03-21-2020, 10:46 AM
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He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.
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He kept fancying that Ivan was absorbed in something — something inward and important — that he was striving toward some goal, perhaps very hard to attain.
— Бра́тья Карама́зовы
Truly it stunk.
It was the reason Ivan usually didn't wander too far into it. Nothing good happened there. The marsh itself was an unpleasant smell for Ivan, mores because his nose was prized over his eyes. He had also met nothing but foreigners in the marsh, big cats and jaguar cubs that made the thin black cat choke on his bile upon scenting them. Nothing smelt as good as the library, or the homeliness of the town. He was born and raised there after all. Caustic was a particularly awful scent but Ivan had noticed of late he was beginning to tolerate it — which was not something to be proud of, in his view.
So there was really no reason for him to be here, but he was still irrationally angry about the Typhoon cubs painting their trees. The young cat had decided to take on this enterprise on his own decision. He furiously scrubbed at the purple-toned bark, muttering, "It's blue, it's blue." How could he not realize that nobody else saw the world in the way he saw it?
His large ears swiveled to the left as he heard the unmistakable sound of someone approaching. His nose curled up, realizing he was downwind. If the weather had worked in his favor, he would have sensed Alaric sooner. Ivan hopped off the bark and glanced around. He spotted the gray tabby and parted his jaws. It wasn't a fishy Typhoon scent, he couldn't tell who this person was from. Ivan began to run to catch up, his paws crunching over dead leaves and making the weird sucking noise when he accidentally stepped in a marshy area, usually he was good at that. He slowed to a trot and abruptly cut off Alaric's journey inward.
This cat was young, but certainly not as young as Ivan. Ivan was beginning to look more like an adult cat thankfully, his kitten fluff was going away, but he was still that. A kitten. "Where do you think you're going? This is Tanglewood." He stated, an accusatory tone stinging his words.
It was the reason Ivan usually didn't wander too far into it. Nothing good happened there. The marsh itself was an unpleasant smell for Ivan, mores because his nose was prized over his eyes. He had also met nothing but foreigners in the marsh, big cats and jaguar cubs that made the thin black cat choke on his bile upon scenting them. Nothing smelt as good as the library, or the homeliness of the town. He was born and raised there after all. Caustic was a particularly awful scent but Ivan had noticed of late he was beginning to tolerate it — which was not something to be proud of, in his view.
So there was really no reason for him to be here, but he was still irrationally angry about the Typhoon cubs painting their trees. The young cat had decided to take on this enterprise on his own decision. He furiously scrubbed at the purple-toned bark, muttering, "It's blue, it's blue." How could he not realize that nobody else saw the world in the way he saw it?
His large ears swiveled to the left as he heard the unmistakable sound of someone approaching. His nose curled up, realizing he was downwind. If the weather had worked in his favor, he would have sensed Alaric sooner. Ivan hopped off the bark and glanced around. He spotted the gray tabby and parted his jaws. It wasn't a fishy Typhoon scent, he couldn't tell who this person was from. Ivan began to run to catch up, his paws crunching over dead leaves and making the weird sucking noise when he accidentally stepped in a marshy area, usually he was good at that. He slowed to a trot and abruptly cut off Alaric's journey inward.
This cat was young, but certainly not as young as Ivan. Ivan was beginning to look more like an adult cat thankfully, his kitten fluff was going away, but he was still that. A kitten. "Where do you think you're going? This is Tanglewood." He stated, an accusatory tone stinging his words.