Insults for Kicks

[Twigtail]

Twolegs were such funny-looking creatures! Why, if Twigtail didn’t see them nearly every day during the hottest seasons, he’d say they were monsters made up to scare the tails of kittens. But seriously, they looked like no creature he had ever encountered outside of their own special place by the water’s edge. Today, though, and for the rest of this cold season, there would probably not be any showing their faces. Whether they hibernated in their dens all leafbare or migrated, Twigtail wasn’t sure, but today he felt particularly curious. Things back in the camp weren’t holding his interest.

The reddish-orange tom padded quietly through the houses, his shoulders sloped and relaxed and his long neck sticking out in front of him. His eyes shifted from side to side, wondering if there were any creatures around, but there was little nervousness, or even wariness, in him. With tail flicking and held high in the air, he padded around the corner of the abnormally straight den, sniffing along the base. It always occurred to him how strange it was that they didn’t mark their territory very strongly. They stink so bad they probably don’t need to, he thought, purring raucously in the quiet space between dens.

But, as he padded along, all of the stink was stale, like the twolegs hadn’t been lurking. Even the nests did not smell so strongly. “Well,” he meowed loudly, feeling confident that none of the ungainly creatures (not that he had the right to call anyone else ungainly) would rear their naked heads, “I suppose I’ll just have to have a look in then, won’t I?” The skinny tom padded calmly around the sides of the dens, looking for a way in.

Of course, they were all shut up tight. With a light leap, he hopped to a ledge protruding from the side of one of the nests, sharp claws scraping against the hard material, to be confronted with what looked like a dark opening. He narrowed his eyes to little slits, peering in earnestly, ears pricked up high. Still, there was neither sight nor sound of the curious creatures. So he rapped his claws against the see-through rock.

“Hello in there?!” he yowled, loud enough to scare away even the fish in the water. “Hey? So are you idiotic, malodorous cretins there or not?” But he expected no answer. He was quite sure they weren’t there, in the dark, and even if they were, he’d never know. Still, it was semi-amusing to yowl insults at them, though it would have been more fun to do so at their deformed faces.

Suddenly, Twigtail’s head snapped around, his whiskers quivering as he raised his head on his long neck to sniff the cool air. “Why, ‘ello, love! he purred to himself. “What’s all this then?” He’d heard a sound, like the pitter-patter of tiny paws, around the too-sharp corner of the twoleg den. The tom scrambled from the ledge, claws scraping, and plopped onto the ground, head still raised, ears swept forward. He could smell the little mouse now, disturbed by the tomcat’s yowling. “Here I come, little chum!” he yowled as he saw a whiskered nose peek from around the corner. It shot away in a moment, but the ginger cat scrambled around the nest in hot pursuit.

[♫.Starredmyst]

The tall, straight-edged dens cast long shadows across the snow-strewn pavement, blocking the white stuff from the glitter and heat of the sun's light. White-turned-grey shading on the black cement, cold to the paws, numbing the nose.

A smaller pale shadow stood in a niche behind one of these dens, breath steaming the air. The slim white tom crouched, wary, green eyes glittering as he scanned the street in front of him; waiting for his opportunity, alert for others who might steal his hunting place. There was an old garbage can still half-full of rotten food, and rats frequently stopped at it -- it had been the young cat's primary source of food for nearly a moon now.

Echoingly empty though the place was, Ghost felt more at home here than he had since leaving his first home. The young tom was city-born and city-bred; he'd never had a life away from twoleggers until he and his sister had had to strike out on their own, and though they were gone with the seasons, he could feel their presence lingering in the air. Even the nasty cats who lurked here in the winter did not faze the tom -- he was plenty used to a cat with a harsh attitude, and was fairly certain he could out-bravado and out-curse the lot of them.

Then he heard it; the patter of paws turning down his lane. The young tom's eyes narrowed in satisfaction and he crouched down, hoping to make a good catch today. Hunting for Ghost was largely a combination of garbage-scrounging and trial-and-error stalks; he had no formal training. But this one was coming right for him --

“Here I come, little chum!”

In an instant Ghost had tensed, lips curled back on a snarl; possibly the ugliest, most scrawny tom he had ever seen was turning the corner, haring after his prey. And --

He smelled like Clan.

With a low growl in the back of his throat, the fiery young cat lunged, paws out, claws flashing -- trying to catch his mouse before the Clan cat did.

