The Colony the flesh is eaten so that the flesh is fed [ open ]

[Vulturemalice]

He had only been fourteen moons when he stumbled upon the colony. Having an ungrateful mother and siblings who had been more needy than him had been enough. He had never been named due to being the runt, she had always just called him a little vulture. When he was old enough to figure out how to feed himself, he left without looking back. He knew he would not be missed, and his sibling would be cared for, so why bother staying?

Upon meeting the group, the young tom hadn't known what to do with himself. He was scrawny, much more than normal for a tom his age. His long legs and narrow face made the skinny look even worse. And he was not one to beg, but times were tough and this seemed like a decent group to stick around with for a while. When someone asked what his name was, the first thing that came to mind was the petty nickname his mother had given him. "Vulture," he had said, feeling a sense of rightness. "My name is Vulture."

-

The skinny muddy brown tom sat crouched under a dead hawthorn bush, the bare limbs scratching into his spine. Flattening his ears and shooting his olive eyes up to the cloudy sky, Vulture gave a small hiss and tucked his paws even further under him, his skinny limbs jutting out from his overly sunken belly. Still going through the growing phase from youngling to tom, and with it being the beginning of leaf-bare, he hadn't had the chance to fill out. So the cold breeze that rattled the dying, leafless branches of the oaks around him chilled the tom to his bones. The rumble of his belly was so loud that he was surprised none of the others milling about had said something to him. He wasn't the best at hunting, that's why he had joined the group. They shared when they could and took care of the young, weak, and old. He didn't know what category that he fell into, but he wasn't a hunter.

 

[plumestrike]

Plume, a pale tabby-and-white tom, trotted back into the clearing after a not very fruitful hunt, nothing but one of the last of greenleaf's frogs and a scrawny bird hanging from his mouth. His gaze darted around at the other cats, wondering where he should put them. He hadn't been in the Colony very long, and this had been one of his first times hunting here. His eyes eventually fell upon a skinny tom huddled under a rather prickly looking bush, and he made the decision after pausing for a moment to make his way over to him.

Dropping the two pieces of prey a tail-length in front of the bush, not desiring having to deal with the tangle of branches, he crouched down as well.

"Do you prefer birds, or frogs?" He asked the tom simply, pricking his ears towards him in what he hoped came across in a friendly manner.

 

[Vulturemalice]

Looking up at the pale golden tom, Vulture couldn't help but grimace. He never liked to beg and to be served was even worse. But he wasn't stupid and was polite. "You deserve the feathers from the bird," he murmured with a dip of his head, snagging the frog on a claw. "Thank you for offering though." Shame flushed through him, ears turning back slightly and chin dipping. His olive eyes flicked back up to the tom as he prodded the frog with a paw and said, "For the life of me I still can't get the hang of hunting. All the forest scents seem too much, and I track plants more than animals."

Feeling even more self cautious, Vulture tucked his legs even tighter under his body, tail whipping around to hide his paws. He looked down at the frog and tried to hide his distraste. With a small sigh, he gave it a bite, pulling away the skin to get at the bony flesh underneath. The taste wasn't bad, but there was a chewy sort of way to the pale flesh.

 

[plumestrike]

Plume hummed thoughtfully, pulling the bird closer to himself in preparation to eat, "Can't say I'm too used to it myself, my brothers and I always stuck closer to twolegplace. Easier to take what you can from their discard than hunt properly, was what they always said, so the Colony has certainly been a change of pace!" He twitched his whiskers, "I like it, though. It's kind of beautiful here."

He took a moment to start eating his bird, noting the tom's caution. He supposed some cats were just of an anxious type by nature, and hoped he making him too uncomfortable with his presence. Swallowing a bite of food, he added, "Aside from the thunderpath. Hard to avoid those anywhere though."

 

[Straw]

"♫ Heyyyyy~! ♫"

Straw, a flaxen-furred fluffball with brown-and-white dapples, slides into view with his characteristic flair: a jaunty rhythm to his strides and a tune on his tongue. While enthusiasm lacks the infectiousness of, say, greencough, or perhaps yawning, he seeks to put it to good use by cranking it up several more notches. This place could use a lighter atmosphere, anyway.

