Post by Fireflake on Jul 21, 2019 9:16:38 GMT
Vulture prowled down one side of the road, lifting his paws more than usual to alleviate the heat on his pads. It was a quiet part of town he rarely came to, which was maybe why it had taken him so long to track down Bluebird here. Sure, he could have waited for her in the Rotting Den, but each time he watched her he became less confident that she would continue to return there. Or that he would, for that matter. He’d grown increasingly distant from the place and the cats there, and had been thinking of running off for quite some time now. There were no traces of that attitude today, though, as he strolled down the street in his typical slinking gait. It was the same old mucky tom, but with a few important changes.
The one that seemed to affect him the most were the bird beaks that clung to his claws, fitted onto them like Honeyheart’s artificial claws had been. There weren’t enough to cover all them, and most wobbled when he walked, but it was the look that counted. He’d never felt powerful with his claws unsheathed before. The thrill was getting to the tom’s head. That, and the plan to show off his control that currently flitted around his mind.
Another change was that Vulture's pelt wasn't quite as grubby as it ordinarily would be. The tom had recently found himself caught up in a short spattering of rain that was the town’s first in a while and would likely be their last in the same amount of time, by the looks of the sky these days. The heat of the sun had quickly cleared up the water, save for a puddle that had collected, and now hid, in a hole in the road.
It wasn’t exactly a change for Vulture to have a bird clasped in his muzzle, but this one seemed to be one of the unwilling donors of the beaks that adorned his claws. He'd secretly spent a frustratingly long time trying to find a bluebird, and considered it a sour defeat that he had to settle on a bluejay instead. In the best play on words Vulture had ever achieved in his mostly inarticulate life, he reasoned that it was blue, and it was a bird, and that was close enough. Either way, he hoped that it was still possible to interpret the meaning of the message.
Vulture flicked the tip of his dark brown tail. He had this all perfectly planned out. He'd strut in, wave the mutilated jay in Bluebird’s face a bit, flash his new claw coverings, and demand that she come with him to hunt trash or play with one of his canine pals. The plan did not include tripping in that hole in the road, or dropping the bird into it with a resounding splash, but he quickly recovered from this with raised hackles and blazing blue eyes that dared the she-cat to react. One of the ill-fitted false claws slipped off and drifted to the edge of the water as he strode forward. A horrifying, pained half-chirp trickled from the jay’s mouth, and Vulture shook it slightly to shut it up again.
Over the course of their acquaintance, he had taken to nicknaming the feathery she-cat Bird despite her protests, but he felt it was important to greet her now as, “Bluebird.”
The one that seemed to affect him the most were the bird beaks that clung to his claws, fitted onto them like Honeyheart’s artificial claws had been. There weren’t enough to cover all them, and most wobbled when he walked, but it was the look that counted. He’d never felt powerful with his claws unsheathed before. The thrill was getting to the tom’s head. That, and the plan to show off his control that currently flitted around his mind.
Another change was that Vulture's pelt wasn't quite as grubby as it ordinarily would be. The tom had recently found himself caught up in a short spattering of rain that was the town’s first in a while and would likely be their last in the same amount of time, by the looks of the sky these days. The heat of the sun had quickly cleared up the water, save for a puddle that had collected, and now hid, in a hole in the road.
It wasn’t exactly a change for Vulture to have a bird clasped in his muzzle, but this one seemed to be one of the unwilling donors of the beaks that adorned his claws. He'd secretly spent a frustratingly long time trying to find a bluebird, and considered it a sour defeat that he had to settle on a bluejay instead. In the best play on words Vulture had ever achieved in his mostly inarticulate life, he reasoned that it was blue, and it was a bird, and that was close enough. Either way, he hoped that it was still possible to interpret the meaning of the message.
Vulture flicked the tip of his dark brown tail. He had this all perfectly planned out. He'd strut in, wave the mutilated jay in Bluebird’s face a bit, flash his new claw coverings, and demand that she come with him to hunt trash or play with one of his canine pals. The plan did not include tripping in that hole in the road, or dropping the bird into it with a resounding splash, but he quickly recovered from this with raised hackles and blazing blue eyes that dared the she-cat to react. One of the ill-fitted false claws slipped off and drifted to the edge of the water as he strode forward. A horrifying, pained half-chirp trickled from the jay’s mouth, and Vulture shook it slightly to shut it up again.
Over the course of their acquaintance, he had taken to nicknaming the feathery she-cat Bird despite her protests, but he felt it was important to greet her now as, “Bluebird.”