Posts by s. sinclair

* A smile came to his face when confirmation was made that his name hadn't been forgotten— his relationship to the concept of a name was something more complicated than he could ever hope to remedy without a restructuring of his entire attitude towards them. He had three names, each the pillars upon which periods of his life stood, and in the throes of trauma were forcibly written over by a new identity; A new name, each time. The peculiar desire for his name to be known and remembered was but a manifestation of the paranoia surrounding his identity. Sinclair didn't see it as such, of course. He masked it all with the egocentric bravado he was known for; I'm Sinclair! Everyone knows me, why wouldn't you? Still, he raised an eyebrow at her comment. She sounded like him when she said that. "I'm sure you can't come up with anything worse than what I've already been called before," He chuckled, Ivory's stupid nickname for him coming to mind.

Her rhetorical question prompted a huff from the tuxedo as she began to snake through the well-kept garden of a twoleg nest, clearly beckoning him to follow. He scaled from the fence and traced her prints, joining her in navigating the patchy shadows and scattered sunspots with ears angled eagerly forward. Plenty to offer? He smiled, pale eyes wincing as a tall blade of grass grazed his cheek. "Oh, tell me more," he encouraged earnestly, mind beginning to flit through the roles and jobs he had available, and available for someone like her. He had a couple; A hawk, and perhaps something a little more specialized... But he'd wait to see what she had to offer before trying to categorize her.

* Maybe if he were more of a traditionalist he'd find himself siding with the rosetted ice-queen on topics like this, but really, Sinclair cared only for his business— and idiot joiners were surprisingly good for it. Easily manipulated into the skeins of his capital paradise; Anyone new and fresh off the streets was fair game to be plucked by this Spider's many legs. He saw Ivorymoon as someone who cared a lot about the quality of Bloodclan's ranks, which he could admit was pretty predictable coming from someone so brazenly loyal. Striking her silver scepter into the concrete and casting every poor fool on the borderline into her icy judgement— "Thou shall not pass!" Sinclair was never much of an altruist, but he thought that perhaps part of what made Bloodclan such a ..colorful place was the fact it was made up of societal rejects. Wasn't it kind of beautiful, in a way? Why not embrace the fact not everyone can be a powerful, stone-cold warrior-loyalist?

Sinclair sure wasn't. If he wandered up to the border to be judged by the great Ivorymoon he knew he'd never make it past without being crushed beneath her heel for his cheek.

When he heard Ivorymoon muttering bitter words he raised an eyebrow and smiled, in the endless senselessness of his mind he'd found it amusing how cold she was towards the idea. Somehow it didn't surprise him, either. Maybe she could use some cheering up from her friend— though he wasn't sure if it was really fair to label their relationship so favourably. He liked to think there was at least some degree of mutual-enjoyment for each other's company that existed between them, but at times he wondered if she was actually planning on eating him for breakfast. Was that fondness, or hunger in her cold eyes? He wondered if she still wore her crescent charm he'd given her one time, in a spur of confused feelings, and the desire for such feelings to actually exist. That would be funny, wouldn't it? "I just hope wherever we end up is.... Nice," He injected himself swiftly into the conversation, inadvertently introducing his own twisted optimism to them all. "If we end up living in a forest, I'm just going to-uh, leave Bloodclan, actually." Well, maybe not so optimistic.

* If Paradox had any concerns about her game being labelled too childish for the adults of Bloodclan to play, then she certainly needn't worry about the tuxedo who'd joined her, eagerly listening to the prompt from his place at a small distance. He was a youthful spirit in all the wrong ways, and thus at the notion of a game to take his mind off the ache plaguing his ankles, a jovial smile bloomed across his stark black-and-white features. The bedecked tom turned his eyes to the game-master, thoughrouly enticed, and also annoyed by her continued usage of the moniker 'birdie'. As she'd called him when they met before the move, as she was calling them all now. He didn't like it. It didn't stop him from wanting to play, though. He was a parasite that fed off entertainment to an unhealthy degree, and if he could twist this game into something more interesting he would (fortunately for the rest of them, nothing had come to mind yet). "A game!" His booming tone of course rewarded him with a few biting looks from a few surrounding travellers, but he remained entirely oblivious; Forever and blindly wrapped up in his own narrative like the rest of the world didn't exist. "I'll play, why not?"

He turned his frosted green eyes to the pastures through which they wandered, to the ambling creatures grazing idly in the distance; Horses, most would call them. Unfortunately, Sinclair didn't know what they were called— so he'd use this as an opportunity to find out. He turned back to Paradox, keeping his eyes from his choice as to not give it away. "Birdie sees... Something brown, and white, and about the size of.. Seven cats standing on top of each other," He started, content to remain purposefully vague. It was easy enough, right? For the first round, of course.

