|
|
Post by LUFTANZA DUBOIS on Jun 7, 2012 11:32:25 GMT -5
The air was hot and dry, biting into Luftanza's skin like flies, prickling its way up her spine and into her paw-pads. They were hardened, black bits, but even then she could feel the heat, a thrumming, live presence, seeping into her from the soil as she gazed into the web of intertwining wires.
The border was one of her favorite places: after all, it proved quite how mysterious and influential the gods could be. There was no rational explanation to the web, and she preferred it that way. "Gods almighty," she whispered, basking in the awe.
A sudden breeze stirred the leaves on the dry trees around her, ruffling her short, spotted fur and making her close her eyes in pleasure. Now that she thought of it, the back of her throat felt dry as she swallowed. All thoughts of the incredible web of hard, flexible fiber forgotten, Luftanza glanced about with new purpose shining in her eyes, attempting to locate the watering hole in the expanse of territory she knew by heart.
"That way," she told herself companionably, shooting another cursory glance around her to make sure nobody saw her speaking to herself. They were always watching, and she couldn't imagine having to justify herself in front of accusatory, or worse, mocking gazes. So she spoke to herself. Problem? Fuck off.
Heat glazed the horizon and she tried to blink it away like a veil of moisture on her eyes, to no avail. She frowned, eyebrows knotting together on her face, mouth cast down, ears twitching with concentration.
She couldn't find the watering hole.
OOC - OPEN TO ALL! Closed after the second person posts c: |
|
|
|
Post by HUXLEY VANDERBILT on Jun 7, 2012 17:24:52 GMT -5
Huxley's favorite thing to do on days such as these, as of a week ago, was to fly. The heat had a life of its own on days such as these and it used it to throb, complacent, around his head, like a fat purring housecat. When you moved your head on days such as these, you saw a flutter of slippery light blurring in your peripheral vision, just too brief to focus on.
Days such as these? Huxley lived for them. He lived for the present, whether that was the relentless dry heat of the Kenyan summer or the bitter chill of the early winter mornings. He and the heat, they were old friends. He had greeted it that morning with a nod and a yawn, and it had shimmered in response. They were equals: not friends, but certainly not enemies, Huxley liked to think. There was something incomparable to feeling the rush of hot dry air ruffling your belly, of seeing the earth golden and sunbaked, rushing towards you.
Huxley let his somber orange gaze rake the horizon. The heat glistened there, between the rust-stained chain links of the fence. It was funny: Outside didn't look any different than the Inside, not really. And all Huxley cared about was that fence. He leaned back on his haunches, his eyes appraising it with the critical quirk of an expert. After a thoughtful pause, he reared up and, pushing off with his powerful hindquarters, launched himself at the pitifully scrubby acacia tree intertwined with the fence. His claws scrabbled at the bark for a second, and then he was up, landing lightly on all four paws and breathing hard.
Huxley was still uneasy though and not very at home in the canopy: he kept his claws unsheathed, digging them deep into the bark and gouging splintered pathways into the tree's flesh. He hesitated there for a second, glancing down at the tree's trunk and inhaling sharply as the cracked ground loomed before him.
Swallowing his nausea, he pushed his way through the leaves with what appeared to be reckless abandon: clumsy and nearly slipping off at one point, but without caring much either way. It took only a minute for him to emerge at the tapered end of the branch, not bothering to test his weight on its slender platform before cavalierly stepping onto it: it uttered a worrying groan of protest and dipped a few inches, but Huxley didn't release his grip on it. He had made it.
Somewhere, a few trees away, a bird sang. Huxley, ignoring it, wound his tail around his paws and peered around himself with a triumphant grin plastered onto his muzzle. "King of the world," he muttered to himself. Alone with that infinite sky and that goddamn thirdwheeling bird.
Huxley allowed himself an adoring glance upwards at the horizon. "I'm coming," he announced, his eyes trained on the wisps of downy cloud clustered above his head. He tensed his muscles to spring, concentrating on his deep breathing, and surveyed his landing strip perfunctorily-- only to do a doubletake.
