LEECH BOY | joining

[fancypost bgcolor=; bordercolor=transparent; color: ; font-size: 9pt; text-align: justify; overflow: auto; width: 310px; height: 200px;][font=lauren]Rowan felt like a failure.
No, not felt like- was a failure. A friendless, socially inept and sheltered loser, someone that had clung to their parents for far longer than necessary, refusing to enter the cold and foreign outside world. He felt like a manchild vehemently rejecting adulthood.
Which is, all things considered, what he was. All of those things were fine descriptors of him, at least, to some extent. He was the kid that lived in his parent's basement long after highschool, the awkward nerd with seemingly permanent cheeto dust stains on his fingers, the dude with the unkempt beard that didn't know how to talk to girls. The portrait of wasted potential. His parents never had to deal with empty nest syndrome, because he had never left the nest. He was, in one word, a dud. Fluke. A momma's boy.

He didn't like to think of his mother a lot. Or his father, for that matter. Or anyone. Rowan didn't know a lot of nice people. Or any nice people, really, because he only knew his parents.
Despite his general dislike for his parental unit, he did like what they had to offer him. Food, a warm bed to sleep in. Sometimes his mother would bring him home pretty little trinkets, pink and pastel, for her pretty little girl.
Pretty little girl was a phrase she used a lot. Even when he asked her not to, when he begged her not to. Pretty little girl.
Yes, Rowan didn't know a lot of nice people.

But now, he didn't know any people. Because he was alone; which was, mind you, very disorienting. He had never been alone, but he was now. For reasons he would rather not discuss at length.
He should be ecstatic, really, and he would be- if not for his confined upbringing. He had all the space he needed, yes, but he didn't know how to do a lot of things imperative to survival; like how to find a home, or hunt for food, or protect himself from predators.
But he knew people who did.
The Militia- not an unfamiliar name, but one with a little mystique around it. Rowan had lived here for his whole life; he had seen groups come and go, watching from afar with his little family of three. He had never seen the appeal of living with others, but he did now.
It had been a short walk to the borders; and here he stood, sticking out like a sore thumb among the red and oranges of the desert landscape. The vaguely blue-hued felidae squinted against the harsh glare of the desert sun, expression decidedly neutral. It was hard to have expressions when he wasn't even capable of emotions; everything was too... hard at the moment. His brain was fuzzy, clouded, dazed.[/fancypost]

[fancypost bgcolor=; bordercolor=transparent; color: ; font-size: 9pt; text-align: justify; overflow: auto; width: 300px; height: 200px;][font=lauren]At the sight of something in the distance, moving toward him in a very quick manner, Rowan had instinctively tensed, but did nothing more. Sure, the fine, thick hairs along his spine rose in a threatening display, and his already-bushy tail grew in size in a natural show of fear. What he did next, however, was stand there, motionless. He wasn't quite sure what to do in this situation- or, for that matter, most situations.
In the time it had taken the stranger to arrive in his near vicinity, Rowan had heavily weighed his options. If he ran, there was no real point- if whomever this was was heading for him in particular, he had little to no chance for escape. The desert was vast, had little cover, and Rowan was not very good at running- but this creature was. If he stayed, he got either got chewed up or got chewed out, depending on the coyote's intent. If this person was a Militant, well, it would be rather stupid of him to turn tail and flee, wouldn't it? He was looking to join, after all.
His tension peaked when the canine drew near, now followed by yet another coyote and a quite... large, unfamiliar creature, one with rather big teeth. Rowan's dark gaze raked over the strange trio, cautious; his focus locked on Blasphemy as she spoke. Her strange dialect slightly off-put the dusty-blue feline, though the company of a seemingly more coherent and apt being (that being Sawyer), slightly soothed him; the strange beast's words were a confirmation that this was not a hostile interaction, thank goodness.

There was an awkward silence after the pair had spoken; here, Rowan was confronted with more sentient creatures than he had ever seen in a lifetime. He wasn't nervous, just wholly confused and unsure of what to say.
He opened his maw, and the words that came out were soft but strangely disconnected, as if he was parroting someone else. His bumbling speech was quiet, barely detectable, despite the silence of the desert plains; "Uh. I'm Rachel."
He realized what he had said far too late; the words were already out of his mouth, and Rowan felt a searing embarassment. His first time speaking to anyone but his parents, and he misgenders himself. Anxiously beginning to pick at his paws with sharp ivory claws, the Maine Coon spoke again, tears edging into his words. He spoke again, louder, wavering. "No. Sorry. Rowan. Rowan, my name is Rowan. Please call me Rowan." Swallowing thickly, he anxiously chewed at his lip, gnawing. No. He hated the name Rachel. Hated hated hated hated-
Steading himself, the tabby cleared his throat, gaze locked on the dusty earth below him. "This is the Militia, right? I'd like to join."
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