* Her techniques for suspense had worked, but as a cat who spent his days threading deals together with strangers and Bloodclanners alike, he knew his way around the techniques of a conversational artist well. Still, he allowed himself to cling to the cusp of suspense, his jaws even parting into a silent gasp as she revealed her offer. Information? A smile creeped across his face. That was new. He enjoyed surprises, and the tip of his snaking tail slowed to a measured ticking. Paired with his narrowed eyes and peeking canine, his message was clear; Color me intrigued. As she fell silent he was forced to ruminate on her offer, a single word.

Of course, he wouldn't leave this interaction without facing her own dissection into the supposed frivolity of his Web. So she was one of those cats who painted his trade with the broad strokes of uselessness. She wasn't the first, nor would she be the last. What was true was that there would always exist those who wanted items, and he'd keep providing. He was a materialistic dragon atop his pile of treasure, and for as long as the demand for it existed, he'd keep filling the veins of this pulsing network with gold. A laugh puffed from his nose, unimpressed. "You're not the first to tell me that, y'know. Don't you think I've heard it all? Hahaha," His chuckle was genuine, and above all, a sign he could care less about what she thought about his work. He had his own validation piled beneath the floorboards of his room, woven into the notoriety he'd garnered as the cat to go to for stuff and things.

It was true that he wanted to the information-brokering side of his business, though. It just happened to be that trading collars and jewels was much easier to oversee and control than information. If he knew what was going on with every Bloodclanner he could target his trades, too. "I have my own little Birds, around the Twoleg-place," he prefaced easily, dark ear flicking away pollen. He had always called them Birds, like they watched from the trees, flitting through branches. "They tell me things, but it's—honestly very inefficient, hahaha!" He didn't mind admitting that much- he wasn't exactly known for it as much as he was for procuring stuff and things. "If you like information so much, maybe you could help me out with that."

* Frosted green eyes watched the ebony tom slink away, turning focus to Paradox and then Stitches in equal parts suspicion for his strange eagerness to do everyone's hunting for them. It was all very funny— but he'd promised something shiny and he'd deliver. He disappeared into the back of the station while the charcoal male did his hunting, crawling into his room to dig out something raven-worthy for his work. He decided on a red bottle cap, polished clean by a meticulous white paw. It was practically worthless, but being the materialistic tom he was, he quite enjoyed the white scripture on its surface. Perfect for a raven, he supposed. He pinched the metal between his teeth and trotted back to the trio of prey-orderers, before long having his bird delivered— a mess of feathers and mud dropped unceremoniously at his paws. Well, it was prey.

He cast his bottle cap to the tom, landing with a clink on the station's wooden floor. "Hey, thanks," He offered lazily, leaning down and gathering the bloodied avian in his jaws. He'd be sharing his food, if Ryland was around.

* He found it odd how quiet the streets became when no upwalker existed to stir the dust that collected there. Mittened paws grazed lazily along the abandoned sidewalks, with a swinging tail, concrete powder clouding in his path. Masked eyes tumbled down the familiar structures of his childhood home— This was a place he'd been terrified to return to but had returned to empty. Nothing lived here but rats and birds and the cats left behind by their deserting upwalkers. He'd walked these streets before as a sprightly young tom with a boring future of lap-lounging ahead of him, only to sever himself from that fate as quickly as it took to pelt into the sunset with his tail between his legs. He found it ironic that he'd spent moons and moons rebuilding his life only to find himself standing in the very place from which he'd fled. At least no one was left. He hoped.

Spiked nerves had long since becalmed themselves, the own turbulence of his mind stilling and settling like the abandoned buildings he now walked idly betwixt. He wasn't sure what he was doing, or what he had been doing when a feline appeared in his path; black and white and rather bold, in the way he walked. Some would say the same thing about Sinclair's own stride, if not for the fact he looked like he was about to propose a very shady and shifty deal— lift his big black coat to reveal a plethora of illegal substances. He had no such intention this time, but from muscle memory alone he still had the gait of a hustler.

