Iconoclast
the woods weep
{$title} Mentions of a dead cat & starvation!
ICONOCLAST
noun: iconoclast; a person who attacks cherished beliefs or institutions.
He was alone, but what was new. The old tom who was caring for him, and by caring he meant the most bare minimum, wasn't moving anymore. Something big had hit him and now he was next to that rumbling black pathway with red pooling the cold ground around him; there was so much of it and the kitten didn't know if he was supposed to do something about that. When he asked there was only silence, when he touched there was only stiffness. The old cat was gone, he knew this deep down on a level that all creatures understood death but he didn't have a word for it and he didn't quite grasp the implications of it. Iconoclast, as he was named, only knew that he was abandoned once more.
The red tipped kitten couldn't linger by the corpse, it was growing too cold to wait around and with the adult who fed him no longer able to he was left with little choice but to wander and hope something changed. Ico knew hunting, Ico knew you had to chase the small things that bled and screamed to bite them and eat them, but he didn't know much more than that so his early efforts were clumsy and loud and he could only whine as mice scattered into holes and birds fluttered away before he even got close. Small paws kneaded the ground, his mouth open as he gazed up at a chittering squirrel and willed it to fling itself down into his maw but it only scurried higher.
Hunger wasn't a new experience, but it did not often last this long; the gnawing and the ache distracted him. The dizziness made it hard to focus. With little else to do, he kept walking. Walking. Walking. The scent of the world changed into something new, something odd, but he didn't stop to consider it. Somewhere here there was blood smell and with hope, it was the kind he could eat...
The red tipped kitten couldn't linger by the corpse, it was growing too cold to wait around and with the adult who fed him no longer able to he was left with little choice but to wander and hope something changed. Ico knew hunting, Ico knew you had to chase the small things that bled and screamed to bite them and eat them, but he didn't know much more than that so his early efforts were clumsy and loud and he could only whine as mice scattered into holes and birds fluttered away before he even got close. Small paws kneaded the ground, his mouth open as he gazed up at a chittering squirrel and willed it to fling itself down into his maw but it only scurried higher.
Hunger wasn't a new experience, but it did not often last this long; the gnawing and the ache distracted him. The dizziness made it hard to focus. With little else to do, he kept walking. Walking. Walking. The scent of the world changed into something new, something odd, but he didn't stop to consider it. Somewhere here there was blood smell and with hope, it was the kind he could eat...
Ooc- PAFP @Marbleshine
-
There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword-He will tear your city down.
-
Iconoclast
— loner
— he/him
"SPEECH", 'THOUGHTS', ATTACK
#b44849
