Olga feels like she's crawling whenever she walks places, but she's slowly getting the hang of it, she thinks. Just one foot in front of the other, moving in sway. It's not that difficult, and it's silly that someone as old as she is has to relearn how to walk, but it can't be helped when you suddenly happen to switch bodies. Or, in her imagination, 'dreaming.' She likes to think this is all a dream. No matter how real this all feels, it's all just a dream, right?
Anyways, she's in this weird place now, with traveling pines and a deep cut gorge, and it can't be helped. It is what it is, she tries to remind herself. It doesn't matter whether she's a cat or if she's human, she just has to make do with this until she wakes up.
The point is, she's part of this group now, The Exiles, as they call themselves, and it just so happens to be housed in a prison. If there's any way to make her anxious, it's by putting her in a cell and having her call it her own. Regardless of her protests, she's browsing. She scans each cell for belongings and sighs each time she spots something incriminating, for it signals her need to continue her search despite the bags she swears are hanging under her eyes. She didn't know you can feel tired in a dream.
There's not a lot of empty space about, this place must be packed, but she tries to be optimistic; surely there's one she can squeeze her way into and claim while nobody's looking ... though she wonders how she'd let others know it's not up for grabs considering she doesn't really own anything in this world.
She sees someone else. A white lion, with pearly fur and speckled green eyes. They sit staring at a wall. Or, well, that's what it looks like they're doing.
Olga approaches. "Hey, this wouldn't happen to be yours, would it?" She asks, gesturing towards the cell, quite barren in nature, "You see, I'm looking for my own room, and I haven't been having much luck."
ONE DAY Y'ALL GON' SEE ME !
☾･ﾟi make shy look freaky, i make dry look greasy, i make hard look easy!
It didn't sound appealing, living in cells, but they were cozy and most found them to be quite homey. Trash opted for the basement; leaking and putrid, the vile stomach of the prison festering with rats was where he called home sweet home, but he was a strange creature indeed. He liked it down there, all by himself, it was quiet. But he'd helped a fair share of Exiles find their cells and if someone needed a little help he would offer to help move them in too. After all, how were they expected to fight battles in the Exiles honor (snort, honor?) if he wouldn't return the favor and help them in return? It was only good business. The Usurper would approach the pair, Vera and Olga, and thought they two looked quite natural together. Perhaps this was the beginnings of a wonderful friendship. "Ladies," he'd greet, a small smile on his maw as his single Tiffany blue eye glanced in the cell Vera had chosen, "If you need any help sprucing it up, I know of a storage room full of bedding and random crap to decorate," he'd offer her before fixing his single-eyed gaze on Olga, "You haven't picked a cell, yet?" He shrugged, "Sometimes the cell picks you, keep your eye out, hm?"
If Vega shared her fear that she was being challenged, Olga would burst out laughing. She has no idea of the traditions here, or the tone this place can cement onto her words. No, she's just a small cat with a scarf who hasn't even really figured out how to walk straight, let alone fight for what's essentially just her place in a jail. Fortunately for the both of them, this doubt isn't presented to her, and the conversation continues as normal.
"I'm Macbeth, I just joined this morning, I'm still meeting everyone." She rambles, neglecting the temptation to stick her paw out for a sad, unskilled handshake, "Would you really let me stay with you? I'd have to take you up on that, I mean, I don't have anything, so I'd just be ..." She looks inside the cell at the bed, packed into a corner of the room. "I'd just be making one of those and sleeping in it, I guess."
When she sees Trash walk over, she seats herself. A storage room, huh? It'd be a nice start to personalizing her living space - or, well, Vega's living space that she's stealing a slice of. Olga wonders if she should start collecting things, if only to fill the room and entertain herself; little antiques, maybe, or something obscure like insects. She wonders what exactly is down there, just left for pickings. "You'd have to show me it some time."
He keeps talking, she keeps listening. Sometimes the cell picks you. Olga has no idea what it's supposed to mean in practice, but the look the Usurper gives her sends a shiver down her spine and makes it mean everything. Yeah, the cell picks you. She looks at Vega. She vaguely gets it.