THE NIGHT HAS BEEN UNRULY ☆ PRIVATE

[nyme]

THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT
BUT I ALSO KIND OF WANTED TO

── ? ! ── ꩜ ── ! ? ──

TSOLMON . 8 MOONS . THEY/THEM . LONER

The days grow shorter, nights longer, and Tsolmon knows not what to do. The bitter cold season approaches fast, and this time they will be all alone for it.

Perhaps this will be the end. If it is coming—and, indeed, Tsolmon believes that it must be; it is what they have been taught, after all—then it only makes sense for it to come in the dark. In the cold. In those short, icy days where prey hides and cats go hungry and shiver themselves into their graves. It all makes sense...only, Tsolmon doesn't like the idea of dying cold and hungry. It doesn't spark the usual thrilling fear, doesn't make their heart beat with wretched excitement, it's just. It. Ugh, it sounds so dry! A creeping, slow end was not what they had ever envisioned. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

So, while it feels a bit strange to spend so much time planning how to survive the future, Tsolmon doesn't regret it. If the end is truly nigh and all, then it won't be so easily avoided with such simple things as scouting for shelter, learning how to beg the tallbeasts and their pets for some of that crumbly rock-food, and eating in rampant excess whenever they can to pack on fat under their thickening coat.

Tsolmon is meant to die glamorously, after all. Anything less shan't be tolerated. Even, uh. Even if the steps to surviving are...a little embarrassing.

The scruffy grey cat bathes and bathes, grooming the scent of tallbeast off of itself. Earning food from the odd things means enduring lots of pats and touches, and the more pats Tsolmon lets them have, the likelier it is that they'll be fed. They're just not quite used to the smell of the great, fleshy things, or how strangely their wriggling paws move when carded through Tsolmon's dense fur. It isn't the worst thing in the world...but it isn't the best, either.

Still. An early night paints this alleyway in dull oranges and rusty reds and the air is chilly, particularly in the shadows. Tsolmon's belly is full at least, and there is shelter to be found in the old boxes and refuse here in the alley. That much counts. That much is all that counts.

"You shall take me in GLORIOUS CALAMITY," Tsolmon chastises the sky, "or you shall not take me at ALL! Do better!"

@Red'fur !