"♫ Can't catch a catch, but he'll try all day long... maybe Vulture's paws are put on wrooong?♫" he chimes, gathering pace on his final approach. Though far from well-rounded when it comes to being sensitive to the emotions of others, he reads Vulture's energy to be low - the droop in his chin and those storm clouds in his eyes do him no favours there - and Plume's to be... modest. Bemused, maybe? Again, facial cues might as well be written in dog or something, because there is no hope of him puzzling them out anytime soon.

Licking his own chops as Vulture gets to work on the frog, Straw starts to regard Plume with an expectant stare. Why is he still holding that bird? Can he really not tell that Straw's eyes are glazing over from the rumbling of his tummy? Feeling that his paws'll freeze off should he remain still for any longer, the tom inches closer- aaaand he's eating the bird. Darn it. Guess he'll have to mooch off someone else.

He lowers onto his woolly stomach and flops onto his side, all the while rolling his gaze around to one of the trees lining the edge of the clearing. Then he tilts his head towards the spindly figures of both cats, and allows it to drop onto its side as he chirrups, "Easy enough to avoid 'em! Just walk in the total opposite direction!"

That's obviously not what Plume meant, and Straw knew it quite well. He's just letting words spill freely from his maw, hoping they'll stick to something. If he isn't getting anything from either of them, not even a wee morsel, then there is no point to just lounging around in silence, right? Right.

(penned by willie)

 

[Vulturemalice]

Vulture took another bite of the frog, trying to hide the swallow that threatened to come back up. Having been born on the other side of the moor, he was used to rabbits and fowl that had strayed that way. While he had always liked the open space, there was something about being under the trees that he was starting to appreciate.

"The thunderpaths do stink," he conceded, giving a half smile. "Though they do keep most of the strays away. I'm not much of a fighter either." Vulture wasn't much of anything. He was more interested in the flora around them than he was in the fauna. Plants were different here than where he grew up, and all the scents were tantalizing. He knew the basic herbs to help clean wounds, but what else was out there to discover?

The sing-song voice approaching them had his ears turning back and eyes narrowing. Vulture looked up through the side of his eyes to see the bracken and white colored tom approach, his jovial personality already grating on him. Looking up at Straw, Vulture narrowed his eyes and drawled, "What has you so chipper on this fine day?"

 

[plumestrike]

Plume was about to reply when Straw approached, and he politely closed his mouth again as he talked.

Plume's eyes darted between the two, getting the faint feeling already that these two personalities weren't going to mesh very well, but having little he could do about it. He felt himself starting to get preemptively stressed, so he made the decision to try and not worry about it.

"Chipper indeed," He chipped in neutrally after a pause, leaning down to finish off what was left of the small bird. When he finished, he found himself still picking over it, more out of habit than any real belief there was more meat to be had from what was now a bloodied pile of brown feathers.

 

[Straw]

Joy just rubs some the wrong way. And you know what? That's alright. There are those who find cheerfulness to be so elusive, overt displays of good spirit seem altogether unnatural, as though they're grating to their eyes. Harmful, even. Vulture seems reluctant to share in the sunlight, let alone share a glance towards him. Straw isn't too fussed up about it. Cats of Vulture's sort aren't easy to budge, all sullen and bristling. But everything'll crack eventually. You just need the right amount of pressure.

A gentle swish to his tail stirs leafliffer and ripples through the grass. On his back now, his two forelimbs curled up into his fluffy chest, a lone paw clawing lightly at his cheek. He's having a troublesome time keeping focus on the two other cats in his upside-down view—their words catch in the drift between his ears, without sinking in.

Luckily, neither has much to say in the first place. Both give off-the-paw remarks about his mood and tear into their respective meals.

"Pah, I'm just always this way." Straw clears his throat, with his unoccupied paw kneading the air. "But, I wanna know... if you're not a fighter... and you're not a hunter... what do you even do, Vulture? When you get old and die, will ya just be remembered as, y'know, that fella who thinks plants are cool?" Inverted, his smirk falls rather than rises, pulling his whole face awry.

Perhaps for every frivolous feline, a curmudgeon is born. Perhaps, they cancel each other out and coexist in perfect balance. As nature intends. Plume, all the while, must surely have a better read on the lad. Assuming he cared to listen to either of them.

(penned by willie)