"Outta the way, crowbait!" he snarled, spinning as the rodent tried to dart between them.

[Twigtail]

The ginger tom scrabbled after the mouse, veering around the corner, and he was practically face-to-face with another cat. Tom, Twigtail identified by scent, not from the Clan, and probably hungry; he smelled faintly of Twoleg rubbish, like he’d been lurking around some lately. This the warrior registered without batting a squinty eye, even as this young stranger flung himself towards him, claws extended. A quick flick of the eyes on Twigtail’s part told him the claws weren’t aiming for him, but nevertheless the ginger cat skidded as he put the breaks on his meager speed, not particularly looking to get sliced.

The younger cat was, expectedly, faster than Twigtail, but he seemed a little uncoordinated as he skidded around in the light dusting of snow, trying to catch the mouse. With his pause, the ginger tom knew he wouldn’t be catching the rodent anyway, but there was no reason to let this newcomer get the prey the Clan cat had found, either. Though he had slowed his headlong rush, the older tom was still moving forward, bringing him closer to the slipping cat. With oversized paws stretched forward, the ginger tom suddenly changed targets, aiming to pull down this other cat by his flanks. Besides, what had this other cat called him?

“Crowbait?” Twigtail meowed incredulously, whether or not his paws connected. “You really couldn’t think of a better insult?” The tom’s voice was distinctive, raspy, but sounded perpetually like he was chuckling inwardly at some private joke. While his mouth was twisted crookedly in something that vaguely resembled both a leer and a wolfish grin, he continued on his little tirade. “Come now, you worthless mange-bag, love, you must have something more creative in that little mind of yours!” With his odd and intentionally-frightening smile plastered on his narrow muzzle, he tried to scramble around the other cat, vaguely interested to see where the mouse had gotten. If, by some strange twist of fate, this mange-bag had gotten Twigtail’s mouse, there would surely be a way to get it back from him, but one thing at a time, now. This game of insults was amusing, and may prove useful in the art of distraction later on.

[♫.Starredmyst]

The mouse darted away, sliding out between the two toms and running off in a different direction; with an audible hiss Ghost spun around to chase it, slipping slightly in the snow --

Only to nearly fall on his side as claws raked down his flank.

Ghost snarled and jerked away, spinning in an attempt to dig his teeth into the tom's shoulder in automatic retaliation. He'd been caught unawares and the other cat's claws has connected; several thin lines of blood had been drawn down his flank. He jumped back to a safe distance, breathing hard, eyes narrowed. "You wanna hear it, you disgusting old fleabag, you brainwashed little servant? I can give you better -- and I'll do it with my teeth if you don't get out now!"

Ancestors curse it, the mouse was gone. He couldn't hear it anymore; could only scent its trail as it scampered away, and that was quickly fading in the snow. He bared his teeth at the stranger, a hiss audible in his throat. That prey had been for Canary.

[Twigtail]

Teeth connected with the ginger tom’s shoulder before the other cat jumped away, looking rather upset with Twigtail. Frankly, the warrior didn’t blame the little scrap. He had cost the other cat his kill, and while he was at it, sliced a long cut down his rear. Actually, Twigtail hadn’t meant to get him so hard, but the other cat was spinning out of control. The teeth in his shoulder hurt enough for the ginger tom to flinch and scrabble backwards slightly, but he didn’t lash back out, except at what the other tom called him, and he lashed in his own way.

“Well, now,” growled Twigtail, feeling mischievous even as he shook his foreleg, rotating it slightly at the shoulder. The wound didn’t feel terribly deep, and he’d suffered worse before. Besides, the cool air was numbing it already. “Aren’t you friendly?” This was definitely the type of cat who liked to entertain, thought the mangy tom as he appraised him with narrowed, seemingly calm and slightly amused eyes. And then he sat, looking as calm as though there was absolutely no hostility or threat from this younger cat. Frankly, he wasn’t terribly frightening, but Twigtail kept his observant eyes on him, just in case.

Adopting as close to a fatherly tone as the macabre tom could muster in his acting like a mentor, he meowed, “Your first insult wasn’t quite creative. ‘Fleabag’ is one I’ve heard before, as it’s what most cats seem to think when they see anybody whose fur is scruffy enough to suggest a parasitic problem.” His speaking this way was very intentional, of course, as it was part of his own private joke. After all, he doubted he could properly mentor an apprentice in the sense the Clan had, but what Twigtail could teach this young wanna-be fighter was a couple good slurs. Still, he was mildly impressed by the younger cat’s second one.

