[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]https://feralfront.com/index.php?topic=2458849.0
FOR U REED
+ SLAM DUNKS SELF INTO NZ I'M FUCKING READY
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]that's it guys we're fucked
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]it's not funny anymore holy shit this is happening
someone hold me
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]hyped track
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]It isn't out of interest that you come rushing to the source of the cries, but out of concern—a feeling you still experience each time you hear a scream or sob, even when having lived in this place for as long as you have now. It's never been something you've reconsidered doing, mostly due to the fact that you've always been a worrier and if that hasn't changed now, it probably never will. No, you won't hold back your urge to jump at the sounds of pain and anguish. Survival instinct tells you it's not the greatest of your ideas.
What is a good idea, however, is the one that pops up when you arrive wide-eyed and stumbling over your own lopsided weight, telling you that it probably isn't smart to be running into a scene like this all guns ablaze. Your hurried pace becomes... less hurried? One thing for sure is that, while you slow considerably, your stride doesn't lose its fiercely interested air. Orange eyes take every detail in where they can find them.
You only realize after a handful of bated breaths that your actions thus far may be greatly unsettling, how you stand off to the side with saucer eyes, and it's something you remember you do without intentions; you'll allow yourself a cough to gather yourself. "Congrats," is all you can manage to put out, though it doesn't hurt your conscience in any way that you aren't able to say anything more. You don't know Permanentmemory. You've never actually given her thought outside of now, and any time she may happen to pass you in the caves or in camp and you of course wonder then about her, but never much. In fact, the only reason you stay in your place, you think, is your own curiosity, considering you're terribly close to having this same situation fall into your own paws. You won't lie, this is more for the betterment of your experience; nobody ever taught you.
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]It's time; you've known it for a while now, it's just that your mind has been blocking out the heaviest weight of realization, especially in these late days. Scooping up the darkest of the dread and shoving it back to the recess where all the more undesirable things you think about go. It's one thing among the pointless others that you're thankful you possess. It's like singing, when you go to find something to compare it to; your voice is okay, even bordering on good at times—it's honestly a pointless venture, not used much, but you're still glad you have it. Just for the sake of being able to say you aren't entirely boring. Singing, repressing dark thoughts. One in the same, as in they serve no real purpose in the long run but you'll never be heard complaining about either.
You should stop making comparisons like that.
Where were your thoughts before you went off on that tangent?... ah, yes, right. The source of your endless burying cycle. It started, you remember quite clearly, with the increased movement; just last night you got only a few hours of sleep before you were kicked—quite literally—into consciousness, and by then you were too exhausted to curse the stars outside so you just lay back and let it happen, admittedly feeling little pangs of worry about the strength, but considering how you didn't run very far with the thought you must have nodded off before you fully processed the situation. You hate to be so passive.
Your rest was fitful, the hours on your clock increasing in counting order each time you awoke bleary-eyed and searched first and foremost for your bearings in the little red-glowing device. It was downright depressing when you woke up. It was almost too much for your blurry-tired head to handle when you couldn't fall back asleep the last time you did. Somewhere in there, you cried.
That clock reads something around 9:40, you think; last time you checked it was 9:37, which wasn't too terribly long ago when taking the only six finished pages of your current book into consideration. The book itself is more of a novella, really, though that doesn't deter you from enjoying it. Within it contains a story of flying cats, sent from the city streets by their mother in search of a softer life in the forests far away. Wings. They capture your interest like no other, but even with those blessed with the ability of flight around you often, you've never gotten a close look at the things. You wonder how they handle—until, oh, oh god. The book of flying city cats goes, well, flying; you drag yourself sluggishly from the tangle of blankets you'd been nesting in to huddle in a more pat-down part of the mess. You don't attempt any further movement, because you aren't half as thick as people may perceive you to be and you know you won't be getting any farther. At least... at least you're in your room, right? All by yourself... yeah, yeah, you can do this, this will work. You got this.
The first knife-edge twist in your gut tells you that you do not got this in any way.
You knew it was going to hurt. You knew it was going to be the worst pain of your life. What you didn't know was how sudden, how hard the pain would hit you; you never picked up on how the feeling rippled down, made your claws unsheathe all by themselves and bury into the fabric below, like... like you don't have control of your body anymore. It's terrifying—terrifying, and agonizing, and—
—and it's happening. You can feel the first wave build, come crashing down with your barely contained cry, slipping between your teeth. They're here. Your firstborn. Right there. But you don't look back; not when you're scared of any movement triggering the inevitable dagger-stab early. Dagger stab? No, no; when you jump at the fresh pain the next round of spasms brings, you reconsider. You think you meant firestorm. The second child comes blazing into the world, but they don't end the show. You don't think you can do this any more.
Your screams feel like they're being hooked in your throat and ripped jagged from your mouth at this point, with no locked jaws to keep either them or the pitiful little sobs you make in anymore. You can't do it, you can't, and yet, somehow, another wave jitters down on blades, sinking into you, down to the bones, stabbing after the next child and pulling them away. And then...
...nothing. Nothing? No, nothing but you, and your crying, and the much softer crying from warm and tiny, tiny bodies piled up against you. Nothing but your shaking body to will back into the motion of turning your head, your eyes to tear open and fixate on the equally unsteady bundles at your side. One, two... thr—
...
...
