by necrobinical » Thu Feb 06, 2025 12:34 am
>> A L M O S .
>> They/it/he/she -- Loner Red Fox -- 24 Moons
>> Tags: Open -- Mentions: Cats burying the Lieutenant, Tempest
The thing did not mean to intrude on the cat-folk's burial service. Really, Almos is more considerate than that--mainly because it had gotten more than it's fair share of the fury of a cat disrespected. It had learned much of the feline kinds back on the mainland, though it hadn't any desire to try barging in on these cats' lives. Sometimes though, things happen, and what is a fox in a tropical climate really to do?
So, yes, all in all, Almos feels pretty bad for staring down at the sad procession of cats from a leaning, broken palm tree. It didn't blend in at all, but it was quiet. And any scent it may have given off was drowned in the seawater Almos had swum in earlier to catch fish for breakfast post the horrendous storm. It was lucky it's own cute little hollow hadn't been washed to sea, or bashed in by falling trees, or any number of inconveniences. Very, very lucky.
It sighs to itself as it leans its head down to look between the swaying leaves of the dying palm. Great loss for today, it seems. Though, certainly, Almos must think, the storm has reason. As the cat it presumes leads this gaggle of felines speaks his prayer aloud, Almos' mind drifts. Storms bring water, which floods sometimes but usually leaves the surviving plants better for its presence. Mushrooms and bugs eat the decay, and clever things like Almos eat them in turn. It's all a grand cycle, really. These cats should see that through their grief. Though they're probably not partial to a fox speaking in broken cat-tongue... For another day, maybe.
Though, this precession did offer a chance Almos had not had before! A chance to approach that shipwreck the cats seem to live in. Oh, what a luxurious place that must be... As the cats pad away in their solemnity, Almos gets a brilliant idea. It waits a while longer, then races down the tree it had been perched in and slowly follows the cats. In the ruckus and hubbub, surely they won't notice one more set of (more distant) pawsteps. Almos is a genius. This cannot go wrong.
>> M U R M U R . O F . M I D N I G H T . S E A
>> She/her -- Tribe Apprentice to Snarl -- 11 Moons
>> Tags: Snarl, Jaws, open -- Mentions: Lieutenant, Tempest, Snarl, Jaws, Shark, Lightning (NPC)
She didn't talk about the nightmares.
Mostly because Murmur didn't talk much to anyone. She doesn't really know why-- the words just won't come. Actions speak louder anyways, and Murmur, despite her size, was a cat of action. She kinda remembers waking up during the storm and leaving her den to snuggle up beside her mother-- she'd been allowed to since her accident, back when she still woke up yowling. Calmed her right down. Murmur is tucked into Lightning's side when she has her storm nightmare.
It's simple, really. The ocean is a giant boar with lightning for tusks, and it's squeals are peals of thunder. Murmur is alone on the midnight beach, trembling as she stares up at her self-made god of fear and fury. It glowers down at her, its bulk rising as it takes steps closer. Closer. It's hooves against the sea floor are isolated tsunamis, blowing away all the fishes and the shells, leaving only dark, bloody red sand beneath. It takes one step onto the shore, opens its mouth--
The yowl. The lieutenant. Oh, Arcadia...
Ever-silent Murmur quietly follows her mentor around. She often found herself shadowing either her mentor, his brother, the field medics, their lieu--uhm... or-or their leader... It was a surefire way of never being left alone. She nods to Shark as she passes, apparently unnoticed... as usual. She was tiny and silent as the grave, and obviously in a bit of shock beyond that. The shadow that seemed to conceal her from general notice was an Arcadiasend right now.
As Snarl begins moving wood, Murmur joins in. Her maw is smaller, so she can only take smaller bits... but every bit matters, right? Wasn't that one of Snarl's teachings? The little things matter, too. She begins a neat and tidy pile of small wood pieces as her mind slowly grasps that she can't be her lieutenant's shadow anymore. She wouldn't have his wise words to combat Snarl's sometimes rude ones. She wouldn't bound after him when Snarl was busy and he was taking over her training. She wouldn't ever, ever, see him again.
Despite the tears now fogging her vision, Murmur keeps working. She just... keeps going. Work needs to be done, and she'd see the lieutenant eventually, a-and then she could say sorry for hiding instead of saying goodbye.
>> V I C I O U S . S T R I K E . O F . T I G E R
>> She/her -- Tribe Sailor -- 62 Moons
>> Tags: Tempest, open -- Mentions: Shadow, Jaws, Lieutenant
The harsh lines on Strike's face that gave her that menacing aura deepened for a moment in genuine anger. Nature was bloody cruel, wasn't she? Seemed to hate a good thing. The tribe had almost escaped the stormtide season unscathed! As she scraped at the dirt with her claws, sinking her paws as deep into the fertile earth as she could to make a good enough hole for her Lieutenant to be buried in, Strike fumed.
That morning, as the storm beat on them relentlessly, Strike had been awake. She'd never really been able to sleep during storms, and this had been no different. She had been wide awake when the call had sounded to get people deeper into the ship, helping Shadow waddle inside with all the urgency in her heart. She had been wide awake to hear a crack like earthborn thunder, a yowl splitting the raindrops into a thousand halves. She had been wide awake, eyes the size of dinner plates, taking in the moment of agony as one of the cats Strike had always respected was crushed like Strike crushed bugs when she was a bloody swabbie. Strike was more than awake to throw herself against that tree in the dim light, to demand silently that Arcadia give her lieutenant back as she worked to free him. Strike was barely awake when his body went cold.
She had been there, listening to her leader speak, drained of emotion. Rapt at attention, yeah, but momentarily empty. Like the seaside during a tsunami, Strike had remained empty on the solemn, final walk with her lieutenant. She remained empty until her paws hit the dirt.
Now, the body was buried. Strike had shoved her pile of dirt over her lieutenant with a shaking, hard jaw. Why? She had experienced loss, yeah-- heck, she was born lost. But this is something else entirely. She swallows hard and follows her leader, stoking her fire carefully. This rage needed to be used smartly--it was a fuel source, the same as any. And she knew its root was in love for her tribe, love for her lieutenant, love for every cat and every whisker they owned. Love was similarly useful--it meant she knew where her heart was, and thus, where to protect. And she'd tear it out herself before she allowed something else like this to happen. Not to her tribe.
Strike steadies her breathing as the cats make their way home. There was so much work to do... but she'd do it, of course. Until she was drained fully of energy, she would work. Jaws would now what to do first, surely--that tom always knew. If not, Strike is thinking of a use for that felled tree... She blinks and shakes her head, then does a little hop forward before speeding up to stand beside her leader. "Tempes'." With her odd accent, it was... hard to say the full name. "I've been thinkin'. Dat fallen tree? A real piece of work, but it ain't waste. We peel the bark ta toughen the ship, see? Or we drape palm fronds over it to stretch our hideout. Is this the kind of hustle we want to chase?"