“As for ‘brainwashed servant,’” Twigtail continued, observationally and amiably, “that is an interesting one.” After a moment’s thought, he added, “And, more often than not, true in its own respect.” The slight praise probably would not diffuse the other cat’s anger, though the ginger tom partially hoped it would. It would be a bother to get his other shoulder bitten, and he didn’t particularly want another story to tell the Clan when he got home, though he could manage it if it was necessary. “I take it that, by your insults, you suggest I am subservient to another cat, more particularly of the Clan leader, and abide by his whims without question?”

[♫.Starredmyst]

The white cat watched, tense, as the other tom backed off from him a few quick steps; he didn't lose his wary crouch, though the stranger seemed oddly -- amused -- rather than particularly angry.

Ghost was certainly startled by the lecture he then received.

The scrawny ginger tom proceeded to dissect his insults, bit by bit, and give him a detailed explanation of what made them stupid. Well, the first one --

"Yes," Ghost spat in response to Twigtail's question, "what do you expect me to think?" He stayed tense, unwilling to release his anger, and his blood near boiled at the direction the conversation was taking. "Your d**n leader's whim pretty near got me and my sister killed, you know."

All the same, the young tom felt a certain sense of...respect for the stranger. Not appreciation, or anything so benign; but respect for something of a kindred spirit. His green eyes glittered as he studied the ginger tom. "So what'd you suggest I call you, Clancat?"

[Twigtail]

Twigtail didn’t bother to correct the younger tom as he grumbled about the IvoryClan leader’s less-than-friendly tendencies. As he listened, the ginger cat had to stifle a chuckle, for the time being, anyway; the other tom would probably claw off Twigtail’s remaining ear as soon as he uttered a giggle. And besides, the loner wasn’t done speaking. He asked his final question, and the ginger tom answered quickly, brightly, “By my name, of course.” And, of course, he didn’t offer his.

Before the white cat could interject, Twigtail returned to what the loner had said before, about their leader. “Well,” he meowed, unable to keep a chuckle out of his voice, “it certainly sounds like you are chummy with our most wonderful Patchstar.” He shook his head mockingly, leering unpleasantly, but spoke with utter solemnity. “I’d bet you didn’t call him O Most Esteemed Fat One. I hear he requires all parts of his title these days.” It was obvious that his loyalties didn’t lie with his Clan leader, but the worthless old son-of-a-dog was just asking to be insulted, just by being the way he was.

But while Twigtail went on his little tangent, he hoped that the loner would bring him back to the subject of names. Truly, the ginger tom’s rant was just a guise while he collected his thoughts. He wanted a snazzy answer for when the loner actually asked him what his name was, and in the space of the newly-directed insults, he thought of one, complete with an entertaining backstory. But he wouldn’t bring it up on his own, if he could avoid it, because then it would sound too planned. He wanted to leave at least a little room for questioning, for the other cat to wonder, if just for a moment, if this crazy ginger tom actually was called what he said he was called.

The warrior took a deliberate pause, waiting for the loner to speak now, as he opened his mouth slightly in the guise of continuing on a pointless diatribe.

[♫.Starredmyst]

"By my name, of course."

Ghost snorted at the words; he opened his mouth to make a smart retort, but the tom clearly wasn't going to let him speak. The white tom found himself amused, unwillingly, by the stranger's description; he could most certainly see the stupid leader called by such a title -- and would have paid any price to see the look on the old tom's face when somecat actually used it.

At last, the Clan cat paused for breath; Ghost seized the opportunity, interjecting an insult of his own.

"Oh, I'm sure it was the title that did it; he actually ordered us killed you know," the slim tom answered conversationally. "But it needs a little more depth -- you're missing points. Say, 'idiotic,' 'manipulative,' and 'ugly' -- though I've gotta say you beat him on that last point." Ghost realized suddenly that he'd relaxed completely, sitting down where he was and tilting his head slightly in the other tom's direction; but, being fairly certain this cat wasn't going to do him any harm, he couldn't bring himself to get upset again.

"You didn't tell me what that name was, stranger," he added before the ginger tom could get the bit in his teeth once more. "I want to know who owes me a mouse."