He hadn't planned on stopping to chat, but the stranger had other ideas. He huffed, clearly unimpressed by the inelegance with which he'd been stopped. For someone so impolite, Sinclair certainly had a laughably high standard for the way he expected others to treat him. Pallid eyes narrowed, an ear twisting backward as he parodied a derisive mimicry of the tom's interrogation, _{"ᴬⁿᵈ ʸᵒᵘ ᵃʳᵉ ʷʰᵒ^?"} For a few moments he let silence linger, vacant green eyes challenging the other tux with an unblinking stare. He then stated after the stretch of reticence— "I'm Sinclair,"— As though that fact should be obvious, even to someone he'd never met before. Graceless scrutiny travelled up the bi-color male, lingering longest on the bowtie he wore. "'You a local or somethin'?"

* track lol

* Sinclair honestly didn't know what was going on most of the time, so it wouldn't be a stretch to assume he had no idea what was going on now. As the flock of Bloodclanners marched their weary paws up the steps of the Stone-Den he simply followed, pearly eyes dancing between bodies both foreign and not for his travelling companion, from whom he'd been somehow separated in the excitement of arriving.

It was certainly an excitement shared by all Bloodclanners, each looking more ragged than the next as they filed into the marbled meeting place. He caught sight of the tabby and sped wordlessly to match his stride, to then subsequently be ushered to the sidelines. He didn't much mind the commotion and chaos— he was a cat who fed off all manner of calamity, even in the midst of such exhausting circumstances. As they settled to listen he could hardly pay attention to what the tom was saying over the utter relief his battered body felt, sore paws singing the sweet song of reprieve from their agonizing march. Finally, this tiring journey had reached its end in what he could only describe as an abandoned twoleg-place. He was both intrigued and surprised to have been faced with a group of locals already having taken up residence here, but he wasn't complaining. Ever the socialite, he was always eager to meet new faces, unroot new opportunities in the throng of natives for business or otherwise. Maybe he'd get around to it after sleeping for two days straight.

But where were they to sleep? Ryland had already voiced the question many shared. He wasn't sure if these massive marble pillars and towering archways appealed to his taste in dwelling, but he'd wait for the dust to settle before stirring it again with a complaint. Scamp's riling accusation caught his ear, and he smiled a toothy smile to think he'd already be sharing opinions with someone. So much for letting the dust settle. "I agree, it's— it's really a very obnoxious name," He raised his voice without a second thought, content to criticize his own faction at the drop of a hat. When he turned his frosted eyes to the rowdy siamese, it was clear then that Scamp wasn't exempt from the tuxedo's judgement either— and especially not when he thought he could get away with not-so-subtly picking on his friend. "Well what're you guys called? The Lake Boys?"

* He felt like an old man as he eased himself to his paws, with a wince reminded not even he would be escaping the maladies of old age when that time came. If he didn't somehow find himself murdered by an angry client or deal-gone-bad before then, that was. He didn't like to think about the future, but at times the inevitability of death plagued him in a fleeting period of dread. He would at least hope to live his youth pardoned from a perpetual ache like this, though. He needed to sleep, lest his old-man-syndrome become permanent. He seemed to dissociate out the marble courtroom like a dream-ridden ghost, snapping free from his waking slumber only to find himself standing in the gathered. He wasn't sure how he got here, but losing time in the midst of a mild dissociative episode wasn't uncommon for him. He simply looked obliviously about his surroundings and clumsily connected the dots: A tour?

He was interested in getting to know the siamese, for all he'd gotten was a terrible first impression. Sinclair was willing to forgive and forget as easily as that— though unlikely as it was that Scamp would feel the same way. That didn't stop the tux from striding towards him with a plastic smile, blind to his own absurdity. "I'm actually really looking forward to this tour, Scamp," He asserted with an open smile, tone swelling at the tom's newly-discovered name. On the turn of a dime he'd become the image of cordiality, but it was easy to conclude his friendliness could vanish as suddenly as it had appeared.

* hello !! 👁

*

Stitches !!! hereshe is !!! i hope everything looks good :)

* 'We clan cats love authority.' The comment was what had initially captured the tuxedo's attention, and to their misfortune it seemed to have been enough to bring him sauntering down the sidewalk toward them. Anyone who knew Sinclair would have considered it a terrible sight to see him approaching, praying to whatever almighty-powers that he might quell his appetite to ruin every situation with some undue bedlam. He simply thought it was fun to stir the pot with an inappropriate comment, venture far past the boundaries of pertinent social conduct. Luckily for the trio, Sinclair's chaos-filled impulses had been since curbed by the exhaustion of the journey, and any attempts to conjure a crude remark fell flat on the concrete. They were safe from his incivility, for now.