Some skinny chick was there. A cheetah, lanky just like he was. Huxley hesitated. She's ruining my flight, he groused inwardly. He had worked so fucking hard to get up here, only to find this-- this what? babe?-- in his way. Should he tell her to move? She was bigger than he was, but Huxley knew cheetahs: they didn't have any stamina. He bet he could take her in a fight. Plus she didn't stand a chance climbing his tree.
He cleared his throat and, with an unceremonious rustle of leaves, poked his head out of the canopy. A nearby bird, startled, took flight. "Could you move?" he asked tersely, upset that she was encroaching on his intimate date with the heavens.
[/justify] Did you really expect me not to show up? With this thread name? THINK AGAIN BABE o3o [/blockquote] |
|
|
|
Post by LUFTANZA DUBOIS on Jun 8, 2012 5:35:50 GMT -5
Sun, sun. She had to find her way according to the sun. She'd done it before, hadn't she? Luftanza shot a glance upwards, up to what appeared like an opaque sheet of blue that rounded above, and the lack of cloud made her feel like she was going to drown into it, feeling as if gravity weren't enough to keep her paws on the ground. Unconsciously, she had dug her claws into the hard-packed soil that was more like glorified dust than proper soil.
She spat an undistinguishable mass of well-practiced, worn, dog-eared swear words and, annoyed at her own weakness, backed up towards the fence once more until her rump was comfortably pushed against the chain-link structure, fur clumps protruding out through the holes. It was a surrender, yes, but she was alone, so surely it wasn't as bad? Besides, just because she wanted contact with the fence didn't mean she was scared. It was - it was - it was a mark of reverence. To the gods.
She glanced up now, pinpointing the sun and staring at it blankly. She felt her eyes begin to water, attempting to remember what exactly she was trying to do, and, needless to say, failing quite miserably.
Luftanza had been fixing the sun defiantly for a good three seconds and beginning to feel the dregs of ridicule crawling towards her thoughts like an army of imperceptible ants, when:
"I'm coming."
Quick as whiplash, Luftanza snapped around to attempt to locate the source of the voice. She knew someone had been watching her. Someone always was. She was beginning to wonder whether it was simply someone - Samael, no doubt - who'd sent out cats to watch her. She did sometimes feel like she kept catching watchful gazes that turned away as soon as she fixed them --
Well. Maybe that was a little paranoid. That didn't make the concern any less present. Or true.
She turned her eyes up again, an angry purpose seeming to define and shrink her pupils, yet there was nothing. No cat to accuse. No cat to have spoken.
Just as she was about to hiss out another couple colorful insults and stalk away defiantly (just in car someone was actually watching her) a vaguely feline face protruded grotesquely from the leafy cover provided by a nearby tree. It looked very peculiar: so peculiar, in fact, that Luftanza wasted a split second peering at the bodiless face framed by vegetation instead of springing into verbal action. "Could you move?" And there: he'd beat her to the first words. Everyone knew that first words were possibly the most important words in an argument. Second only to the last ones.
"Could I move?" she echoed with immediate disbelief, taking a surreptitious step away from the fence. She was acutely aware of where the wires had dug into her hindquarters, hoping that they weren't visible imprints like as she was half-worried they were. "Are you spying on me? What the fuck are you doing in that tree?" With each question, her voice heightened a few pitches until it ended up nearly an octave higher than usual. By now Luftanza's every hair was on end, a hissing bundle of fur and spots.
Not to mention it was her sky.
|
|
|
|
Post by HUXLEY VANDERBILT on Jun 8, 2012 6:22:56 GMT -5
Huxley watched impassively as the cheetah spun around wildly, as if she'd been waiting for him to say something. Had she been watching him? Her gaze, when it met his, was not quite hostile: at first she looked merely frightened but her eyes adopted a look of puzzled bewilderment. As if she was confused by him, not angered.