[Twigtail]

The loner took Twigtail’s intended pause, as was planned, this time discussing the Clan cat’s insults. It was a surprising twist for the conversation to take, the ginger tom barely admitted to himself as his triangular ears pricked in newfound interest, yellow-green eyes brightening in their sockets. A smirk twisted the ginger tom’s mouth, his way of agreeing with the other cat on… well, just about everything. Their fondness for Patchstar was quite transparent, the ginger tom thought as he lifted a paw to nibble on an overgrown claw. But in all seriousness, this white cat’s not half bad. Indeed, of all cats, Twigtail could feel some sort of fondness for this one, if he kept this up.

This time, Twigtail really was about to speak, though he hadn’t forgotten what else he wanted to say, when the loner continued. Lowering his paw, the warrior narrowed his pale eyes impishly. “No, I did not tell you my name,” he agreed, deciding to ignore the comment on the mouse. As far as the Clan cat was concerned, they were square when it came to that little hunting mishap. Twigtail had been after it, and the loner had gotten in the way, so it was, quite technically, Twigtail’s mouse. But there was no point in picking a fight over some scrawny rodent that was long gone now.

“But I suppose,” the Clan cat continued slowly, twisting his head to scratch at an itchy spot at the base of his ear with a hind paw, “that – mmph! Ah, that’s better – that to call me by name, you’d need to know it, wouldn’t you?” The question was rhetorical. “My name is Kitteneater, a name I rightfully earned in my Clan.” And he said it with utter, convicted solemnity.

Well, very obviously, Twigtail’s name was, in fact, not Kitteneater, nor had anyone ever called him that (at least, not to his face they hadn’t), but the ginger cat had already spun a wild yarn in his head for his own entertainment. Clearly, Twigtail didn’t plan to find out whether the propositions in said story would work out or not, since he was not cannibalistic and did not plan to ever eat his own kind, but still, the details all played out in his mind, in all their morbid and gory splendor. It was the detail that really made the story.

Twigtail realized, after a moment, that he had paused, and was most likely smirking smugly, pleased with his own creation despite his solemn behavior before, and probably looked as amused as he felt. Deciding that he couldn’t return to a poker face at the moment, he smiled broadly and looked the loner in the eye, a disconcerting gesture for any creature in the animal kingdom. He thrust his head forward on his long, bony neck, hunching his shoulders and looking generally unpleasant. “Would you like to hear the story of how I came to be called Kitteneater?” he asked in an eager voice.

[♫.Starredmyst]

Ghost waited, a little impatiently, for the strange tom to come out with his name; the cat seemed quite intent on itching his ear, and Ghost backed away a little in spite of himself, wondering if his earlier "fleabag" comment had hit close to home.

His pale eyes widened, then narrowed skeptically, as he heard the name.

"Kitteneater?" the younger tom echoed dubiously, head tilting to one side. "That name's an insult in and of itself."

The ginger cat had paused, looking rather smug and distracted, and Ghost wasn't entirely certain he'd heard. After a moment, the self-titled Kitteneater seemed to get back to himself and leaned forward, staring into his face, and spoke; Ghost flinched away, his mind screaming for a little personal space, and leaned backwards, eyes flicking down at the pavement.

"Yeah, I think I wanna hear it." It was clear he didn't plan to believe a word of the story, either.

[Twigtail]

It was good the loner wanted to hear the story (belief wasn’t quite as important to Twigtail, anyway, he just wanted to go on his spiel). Besides, regardless of what the other cat said, this ginger tom was intent on telling the tale. It was lovely and gruesome. The warrior, still intently close to the white tom, hissed dramatically, “I came up with the idea of eating the weakest kits in the harshest seasons. The ones that wouldn’t survive were made use of in this way, and because of this great plan, I was rewarded with the name of Kitteneater.”

Twigtail pulled back, realizing he had been bending closer and closer to the other tom who clearly needed a little elbow room. Still, the mangy tom didn’t look particularly repentant, taking his drawing back as an excuse to nibble the outer sheath of a claw on his other paw. He was thoughtful for a minute, gathering his many, many thoughts on the subject to a string of coherent phrases. What he’d said before clearly wasn’t enough. The real meat of the story, pardoning the bad pun, was in all the gory details that Twigtail imagined, though he certainly didn’t know for sure.