Sinclair's opinion on their co-habitants was yet to be anything solid, he remained a curious observer (and eager participant) of the conflicts that have erupted between the two groups. He hoped only that they would eventually give up being bitter about the inevitable, because he knew their anger would stop being entertaining to him before long. "Are your rogue friends ever going to calm down about Bloodclan living here, or... Am I just going to have to keep stealing their prey?" He needled Scorpion with a toothy smile, muted eyes twinkling with a twisted self-amusement. "Hahahaha—! I'm just kidding.. I'd never do that to such generous hosts." He was being genuine, then, perhaps his own backwards and cryptic way of thanking the old leader. He had in fact considered tormenting them in other ways, though.

* He had expected a more severe reaction than the one he got, even mildly disappointed to find the tom appeared to care so little about his absolutely hilarious impression of him. His question had been answered, at least. So he was a local. The confirmation brought a smile to his face, his skull tilting to the side with a newfound perspective— And as they examined each other he couldn't keep his gaze from lingering on the strange accessory he donned, and how he donned it with such conviction in his stride. Maybe it was the lake town's style, and Sinclair should soon consider replacing his thick, leather collar with something more delicate (if only he could pull his own collar off). It would be a terribly false pretense, anyways— Sinclair was hardly gentleman enough to appropriately wear one, as a bowtie would be inclined to suggest he was anything but the way he was. Something stiff, bold, and embellished with silver was far more fitting for a man with no subtlety or grace to his habits like himself.

'You new around here?' The conversation had been once again turned to the businessman, and forever the egoist, he was happy to seize the opportunity to talk about himself when it came. "I am!" He answered eagerly, breaking their locked gazes to ogle around at the abandoned buildings like a tourist. "And I am so excited, lemme tell ya," He spoke almost steadily, the excitement of meeting someone new having already ebbed away into more of a restrained but prominent interest. "I came here with Bloodclan, actually, and you really— You gotta come meet the rest of us sometime—" His invitation was cut short by the arrival of Flora, one of the other locals but one that had taken residence in the rogue group. He didn't know what the relationship was between their clowder and the rest of the strays, but it sounded like they rarely came in contact with one another.

"We're actually brothers," He answered on an impulse, emotionless green eyes pairing themselves with a very not-convincing smile. They looked similar enough, right? This bowtie-wearing stranger might actually even play along with his impromptu ruse, if he was lucky. "Go on, tell her our names, brother-dear."

* 'Sinclair?' He was in the middle of leaving the trio when the sound of his own moniker reached his ear, so he turned and cast his apathetic gaze to the singapura. He dropped the bird as she asked her question, a flurry of soot-colored feathers fluttering into the air. He raised an eyebrow, shaking his head free from clinging plumes astray. Venomous green eyes locked on the bug-eyed femme, for a moment invited to wonder if she was simply keen on annoying him, as she was often inclined to purposefully do. '..You must of left somethings behind right?' He huffed, the sting of leaving half his stock behind was still tender to the touch. Why she wanted to remind him of that, he had no idea.

"Yes, I had to leave a lot of it behind, Crazy-eyes," He answered sharply, still sore about the blow his business was taking. "What're you— You trying to rub dirt in my wound 'ere?" He gave a pained chuckle, anger dwindling into a sort of distant anguish. He didn't feel obliged to answer how he'd brought the rest of it over, anyone would've seen the sock Ryland carried and the collars stacked up the tuxedo's neck.

* Sinclair definitely thought he could get along with at least two of the local rogues— Scorpion was a tolerating albeit ancient man weathered by time, and Scamp was a scrappy little siamese with a rather booming voice. What more could he ask for in a couple of new friends? He ambled through the towering archways, pale eyes cloaked in a thin veil of curiosity at the shallow streaks scoring geometrical veins into the marble flooring. He was already warming up to the courthouse, which he had at first hated for its cold, unmoving atmosphere. Being holed up in a snake-monster nest had embedded in him the inane desire to fill the wide open air, but in allowing the large, dust-filled space to swallow him whole he could appreciate the impersonal roominess.

He meandered over the stony floor towards Scamp, momentarily entertained by the contrast drawn between a scruffy little cat and the massive, erudite pillars holding up the place up. "It really was a good tour," He built off the pallid femme's comment, for a moment compelled to make conversation at a time he probably shouldn't be. "Anyways.. I'll take a task.. Why not?"

* 'A lot of it!' His stare was nothing but judgemental as he watched her paws fly upward, squishing into her cheeks in such a way he could have sworn her buggy yellow eyes were about to pop clean from her skull. He was getting angrier with every ticking second, the raging flame in his chest stoked higher with every word. Why she was acting like this would remain a sore mystery to him, but one thing was for certain; If she continued down this twisted path she'd be facing his red-hot wrath in one way or another. 'But Sinclair that must of been sooo much...' He stood his ground as she waltzed across the marbled floor toward him, so brazenly needling the black-clad beast with a manic smile to sport. 'JUNK!' leaden-green eyes were collected into an unblinking stare so livid it could have seared holes into her own, and by god if only he could send her blind with the ire he felt.

