09-20-2022, 12:40 PM
Narrowed eyes trailed the unfamiliar feline as she drew near. He half-expected her to call out some sort of greeting, hence Mick's brows knit together in response to her silence. But the stranger carried no malice with their step, and when she sat down in the dirt just a metre away, her Pittian scent wafted into his system. She was a local, a friend. And while she scrawled her salutations into the earth, the tabby's harsh gaze faltered.
"Is that your name, a title, or an affliction?" he asked curtly, peering over the ridge of his worktable. Mick gestured vaguely towards the inscription that she had left in the ground. Having spent enough time in the company of others around these parts, the male has met many who claimed to be undead, or some sort of reincarnated entity. A small smile emerged from beneath a crooked brow. "I'm Mick," he said. "Vagrant, drifter, and as of recent days, Pittian."
The movement of another feline - a much larger feline at that - soon caught his eye, and his line of vision then drifted towards the approaching individual. It wasn't often that Mick had the height advantage over a panther, and he felt a rare shred of dignity as he stared down the male. "I've got my bearings," he meowed, nodding whilst he said so, "been here for a little bit, but I've lived in these parts long enough to know what's going on." The silver tabby could recall the Pitt's diplomatic endeavours during its bloodied days, how it practiced slavery and consistently waged war against its neighbours. That era has seemingly come to an end, yet the clan remains as one born from a brutal past. That image allured Mick, it drew him to the group.
The feline crouched down, gave his rump a little wiggle, and leapt onto the soil, so as to close the distance between him and the other two cats. He stretches out his paw that wore the bracer so that the lever-switch faced both 'Always Dead' and the panther. "Give'r a tug," he instructs. Should either of them listen, the blade would rapidly unsheathe. Mick loved to show off his little creations.
"Is that your name, a title, or an affliction?" he asked curtly, peering over the ridge of his worktable. Mick gestured vaguely towards the inscription that she had left in the ground. Having spent enough time in the company of others around these parts, the male has met many who claimed to be undead, or some sort of reincarnated entity. A small smile emerged from beneath a crooked brow. "I'm Mick," he said. "Vagrant, drifter, and as of recent days, Pittian."
The movement of another feline - a much larger feline at that - soon caught his eye, and his line of vision then drifted towards the approaching individual. It wasn't often that Mick had the height advantage over a panther, and he felt a rare shred of dignity as he stared down the male. "I've got my bearings," he meowed, nodding whilst he said so, "been here for a little bit, but I've lived in these parts long enough to know what's going on." The silver tabby could recall the Pitt's diplomatic endeavours during its bloodied days, how it practiced slavery and consistently waged war against its neighbours. That era has seemingly come to an end, yet the clan remains as one born from a brutal past. That image allured Mick, it drew him to the group.
The feline crouched down, gave his rump a little wiggle, and leapt onto the soil, so as to close the distance between him and the other two cats. He stretches out his paw that wore the bracer so that the lever-switch faced both 'Always Dead' and the panther. "Give'r a tug," he instructs. Should either of them listen, the blade would rapidly unsheathe. Mick loved to show off his little creations.
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A GROWING SICKNESS IN THE HEART
the cure is somewhere in the silence — BUT I'M CRUSHED BY THE NOISE INSIDE
( ♢ ) - ————————————————— -「 mick. & pittian. & tags. 」
( ♢ ) - ————————————————— -「 mick. & pittian. & tags. 」