Huxley was the first to look away, blinking owlishly and glancing down at his paws on the branch. He had to be careful not to slip while he was up there. When he looked back up again, she was a bristling ball of sandy cheetah fur, her fangs luminously pale in the golden wash of sunlight. He had missed the first half of her rant but he caught her scorching "spying on me? What the fuck are you doing in that tree?" and he allowed his hackles to rise. Not that she could see them, since he was still submerged in the canopy.
"Nice cover," he countered, narrowing his dark eyes to slits. He knew that she was the spy now-- who else would instantly jump to the conclusion that he was one? He was clearly just chillin' in a tree. "Listen, hon. Just go away and no one gets hurt." His voice was stern and his expression was fearless, but he found himself hoping that she would just leave, although he doubted it. Huxley would never say no to a good scuffle, but more of an issue was having to haul himself up this tree again.
He raised a corner of his lip in a menacing snarl and felt something lurch beneath him: a paw had slipped. His chest slammed into the bark and he wheezed as some of his breath was forced out of him. Ouch. He lay there for a second, draped over the branch, both of his paws dangling freely and his stomach resting on the slick bark, and then scrambled back to his feet and tried to look defiant. It was difficult, but Huxley managed.
[/justify] |
|
|
|
Post by LUFTANZA DUBOIS on Jun 8, 2012 7:06:41 GMT -5
There. There, he'd looked away. A thrill of vicious success coursed briefly through Luftanza and it was all she could do to keep herself from a smug smile. He was probably intimidated by her. Cats usually were intimidated by her. She had that effect.
But her illusion of victory was short lived. "Nice cover," the other cat retorted, shattering whatever glory she'd gathered over the few short seconds of their encounter.
"I – I'm not the one hiding in a tree," she threw back at him, hurling each word like she would any tangible object, and hoping they'd hit him with quite as much force.
But it looked like the cat – quickly, she scanned the main features: tufted ears, amber eyes, beige coloring and deduced that her interlocutor was a member of the despicable caracal breed – wasn't finished with his discourse.
"Listen, hon. Just go away and no one gets hurt."
If she could have, Luftanza would have bristled even more. As it was, she was already becoming more and more akin to a hedgehog, and each hair had reached maximum sticking out potential.
How dare he? Feeling piqued, she shook her head to stall for time and think of a suitably panache-ful response, yet it seemed that fate had her favor in mind and the caracal lost its footing and crashed into the unforgiving tree-branch underpaw.
Luftanza crowed laughter. When in doubt, laughter was a safe choice. For a brief second she wondered whether his move hadn't resulted in injury, and decided she didn't care. Luftanza held her breath as he got up, eliminating distraction in order to catch the slightest flaw she could pick at.
Pah! He didn't even have the good grace to look ashamed! For a split second Luftanza's smirk wavered, but it came back stronger than ever. "Ha!" she added, and then, as if on afterthought, an extra "Ha! Ha!". Just for good measure.
|
|
|
|
Post by HUXLEY VANDERBILT on Jun 9, 2012 12:11:09 GMT -5
Huxley's eyes raked over her and he fought down a smirk. It was easy to see that she was terrified of him. If she bristled anymore, she would look like she'd been electrocuted. Her expression was one of half-terror, half-confusion, like she was perpetually trying to think of an escape route.
Huxley, on the other hand, was-- so he liked to think-- the picture of control and composure: reclining suavely on the branch, looking lofty and knowledgeable. As per his usual. "Hiding in a tree?" he echoed, amused, adopting what he hoped was a suitably aloof expression.
"I'm not hiding here, I'm using this as a platform for my takeoff," he corrected her haughtily, peering down at her and almost losing his balance again as his stomach lurched. Still, it was a glorious kind of vertigo: it reminded him how truly free he was... and how that little bitch down there had to get out of the way. "So please move, or you'll get flattened," he called down, clenching his jaw muscles and pretending not to hear her contemptuous cackles.
Any warmth he'd felt towards this spotty little she-cat evaporated along with his smile. He glared at her, his dark eyes chilly, flexing his claws in the tree bark. Hopefully she'd see it and think that he was imagining the tree as her face. He wasn't, but he sure wished he was that creative.