The muted green of a blanket is very suddenly at eye level with you. You... weren't you just looking at... the kits, right. You find your neck stiffer this second time, though not in any way as painful as your previous aches, so twisting round to look to your stomach comes in disjointed movements as they did at first but in nowhere near the same level of pain. You're above it. The children, not so much; you have no idea how long you were out—as passing out seems the most reasonable answer for you gazing upon the kits one instant and having a faceful of blanket the next—but they're crying hard as ever, the three of them– four? Four of them? You could've sworn you hadn't had a tortoiseshell. You must have missed her. But you're awake now. You're awake and ready to see just what you brought into the world.
Everyone has expectations. It's a part of life; negative, maybe, but a fundamental piece. You certainly had them for your kids, and looking at them now... you realize they meet none. The bitterness rises in your throat, narrows your eyes critically. The first is a she, huddled closest to your chest, and reminds you of the sky at noon: pale, with a bright patch of orange over her squeezed-eyes-mouth-wide face, crying out like an indignant christ child. The tiny wails make you uncomfortable; you shift your attention to the next, unnervingly quieter kitten. This one—a male, you believe—isn't as easy to compare to nature's beauty, but he holds your attention long enough for you to take in his dull brown, puffed like a cloud bearing unusual rain. The third is surprising solely in that he is of the colour those clouds you thought of earlier should be. You shift your weight to free up a paw, wipe the deep yellow of your blood away to see a cool white. Odd. The fourth, the blurred tortoiseshell, you do not touch with your single paw, but lean in closer to give her a distant sniff; you discover that she smells just the same. How she fits in with the others makes you want to believe there is nothing off. So you do. Four kits, yes. Four.
And, you remember, with as much pain as you felt bringing them to life, four kits you never wanted. Sure, looking down on them pressing to your fur makes you feel fuzzy and warm, but this moment, you and them alone, won't last long. In fact, the end is already long overdue. You'll get to coddle them for a few days, maybe weeks, and then? They'll be out and about, and as soon as they jump from your hold, they'll hit the ground running for sure, and you'll remember everything you feared before they existed in the outside. You can't take care of them. Miles never gave them thought. Ship... god, asking him to help is asking him to chain himself to this place, and you know how much he hates it here. He already comes and goes, freaks you out after disappearing for a week.
The soft cries of the kits—your kits—break through your veil of thought, and, somehow, someway, it moves you all the way to full-blown tears.
//don't feel obligated to match! I had a lot of muse here :^)
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]aw, aile's an amazing character and you're an amazing roleplayer! I won't be forgetting either. it was fun, meg c:
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px solid white; width: 400px; text-align: justify; height: auto; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 130%; margin-top: -8px; font: arial;]I like I like
[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]yo don't worry my friend I don't expect you to be on top of everything at once <3
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]I can relate to that on a spiritual level
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial][youtube]RmixKATata0[/youtube]
still this
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]twin still needs to take his part in the mutilating rip
cheetos r vv gud
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]Too many people... there's too many people. You were never really one to surround yourself with company, but this is taking it way too far, especially when you're quite literally backed into a corner like you are. The kits wiggle. It's unnerving. "Out." That's all you say. It's all you want to say, while their murmurs of congratulations make your insides rearrange themselves. "Everyone out. Except the ones that want to be helpful." You don't fail to catch how very rude you sound, but you do fail to correct the tone. You'd make the effort with different people and if you weren't feeling like teetering on the edge of consciousness, but neither of those dependents are present here. In this room. Crammed with people.
You go down the line in order, deciding against wasting breath on Nightflower, Brackenwing, and Ululare since they're actually working toward a goal here. Then there's... the odd kitsune. Are those Dia de los Muertos markings? Odd, but you don't speak to her. The first in the mass you spend your breath on is another with whom you aren't yet acquainted with, a fact that only serves to make you even more uncomfortable, not to mention their size so close to the little ones. "What, do you you think I'm just going to let them die? They'll survive because I'm here." The venom in your tone hasn't yet bled out, but your expression tells the story for you: you're exhausted, and unwilling to play nice.
That's just what your gaze betrays when it lands on the ghost of a ginger in the back. Unwillingness... but, somehow, after everything, fairness. You'll chance something small. "Decided to show up, yeah? ...Well, c'mere." You raise a paw to him—shaky, bloodied and all—and then rest it upon the first body it reaches when you move it to your side. A glance tells you that body happens to be the dull brown one. "This one. You know what I want."
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]SLAMS FISTS ON TABLE
spanish buddies
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]YEAH YEAH WHO MAKES
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]I broke my finger while trying to lift an exercise weight when I was seven or something and now I don't like picking them up :^)
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]I can relate to dyst's with my own cat argh
hey hey but how bout this boi
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]dunno who twin would be but has someone already gotten kevin hart
someone needs to be kevin hart
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]I might move this guy aha I'm not really feelin it here
or maybe that's just me rn when I have no ideas
ah do you have suggestions just in case?
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[fancypost bgcolor=; border: 0px; width: 425px; text-align: justify; font-size: 14px; font-family:arial]okay yeah... I might move him bc I don't feel like I'm needed here?? I'm really sorry if it sounds like I'm trying to start drama but I suck imo oops
again this might just be me rn and it's not you guys you're just better than me and I don't really feel like I belong ahh
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