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where? never.
Oct. 16th, 2003 11:16 amI'm not even sure where the hell this snippet is going. It just ambushed me last night, complete with fully written bits of prose and dialogue, and wouldn't let go 'til I wrote it down.
The cat that approached the Warrior was a strange one, despite it’s unremarkable appearance. To humans, all cats are strange, but this cat. This cat was strange even to its own kin.
The Warrior stopped, cocked his head. He turned, slowly, stopping when he caught sight of the small, black feline patiently sitting on its haunches.
“Oh,” he said. “You. What do you want?”
The cat looked at him, as one regards a dull, pitiable child who suffers from mental disabilities.
“I’m not his errand boy,” the Warrior growled. “Talk to him yourself or find someone else to play messenger.”
The cat sprang, digging it’s claws into the Warrior’s shift. It raised one paw up to the Warrior’s mouth, and dug its claws in.
The Warrior hissed angrily. The cat, however, let go and was ensconced in the shadows before he could react. He glared at it angrily. “If I ever see you again, I’ll have your guts for gitar strings.”
The cat yawned silently from the shadows, indicating boredom and amusement.
“I mean it. Door’s been wanting new ones. Now get out of my sight.”
The black feline faded further into the shadows until there was nothing left, much like the Cheshire cat that it was as strange as.
Once it was gone, Richard Mayhew swore softly in a language that was dead before the rise of the Roman Empire.
The cat that approached the Warrior was a strange one, despite it’s unremarkable appearance. To humans, all cats are strange, but this cat. This cat was strange even to its own kin.
The Warrior stopped, cocked his head. He turned, slowly, stopping when he caught sight of the small, black feline patiently sitting on its haunches.
“Oh,” he said. “You. What do you want?”
The cat looked at him, as one regards a dull, pitiable child who suffers from mental disabilities.
“I’m not his errand boy,” the Warrior growled. “Talk to him yourself or find someone else to play messenger.”
The cat sprang, digging it’s claws into the Warrior’s shift. It raised one paw up to the Warrior’s mouth, and dug its claws in.
The Warrior hissed angrily. The cat, however, let go and was ensconced in the shadows before he could react. He glared at it angrily. “If I ever see you again, I’ll have your guts for gitar strings.”
The cat yawned silently from the shadows, indicating boredom and amusement.
“I mean it. Door’s been wanting new ones. Now get out of my sight.”
The black feline faded further into the shadows until there was nothing left, much like the Cheshire cat that it was as strange as.
Once it was gone, Richard Mayhew swore softly in a language that was dead before the rise of the Roman Empire.
