NEEDY | MOVING INTO A CELL

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  • Ermes had mentioned something about Exilers living in cells which Vera hadn't been so terribly excited about when she had first found out. Perhaps that was why she had put off finding a cell of her own, opting instead to room with a friendly NPC for her first few nights in the Exiles. That had gotten old fast though, and missing her privacy, she had decided to go out and find a cell of her own. It was surprisingly straightforward to go ahead and claim an empty cell. She didn't have many personal belongings as of yet, but she had been provided with the simple necessities by neighbours. It would do for now.


    The cave lioness was currently standing outside her cell, wondering if there was anything she could do about the thin bars that afforded her no addition privacy. Vera still had yet to formally meet her father. She had seen the older lion around once though, but he had been so far away at the time and more important things had been happening in the backdrop. Still, she was disappointed that he had not tried to meet her, and yet also known that she could have easily well sought him out herself. But something held her back from directly making her presence known. Or perhaps she simply liked to be petulant. Her mother had always accused her of such, after all.


    ✧ — WE LOST A LOT OF THINGS IN THE FIRE / TAGS

  • 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."


    dd245ey-4140357d-3b0f-4f0b-8254-cf5c9bb96d8e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzE4ZWIxNzZhLWM3MjktNDM3NS1iYjhiLWU4ZGFhYWZiYzQwNlwvZGQyNDVleS00MTQwMzU3ZC0zYjBmLTRmMGItODI1NC1jZjVjOWJiOTZkOGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.YoDzDh8HXJk4c4MrOaJX9vlI9XAtkVelZH2HDP6os88


    I'D HATE TO BE SHIT IN YOUR CUT

    BUT THE PACKAGE IS GONNA BE LATE

    tagsplotter — journal

  • Vera turned, hearing approaching pawsteps. She examined Olga curiously, her expression reserved for now. "It is," she confirmed. Was the smaller feline challenging her? She knew the Exilers sorted their problems amongst themselves, fighting it out. Rights were determined by strength. Vera wasn't unaccustomed to fighting - in the wild, you had to fight for every scrap and piece. But the idea of having to fight Olga for her own sleeping space seemed awfully degrading now. The mountain lioness lifted an ivory paw, gesturing to the bedding she had laid down in a corner of the small cell. "I'm Vera, by the way. I certainly understand - I just recently decided to find a room for myself, actually." She paused, considering a moment before adding, "If you'd like, you could stay with me until you find a cell of your own." The other Exiler seemed to be fairly fresh to the clan as well. Perhaps they had a shared experience. And now, she was trying to be kind, at least.


    ✧ — WE LOST A LOT OF THINGS IN THE FIRE / TAGS

  • 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.

    dd245ey-4140357d-3b0f-4f0b-8254-cf5c9bb96d8e.png?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7InBhdGgiOiJcL2ZcLzE4ZWIxNzZhLWM3MjktNDM3NS1iYjhiLWU4ZGFhYWZiYzQwNlwvZGQyNDVleS00MTQwMzU3ZC0zYjBmLTRmMGItODI1NC1jZjVjOWJiOTZkOGUucG5nIn1dXSwiYXVkIjpbInVybjpzZXJ2aWNlOmZpbGUuZG93bmxvYWQiXX0.YoDzDh8HXJk4c4MrOaJX9vlI9XAtkVelZH2HDP6os88


    I'D HATE TO BE SHIT IN YOUR CUT

    BUT THE PACKAGE IS GONNA BE LATE

    tagsplotter — journal

  • Vera turned at the sound of a new voice, recalling Trash quickly. There were a few select individuals in the Exiles to whom she was not very well acquainted but knew very well of, and as the head honcho Trash was one of them. "Hey," the cave lion hummed politely in greeting. "That sounds wonderful." She was quick to take him up on his offer. At the moment all she possessed were sheets and she was looking forward to acquiring anything that would help prevent her new home from looking so barren. "I would really appreciate that."


    "Macbeth". Vera might have shortened it to "Beth" if she hadn't found that diminutive too plain and suggestive of something utterly unattractive. No, "Macbeth" sounded better. Why fix something that wasn't broken. "Of course." She would never make an offer half-heartedly. There was nothing Vera hated more than a promise reluctantly given. She liked to think of herself as an honest animal. "We could take a turn around the territory later too. Since you're new. I could use a walking companion if you're up for it." She had a number of acquaintances but no one she cared to call a friend yet.


    ✧ — WE LOST A LOT OF THINGS IN THE FIRE / TAGS