“Kit-eating is truly beneficial to the Clan,” he said, looking grave again as he dropped his paw, and his tone became conversational. “ In the coldest seasons, they provide essential nutrition to our diet. And they can be very large, at that. Of course, they’re at peak quality at their youngest stages, I’d say about five weeks, which is my preference to say the least. Still, when they’re very young, they have a very particular flavor, a taste to die for!” Twigtail let his enthusiasm for the story color his voice, his intention being that it would make him sound enthusiastic about this particular diet. “The taste is so creamy, and subtly sweet, reminiscent of mother’s milk while resonating with the substance of true meat. And the flesh is so soft, not like that stringy stuff you get from rodents. Yes,” he concluded, licking his lips intentionally, “kittens are a fodder like none other.”

His details were complete, every one of them crafted to perfection, if Twigtail did say so himself. A delectable anecdote. But of course, enough wasn’t enough. The ginger tom jutted his neck forward again, smiling eerily, forcing his eyes as wide as they could go. “Doesn’t it make you want to go eat kittens?” he pressed, simpering unpleasantly.

[♫.Starredmyst]

Ghost's wrinkled nose reflected mingled disbelief and disgust at Twigtail's words, and he glared at the ground until the tom had the politeness to give him a little space. That disgust grew with every word the tom spoke -- and, though he was careful to let it slide away from his face as fast as it rose in him, the disbelief too.

He'd heard plenty of horror stories from the loners and rogues around the territory -- many, many of the cats here had a grudge against Clan cats, and didn't hesitate to spill it to any cat with a willing ear. Ghost himself was one of them, and had drunk every single one with ears wide open; he'd told his story in turn to many, adding to the tab against the reigning band. But never, not even from the most battle-hardened, grim old exiles, had he heard a story of eating kits.

So dropped a mask over his face, hiding that skepticism and disgust, covering it with a curiosity intense enough to match the stranger's eagerness. And he decided to give the tom back as good as he got.

"You know..." the white cat said, thoughtfully, taking on a pointedly relaxed pose; he tilted his head to one side, absently licking his paw and drawing it across his whiskers. "You know, the way you put it, it really...kind of...does." Now it was his turn to look straight in "Kitteneater's" eye, and he gave the older tom a wicked grin. "Seriously. I think I'm hungry. Have you got any kits to spare?"

He forced his laughter into earnestness, staring with wide-eyed innocence at the other tom. Truthfully, he was hungry -- if for more ordinary prey -- and the yawning pit in his stomach only helped to enforce the lie.

[Twigtail]

Twigtail’s entire story was just that: some story he thought up on the spur of the moment to shock his newfound company, just because it was so repulsive and impossible that one just had to laugh. Of course, oftentimes, the reactions the warrior got out of cats for his behavior and stories were much more amusing than morbidity itself, making this case, with this loner, even rarer. The ginger cat’s eyes widened, his only sign of surprise, even as he grinned broadly, at the younger cat’s intentional, possibly forced, relaxation and composure, and his replies after that.

The younger tom locked gazes with the older, looking positively nefarious as he summed up. Twigtail’s mouth, which had been parted slightly with fervor, closed now, and his eyes narrowed, still looking into the ostensibly earnest stare of the white cat. Bony shoulders, jutting out of the raggedy body, started to shudder, and the warrior unintentionally snorted, practically right into the loner’s face. Knowing this, and at the moment not wanting to be quite so rude, the ginger cat pulled back, then flung his head skyward and laughed openly. His laugh was brassy and loud, deep despite its owner’s raspiness, and was howled into the sky for the sheer hilarity of it all. The younger tom’s reply… that was classic! And he actually played along! That never seemed to happen.

Still snorting, Twigtail lowered his gaze to look into the semi-pale eyes of the younger tom. “Hate to admit it,” the Clan cat grunted, “but you’re actually not half bad at that. You have potential, sonny,” he said with a slightly nasty grin. “You’ve a sense of humor, that’s for sure. Still, if you’re going to start out trying for a demonic look, don’t instantly change to innocence, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Go for one or the other, for sure. Pick one or the other.” The answer he had gotten was surprising, but the ginger tom wasn’t able to reconcile that wicked grin with the intentionally guiltless eyes, especially with the loner’s reactions to him earlier in their encounter. It was nearly convincing.

Feeling an itch on his shoulder, he leaned to the side to get at it with a hefty hind paw. “But I’m afraid I’ve eaten the last of YEEOWCH!”

