Post by bits on Sept 9, 2020 21:28:42 GMT
Hidden Hills is, as a territory, not a bad place for a loner to find themselves. There is plenty in the warmer months to sustain those who wish to hunt and those who wish to capitalise on the presence of twolegs generous enough to leave out food for the locals (or, failing that, twolegs with not enough forethought to keep their scraps somewhere the wildlife cannot reach). For those with a social streak, it's easy enough to run into other living creatures - though the presence of larger predators is prevalent enough to weed out those who allow themselves to grow too complacent with the territory and its potential bounties.
Jack didn't make a home out of the area - that would imply a permanence of position that he never seemed to settle into. After all, how else would one gather such a wide array of stories without taking to the metaphorical road every now and again? No, the tabby tom didn't live in the Hidden Hills, but he had found himself enjoying the area in the days he'd been present thus far. There was enough prey that, even when his less-than-impressive tracking skills failed to lead him anywhere, he was able to find some kind of sustenance that couldn't quite escape him. With the cooling weather, twolegs were trickling away to wherever they went when the greenleaf season petered out, leaving golden hued treetops and the crinkle of dying leaves under one's paws. Even Jack, with his less-than-poetic worldview, could appreciate the simple beauty in the changing seasons. Memories of noisy monsters and fields of rippling grains played in the back of his thoughts, a nostalgia that quirked his lips into a smile as the memories drifted lazily through his mind. He didn't dwell, instead appreciating the moment of dull heartache that accompanied the nostalgia.
The early evening sun didn't cut through the crisp air as it would have only a moon ago, but the gentle warmth of the light on his fur was more than enough to offset the mild chill of the approaching autumn night. Along the edge of the Hidden Hills, Jack sauntered along with not a care in the world. At some point, he'd have to find a place to crash for the night - yet no urgency was present as he strolled over the first fallen leaves of the season. Their crinkling compromised any stealth he may have had, but Jack wasn't aiming to sneak his way around the territory. He wasn't built for stealth anyways, and though he was many things - storyteller, vagabond, joker - he was not a prowler or subtle creature. The large tom didn't bother trying to hide his presence despite the relative proximity to the clan territories. Enough stories had reached him to be aware of the existence of clans, but he had no concerns being within eyesight of one of their borders. He had no hostility or ill-will towards anyone, so why would anyone hold hostility or ill-will towards him? Were it not for the pensive expression on his scarred maw, the large tabby may have passed for 'intimidating' Given that he stumbled mid-thought on the edge of an unseen root, however, he came off more as 'oafish'.
(The numerous scars of varying severity and age attest to the consequences of this potentially naïve point of view - but Jack's idealism had weathered all challenges thusfar.)
So as the twolegs left behind emptier spaces and he wandered to the northern end of the free territories, only lazy thoughts about where he'd like to sleep and whether he'd like to eat first bothered to pass through his unbothered mind.
Jack didn't make a home out of the area - that would imply a permanence of position that he never seemed to settle into. After all, how else would one gather such a wide array of stories without taking to the metaphorical road every now and again? No, the tabby tom didn't live in the Hidden Hills, but he had found himself enjoying the area in the days he'd been present thus far. There was enough prey that, even when his less-than-impressive tracking skills failed to lead him anywhere, he was able to find some kind of sustenance that couldn't quite escape him. With the cooling weather, twolegs were trickling away to wherever they went when the greenleaf season petered out, leaving golden hued treetops and the crinkle of dying leaves under one's paws. Even Jack, with his less-than-poetic worldview, could appreciate the simple beauty in the changing seasons. Memories of noisy monsters and fields of rippling grains played in the back of his thoughts, a nostalgia that quirked his lips into a smile as the memories drifted lazily through his mind. He didn't dwell, instead appreciating the moment of dull heartache that accompanied the nostalgia.
The early evening sun didn't cut through the crisp air as it would have only a moon ago, but the gentle warmth of the light on his fur was more than enough to offset the mild chill of the approaching autumn night. Along the edge of the Hidden Hills, Jack sauntered along with not a care in the world. At some point, he'd have to find a place to crash for the night - yet no urgency was present as he strolled over the first fallen leaves of the season. Their crinkling compromised any stealth he may have had, but Jack wasn't aiming to sneak his way around the territory. He wasn't built for stealth anyways, and though he was many things - storyteller, vagabond, joker - he was not a prowler or subtle creature. The large tom didn't bother trying to hide his presence despite the relative proximity to the clan territories. Enough stories had reached him to be aware of the existence of clans, but he had no concerns being within eyesight of one of their borders. He had no hostility or ill-will towards anyone, so why would anyone hold hostility or ill-will towards him? Were it not for the pensive expression on his scarred maw, the large tabby may have passed for 'intimidating' Given that he stumbled mid-thought on the edge of an unseen root, however, he came off more as 'oafish'.
(The numerous scars of varying severity and age attest to the consequences of this potentially naïve point of view - but Jack's idealism had weathered all challenges thusfar.)
So as the twolegs left behind emptier spaces and he wandered to the northern end of the free territories, only lazy thoughts about where he'd like to sleep and whether he'd like to eat first bothered to pass through his unbothered mind.
