hostility. Instead, Tora searches their surroundings carefully, warily tracing every shadow for any lurking eyes before slowly returning his flat stare to the others. He shifts to stand close behind Char and Blinding Star.

"Provocation is a strange defensive measure," he murmurs. Not one step closer, the cat said, after closing the distance between them himself. "No, I misspoke. Foolish, not strange. Save your strength— return to your bog. You will feed no one but the soil with your blood."

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Char flicks an ear as Blinding Star catches up to him. They may be different, but clearly, they are united on at least one front--that the marsh cats are damnable creatures. His tail twitches at Tora's arrival. Three toms against a snarling tortoiseshell and his strong-but-silent companion.

The scarred charcoal snorts. The ice-eyed fiend's face is dangerously close to his own, but he does not flinch. Does not back away. He lifts his lip and growls, "I've ripped through better cats than you for lookin' at me cross." Gems of moss meet frozen lake orbs.

The temptation to lift one of his heavy scarred paws and smack the dappled tomcat is almost irresistible. Tora and Blinding Star have his back, after all, something he's still not quite used to.

The albino tom, the so-called disinterested third party, is another thing altogether. Char thinks to himself that he'd like to tear the strange one's fur off his hide next time they meet. Sleep in our camp, eat our prey, and mingle with the enemy, he thinks contemptuously.