Instantly, his hind paw was down and Twigtail was twisting to take a look at his shoulder, which suddenly screamed in protesting pain. “Aw, you rotten little bugger, you got me good!” the warrior groaned as he realized he’d scratched open the barely-clotted bite wound from before. The cold had numbed the pain, and he’d all but forgotten about it. The ginger tom turned reproachful pale eyes on the younger tom. But after a moment, the crazy old cat grinned, as if again hearing some joke inside his head.

[♫.Starredmyst]

Ghost watched as the stranger snorted, and his shoulders started to shake; the white tom backed off a pace, wondering if the cat was going into some kind of fit, when "Kitteneater" threw his head up into the sky and burst out laughing.

Ghost couldn't help it; he lost his own fragile hold on control at the sound, and broke down snickering as well. He ducked his head, his own slim shoulders shuddering as he tried to calm down -- he managed, barely, to catch his breath as Twigtail began speaking again, and offered a wry grin and a brief glance at the other cat's eyes. "I'd have started laughing if I kept smiling," he replied with a shrug, the last of his barriers down. It didn't matter so much if this was a Clan cat; clearly he thought as little of Patchstar as Ghost did himself, and had a similar, if somewhat more gruesome, sense of humor -- and that was certainly more than Ghost ever would have expected from one of the tyrants of forest and field.

He schooled his face into expressionlessness, seeing that "Kitteneater" was planning to go on with the banter -- then winced as the tom yowled right in his ear. Though he'd backed off somewhat to scratch his shoulder, the ginger cat was still practically face-to-face with Ghost, and his yelp was painfully loud. Ghost ducked his head in amused embarrassment, backing off a couple paces and shaking his head to clear it.

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that, but I really am hungry." He paused a second, eyes dark. "Dunno what we're gonna eat tonight...that was for Canary, and I haven't even thought about myself yet. Oh -- name's Ghost, by the way, Sir Kitteneater. Been here, eh, two moons now? The Steamed Brainless Fat chased us off your territory towards the end of autumn." He chuckled quietly at the twist on Twigtail's earlier title; the shell-shaped locket around his neck, which he'd until now habitually ducked his head to hide, clinked softly with the motion.

[Twigtail]

It was only fair that the ginger tom, who had wasted time with a random rant on the benefits of eating offspring, allowed his loner company to, after his apology, continue with his own little spiel. In the meantime, Twigtail lapped at the tiny droplets of blood that beaded the already-reddish fur on his shoulder. The metallic taste of his own blood was unpleasant in his mouth; he’d never be able to eat kits in reality, he thought, if only because of that unappetizing flavor of cat blood. Still, he listened with a twisted ear, and turned to purr in appreciative amusement at the new nickname offered by the white cat.

Speaking over the clinking of that doodad around the other cat’s neck, Twigtail meowed, “Well, you ain’t lying, I can tell you that much. Sounds just like the old coot. Though I wonder why he’s steamed… Perhaps from the condensation in the camp? He never leaves there, that pathetic pouch of lard.” It felt good, to gossip so with this young little cat who’d apparently been in a bad spot with the warrior’s favorite topic for gossip. With the Clan cats, he couldn’t bad-mouth Patchstar without being judged all over the place.

Rising to skinny legs that had lean muscled cramped with cold, Twigtail arched his back and straightened his legs in a joint-popping stretch as he continued, “Well, Ghosty, I take it you realize my name’s not Kitteneater. Though I must say—” The ginger tom grunted as he completed his stretch, then loosened his muscles and stood before the white cat. “—it’d be interesting to see reactions if you called me that in front of any other cat. I could share my story again.” The warrior grinned wolfishly at the thought. “But when it’s just you ‘n me, call me Twigtail. Or Kitteneater, if you really prefer.” The last part was an amendment.

“And now, if you’re hungry, go hunt something. Where there’s one mouse, there’s bound to be more. Come, now.” Long neck down as Twigtail sniffed the ground with his small red nose, he padded after a fading scent-trail in the snow. More tell-tale were the infinitesimally small tracks [I’m assuming it’s not snowing, but if it is, pretend I said nothing.] skidding through the powdery snow. “Seems to me your earlier catch headed off over there.” The ginger tom gestured with a flick of his muzzle before turning his pale eyes to the younger cat. “Well, go on, then. Go get eats!”