camille | joining

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    He couldn’t have been lost. He wasn’t, Georges was sure that he knew where he was and that he had come across the border of the Clan, but where did the border end? He traipsed along it, paws pressing against the ground as he moved forward, doe eyes cast inward toward the springtime glow of the territory. Every so often he would stop, scenting the air and calling out to hopefully catch the attention of someone that could be of aid to him, then he would step off again to repeat the process. He’d come a long way from his island home, following in the footsteps of his elder Aristotle, so he would be ashamed to stop now.


    He did stop, just to call out again, uncertain. “Um, ‘ello?”

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    Had Laureat ever been lost before? Well, that was like asking if a mammal needed to breathe, of course he'd been lost. So Georges wasn't alone in that boat. But he didn't like to talk about it, it was a tad embarrassing. So naturally he would treat Georges the same way by not acknowledging the fact that he was oh so obviously lost. Stepping forth the nimble frame of the Bengal feline smiled at Georges along with a well meaning nod of greeting. "Hello, I'm Laureat, do you need help?" He questioned with a slight tilt of his head in curiosity.


    // im an idiot, I accidentally posted this before it was complete lmao

    Oh. “Oh!” he said it aloud. The bright-eyed youth turned a quick pivot to stare at the approaching figure, smelling of moor-grass and wild flowers and rain. He blinked, once, twice, before his partially pale face flushed deeply pink. The whole way over he’d planned out his introduction, and yet there he was, at a loss for words.


    The reason behind that extended farther than just surprise, however. “Ah, oui, ‘elp!” Georges offered, aristocratic face breaking out into a wide smile. “My name is Georges,” he began, English clunky and rough before it smoothed into a pleasant jeeorje of his own practiced name. “I would— I’m asking to join.” Obviously he was not a native speaker, though he’d been dutifully studying for preparation. His understanding was coming along nicely, but his speaking...


    His smile fluttered a bit, and he breathed out a bit airily.

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    Ah, so he was French. Or so it seemed judging by his thick accent. But then again, he'd never been particularly amazing at figuring out where people's accents came from. But then again he'd encountered at least three French speakers in his so far short life so perhaps he was correct. Either way, he was happy to welcome Georges. "Of course, welcome to the Tribe then. You already know I'm Laureat and if you need anything you can always come to me. But for now would you like anything to eat or drink? A tour? Or do you just want to rest for now, I can set ya up with a place to rest."

    French he was! Terribly so, at that. Georges had grown up secluded among a group of snobs, surrounded by nothing but French-speakers that viewed him and his late mother as nothing but country bumpkins. He was happy to leave, following in the footsteps of his kin, though he knew that Aristotle lived here not when it was the Tribe, but WindClan according to his few letters.


    Laureat responded quickly, so Georges had to snap his attention toward the other’s words to be able to comprehend. Chez Laureat? “I am an excellent navigateur,” he confided smoothly, pulling himself up together to smile and wink charmingly. “I can find my way, but... rest, s’il vous plait.”

    //excuse my French because I’m super rusty

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