`can't hurt me (open)

[sivael.suan]

with sunlight draining through the curtain of greenery, making it hard to move through the undergrowth because of the dwindling light, she often found herself stumbling carelessly over branches and stones, with mud staining her muzzle. she was not the type to be found in darkness, she much rather preferred the light. it made her, less vulnerable maybe. etched in gold, with satin fur, and blank, almost pupil-less silver eyes, she'd seem a ghost. demon, maybe. nothing could really tell her who and what she was. by blood a suan. by looks. caracal. this helped her little. everywhere she went she was resented, looked down upon. once been the object for assassination. no one had laid a hand on her before however. she was sivael. no one doubted that.

wide, tufted ears angled in all directions, catching the movement of scurrying land animals and blocking out all shrieking bird cries that may indeed startle her. her eyes watched ahead, her whiskers tingling if she came near stumbling. it helped her little, but at least she was attempting. slim orange paws were placed before her earnestly, each time with some precision and grace. other times she stumbled and flopped on her side from the awkward placement of paws. her tail flicked, shoulders rolling, and it appeared her posture elegant, even when she was wobbling all over the place. it was at the moment a sheer piece of flat stone opened up in front of her, mimicking the sight of water, she sprawled forwards and collapsed onto it. she let out a sigh of exhaustion, her paws stretching faintly at the sense of finally stopping to rest. though it was unbelievably hot outside, the cool dampness of the covered rock soothed her. but, up until that moment it was dark. now, like any other day the sun was coming out. in spite of herself, she groaned in annoyance.

[punk asher]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=cellpadding,0,true][atrb=cellspacing,0,true][atrb=style, width: 400px; border-bottom: 6px solid #2b2b2b; background-color: #80596e; -moz-border-radius: 35 20 0 0px; border-radius: 35 20 0 0px; text-align: center;,true] ♕ WE'RE TAKING CONTROL we get what we want, we do what you don't, dirt and glitter cover the floor, we're pretty and sick, we're young and we're bored In a moment, a shriek will split the air. A caracal will sit back on his haunches, paw snatched high off the ground, head thrown back in a display of dramatic agony. "GOD DAMMIT." Punk looks at his foot, green eyes blazing, and glares accusingly at the thorn pressed deep into one of his rough pawpads. "Get out of my foot, thorn!" he demands the inanimate object. "My paw is no place for you!" Quirking his mouth in a pinchy-faced frown, he glares at the thorn. "Well, go on then. Shoo." But the thorn stays firmly planted in his foot, and Punk grumbles, getting up. "Fine. I hope you like walking." And he continues on, wincing with every step on his pierced paw, undaunted by its presence. Stupid thorns, disrespectin' ma' authorita'... The sun is rising above Punk's head, bright and gleaming and blood-boilingly hot, and he mostly ignores it, short tail flicking about his haunches to ward off bugs that try to get the wrong idea. He's used to the heat; he was born in the desert, for God's sake, and Hawk was a fan of hogging all the shade. "Stupid old furball," Punk yowls to no one in particular, and keeps walking with his steady limp. He's not entirely sure of where he is, only that it's hot and dry and there's a river in the distance and he's so distracted looking up that he forgets to look down, too. WHUMP. His paws hit something warm and furry, and he trips right over it, landing headfirst in the grass on the other side. With an unsightly flailing of limbs and a shrill yowl, he disappears in the deep prairie grass. "OW, MY FACE." It takes a moment for him to right himself, sitting up and flicking one tufted ear to remove a bit of dead grass. He looks to see what rude object hadn't moved out of his way when it saw him coming, and he sees... A caracal. A...female caracal. "Ohay, wench," he greets crassly, his tail twitching. "Y'tripped me there. Y'know that's not nice, dontcha, wench?" You might think him rude or crazy, but if you're at all surprised, then you don't know Punk. notes:: I SHOUT AT INANIMATE OBJECTS! words:: 369 tagged:: sivael

TEMPLATE MADE BY ICE OF OTE

[sivael.suan]

Indeed, the heat was getting to her. But with her lazy state she was in no mind to move. Not even when some ungrateful lump passed over her with a rather loud accusing yell of pain. Wincing at the sudden yell of indignance. When he finally managed to right himself, it just so happened Sivael had not moved a muscle. Her position had remained the same through all that, except for maybe a more flattened state. Either way she refused to move. Besides, it wasn't as if she'd heard him coming. Bah, she wouldn't have moved otherwise. A purr of amusement grew out of her throat, and then she burst out laughing. She only stopped when he began calling her names. " excuse me? i believe the caracal that just screamed 'ow my face' called me a wench? is that true? if so, what does that mean!? " she herself looked infuriated, in a sense. more flustered that the knucklebrain had managed to trip over her. what an oddball.

her ears stretched forwards in curiosity, but her sprawled out stance hadn't moved. a twitch of her paws, toss of her tail. that was about it. silver eyes gazed at him from below. he amused her. but it appeared he wasn't exactly a cat who sat to chat. standing slowly, her movements slow. partially from being tripped over, but more so because she was tired. again. it didn't help to be flattened by someone bigger than you. she yawned unceremoniously, and snorted in disdain. only seconds after that did she explode in a fit of sneezing when small dandelion seeds were blown up her nose. for the following three minutes all that could be heard was outrageous sneezing.