She wouldn't understand, just like the rest of them, who all called him insane. Well, Huxley was anything but. He saw things that none of the others did, and that's why he didn't fit in.
[/justify] |
|
|
|
Post by LUFTANZA DUBOIS on Jun 9, 2012 12:44:59 GMT -5
Luftanza rocked back on her heels, seeming to sit down and making a big show of how comfortable she was making herself. I'm going to stay here, she thought strongly, over and over, screaming it into her head (if screaming in one's head was possible) just in case that meant Huxley could pick up on the hate vibes easier.
The amusement ticked her off even more. Hatred? Pah, that was nothing. Fear? That was less than nothing. But amusement? It was almost as bad as pity, and everyone knew pity was the worst of them all.
I"m not hiding here, I'm using this as a platform for my takeoff," he preached self-importantly. The pompous bastard. A take-off? Who "took-off"? What kind of a --
"Pretnetious twat," she muttered under her breath, immediately regretting it (not because she didn't mean what she'd said, simply because she hadn't muttered it soft enough for it to sound secretive and make him jealous, but not loudly enough for him to think she meant to mutter under her breath but end up hearing).
"So please move, or you'll get flattened." He finished, and she glared at him for a few seconds as she thought of a suitably aggressive response. Evidently it was a test, and she couldn't believe he'd actually jump off -- surely that would hurt, if he fell on her -- she was willing to sacrifice herself to make him feel that --
But he wouldn't jump, right?
"No," Luftanza jeered up at him childishly, barely resisting the urge to stick out her tongue and contenting herself with a bullish thrust of her lower jaw. "I like this space."
What a funny little man. |
|
|
|
Post by HUXLEY VANDERBILT on Jun 10, 2012 18:28:05 GMT -5
Huxley watched with a kind of bemusement as her facial expressions changed. It was like she had some kind of face tourette syndrome. Instead of spewing profanity, she'd just experience random flashes of intense animation.
First there was an attentive look, as if she was just extremely absorbed in whatever Huxley was saying; then her face turned despicably smug; then came frustration; and finally there it was, something close to hatred but less visceral. Just loathing. And then she went and called him a pretentious twat. How delightfully quaint!
He would have offered her a pitying smile except for the way she glared up at him with her amber eyes full of fury. Jesus christ, this chick had anger issues. She needed to find a hobby-- flying, maybe. Given her streamlined proportions, Huxley bet she'd be a natural. Not as good as he was, obviously, but then again, who is? His heart was beginning to warm to her idiocy, in a kind of affectionate "oh my god she's so retarded that she clearly needs someone to save her from herself" fashion when she came up with a sassy gem like "no. I like this face."
Huxley allowed his gaze to pick apart her expression with what he liked to call Contempt Mixed With Pity, with a side of one of his favorites: Clinical Fascination. It doesn't sound like a promising combination but his angular caracal features just about managed to do it justice.
"I'm sure you do," he agreed patiently, wondering whether she actually was retarded. Or maybe suicidal? Perhaps she didn't believe that he could fly. How ridiculous. Couldn't she just see how at home he seemed in the heavens? "But I hear that when you're flattened, you don't tend to enjoy things as much." He smiled internally to congratulate himself on that piece of witty repartée. That was a damn fine retort. She wouldn't know what hit her.
He leered triumphantly down at her. She was pretty, in a kind of juvenile way, he mused dismissively. There were too clashing sides of Huxley's psyche: for one, he thought everything was beautiful in some weird innate way, but then again he was intensely judgmental. Seeing the way her bones fit together and the way her muscles moved beneath the milky gold of her pelt sent something of a chill down his spine-- just the knowledge that someone like that could function, could support themselves. It was so beautiful that sometimes all Huxley wanted to do was sit around and weep and scratch existential poetry into the savanna dust.
And at the same time, seeing those square features and that lanky build, he knew that, conventionally speaking, she was by no means beautiful. It was an odd feeling, seeing both sides of the coin, and it gave him something of a sour expression. Huxley did not appreciate being confused, although it had been happening far too often lately.
[/justify] |
|
