[align=center][font=georgia]ONETRACK •
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: none; min-height: 40px; width: 440px; margin-top: -10px; text-align: left; font-size: 10px; line-height: 100%;][hr]//please excuse the incomplete fancy/siggy! ^^
Cream paws fell against soft soil as a stiff-backed maine coon, nose raised to the air, approached the border of Westeros territory. At least, this was what his untrained senses told him; despite a body roughly sixteen months of age, Onetrack didn't seem to notice he was well into the territory by now, a good twenty meters or so.
The tom himself smelled faintly of a smaller, long-gone clan, one that must have been left or destroyed some ten months before. Onetrack barely remembered it, himself, but something about him gave a sense that he wouldn't want to discuss it. He carried his average frame with a sort of elegance, tail never falling below his knees, head so steady one could balance a (small) book on it. But at the same time he had a somewhat rigid form to his movement, like an automoton in need of an oil change. The contrasting traits might come off as strange to an outsider but Track seemed entirely at home.
A little too at home, in fact. Finding the shade of a small tree, Track ventured further into Westeros territory and sat with the same straight-backed, high-chinned posture as before. "Onetrack, here to join," the tom meowed barely over a normal speaking voice. The procedure was familiar. But now, at long last, he felt the stirring sensation of excitement. Westeros. Perhaps these creatures would treat him with kindness.