hey mom… i’m back [p]

[iliri]

soot
short-furred, dark, charcoal-gray tabby tom with white markings, and sharp amber-copper eyes.
active purrks: n/a
he/him | outsider | 12 moons

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His face felt like it was burning. Blood oozed steadily from the fresh wound carved vertically across his face, glossing over the bridge of his nose, continuing downwards past the right side of his nose, ending near his right cheek. He hadn't known what happened; his perpetrator being far too quick for his own good. All he knew was that he had been simply minding his own business, trying to catch some prey to replenish the lost hunger within his system, before a random rogue came out of nowhere and tumbled into him. At first, he had originally thought it was Bluebell—the damned, pretty blue-eyed molly that never seemed to leave his mind the moment he began thinking about her. But, the almighty spirits held other plans for him and decided to have his face painted with his own blood before he even held a chance to object with such an offer. He despised the sticky red liquid seeping into his dark fur, matting it down and staining the inky black tufts a darker, almost sickening hue. It was gross, and all it did was make him feel more repulsed about himself. He hadn’t wanted to gain any sort of scarring from his brief tumble, but the continuous pulsing from the clotting wound across his face said otherwise, only proving his thoughts to be unnecessary. The massive tom-cat growled beneath his breath, like a cobra whose tongue was riddled with lies. The moon’s pale, sickly light piercing through the dense canopy of trees didn’t help in the slightest, only further fouling the dark tom’s mood.

White-furred paws kept moving forward, brushing against the littered ground of leaves and twigs that crunched against every step. An occasional drop of scarlet that landed atop of stray tendrils of grass was easily noticeable by the moon’s dim lighting through the darkened atmosphere. He still felt mildly annoyed with the fact that he had been originally following the scent trail of his prey, only to be locked in a desperate struggle for his life. Hunger permeated every fiber of his being, and he doubted constantly complaining to himself would ever whiplash the fact that he lost his only chance to catch prey. Besides, he knew well enough that with his current conditions, he wouldn't be able to catch anything at all. Annoyance coursed through his system in sync with the agonizing throb of the wound marring his face. Stats, did he look even more like Darkfall now? The last time he checked, he always got gawked at for looking so similar to his father—which he despised. He was fairly certain his not-father bore scars along his face, not that he cared to try memorizing the fact. Whiskers twitching irritably, the tabby continued to sulk, ignoring every puddle that weaved its way into his vision, mocking his representation of his father. It was like they were whispering, hissing, taunting him. Anything at this point. Wasn't like he wanted to put forth effort into the continuous mocking; it was just in internal conflict messing with him. His paws flexed habitually against the grass below, the massive feline slowly approaching the familiar territory where his mother resided.

Was he a kit for crawling back to his mother this late at night after the sun died? Perhaps. Did it look like he held any other choice? Probably, but he didn't know what other choice he had, and Heron was one of last few cats he had wanted to see—probably to just bug him about his semi-frequent visits with Bluebell and to nag him about his scars. He didn't know how she would feel seeing the new pair of scarring drastically noticed along his face. Would he be scolded? Would she yell? Would she be overprotective? A flurry of questions attacked his mind, and yet the dark-furred tom looked around for his mother. His sharp amber eyes adjusted to the dim lighting relatively quickly as he approached the similarities of his mother’s territory, swallowing down the unreasonable uncertainties grounding him while. “… I’m back home, mom… with some fancy new scarring.” He knew fully well that it was downright embarrassing and corny, but did he care right now? No. He was hungry, hurt, and tired. What else would he be.

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@Dark [ y’know, decided to give the boy some good ol scarring ]