A few moments of stillness consumed the pair as the hot coals of revenge began to ignite, catching the tinder in an absolutely furious backlash. The raven at his paws was kicked to the side as muscles fuelled by frenzy sent him bursting toward her— he was blind with rage, not thinking once about the onlookers. Ivory claws caught light as he made the predictable move of trying to tackle her; It was an approach easily evaded, but being a feline pathetically unskilled in the art of battle he had very few techniques at his disposal. His capacity for combat was nothing beyond sharp, violent explosions of rage— which were now entirely directed at the source of it all. "JUNK!!" He'd roar through the discord, throat tearing itself raw with antagonism.

* welcome !!

oh this is so fun...

* For the fifth time today Sinclair had ambled through the lofty marble supports towards the stage— His stage. He'd been put to work by one of the locals; why he'd accepted a task could be viewed as a rather questionable decision for someone who so openly despised being told what to do, but Sinclair had little else to do while he figured out just how to re-work the organization of his Web. His eyes moved around the scholarly obelisks with a peculiar interest, hovering about the scattered sparrows' nests fitted neatly into the crevices such an unnatural structure happened to provide. That scrappy siamese might have chosen someone more well-versed in the traditions that defined their clan if he'd known the slightest thing about Sinclair, and his rather blatant disregard for Bloodclan's culture and norms. Nonetheless, the tuxedo was happy to perform, as awful as it may turn out. Would they be throwing roses or tomatoes? It remained to be seen.

His journey had caught the glances of a few passing felines when he walked to the end of the room, the purpose in his gait giving away his intentions far before he'd scaled onto the table. He turned to address the few already scattered about the rather empty room, breathing in the dust-filled air with a superficial nonchalance. "Lake boys!" He stole their attention with an unapologetically booming voice. "I've been told to teach you all about my clan's—uh.. Way of life... Y'know- Since we'll be living together and all...." He had been instructed to do a 'thing', so he'd taken that to mean something of a question-and-answer 'thing'. He adopted the tone of a salesman making a pitch, unrealistically enthusiastic about something educational, "—So, if you've got any questions for a living, breathing Bloodclanner— I will answer to the— The best of my knowledge." Unfortunately that knowledge was a tad limited, but hey. It was better than leaving these lake-rogues completely in the dark about the new felines they'd be sharing their life with.

* Scorpion was the epitome of rationality- the measured way his words rolled off the tongue and the solidity with which he spoke left little room for doubt in Sinclair's mind that he believed every word. There was no arguing the sand-blasted male, and that fact almost happened to annoy Sinclair for he took a twisted pleasure from ripping holes in others arguments— simply for the sake of it, or simply to prove to them that they weren't as smart as they chalked themselves up to be. Scorpion's argument was an impenetrable wall with few cracks, a wall which Sinclair had in no hopes the cleverness to scale. He simply admitted defeat with a steady nodding, eyes drifting to the smoky figure of Wendigo as she approached. "Oh, it's a shock alright," he recognized with an annoyed flare to his tone, but with a smile that skewed the border between simple humour and sincerity. He was more sore about the state of his Web than the location he found himself in, and the terrifying ghosts of his past still leaving prints in the dust.

Unlike Wendigo, Sinclair had no interest in taking orders from anyone; reasonable or otherwise. He'd be treating Scorpion the same way he treated each leader before now, with the very same flippancy and apathy with which he'd observed the rise and fall of all the others. He could only thank Ryland for having the mind to step down before the Leader-Curse took him too, a potentiality he had no desire to ever ruminate on. The fact (almost) every leader before now had been mercilessly ensnared by unfathomable forces certainly didn't help Sinclair's attitude towards the concept, and so when faced with someone seemingly exempt from the curse, he wasn't sure how to react. Perhaps adopting the very same disinterest and irreverence that had protected him from grieving the others would be best. 'I'm sure we'll get used to each other with time.' Another voice of optimism, Wendy's. "Yeah, tell that to Flora," he chuckled, drawing on his own experiences thus far for the sake of a simple jab. "I'm just sayin', If I mysteriously disappear within the next few sunrises.... You know." Of course, he didn't actually think the calico would murder him— and even if she did, she'd surely parade his perfect tuxedo pelt around like a flag for all to see.