Post by Berlioz on Sept 10, 2019 19:10:37 GMT
((January 15th; open to anyone who might be in Paris. Early morning.))
Well... so far, so good, Berlioz supposed.
And by that, he guessed, he just meant that he wasn't dead yet.
How many days had it been since the army had taken over his home? The charcoal kitten had completely lost count; it felt like weeks and weeks had passed since that awful night - when armed and armoured figures, none of whom he'd got a clear look at, had raided the mansion - and the kitten still shivered to recall the attack. He had no idea what had happened after he'd been thrown aside and lost consciousness, and fear for Mama, and for Toulouse... and yes, even for Marie, pain in the tail though she was, curled though his gut whenever he thought of them - which was often.
What had happened to them? Were they out here somewhere, too? Had they been captured by the army?
Were they even... still alive?
He refused to dwell on that thought, shoving it aside just like he'd shove Toulouse when they were fighting. It just seemed impossible that they wouldn't be alive, somehow, somewhere. They were his family, after all, and family didn't just... die.
That prospect scared him far too much to admit to it being a very real possibility.
But if he was making it okay, surely they were too... and he was, if only barely. Even if his nights had been spent sleeping in the gutter, cold and miserable and awoken by every little sound; even if he had to scrape by on whatever minimal food he could find; even if every day felt like it dragged on for a long, lonely eternity...
He was still surviving. Who was the helpless little brother now, Toulouse?
Still, there was no denying that he looked more than a little worse-for-wear for these last few days or weeks. Berlioz had never been a model of neatness, his fur always a bit scruffy, his red bow often messy; but even so he was still an Aristocat and, as such, usually made at least a partial effort. Now, he just looked bedraggled; his fur was starting to resemble a little bit of a rat's nest, his whiskers drooped a little more than they should; and while his ribbon was still present, it was anyone's guess what kind of knot it had started life tied as. Put simply, he looked quite miserable.
But he was surviving, Berlioz reminded himself again. That was the key.
He'd even managed to procure some breakfast; awoken far too early, again, that morning, he'd seen a local baker setting out his wares; and, as soon as the man's back was turned, had made off with a bread roll that, while small from a human's perspective, was still roughly the size of his head. He wasn't sneaky nor subtle, but it seemed that surprise was on his side, and no-one stopped him. Once he'd got far enough away, Berlioz had hopped up onto a low wall and quickly begun digging into his prize. The outer crust was hard going for his little kitten teeth; but soon, he had gnawed his way through it to the soft bread inside. It wasn't on par with Creme de la Creme a la Edgar, of course; but it was good food, and he devoured it hungrily.
For several minutes, the kitten was lost to the world as he ate. While a career alley cat might know to remain alert at all times, Berlioz's ineptitude showed; if anyone was approaching near him, he would entirely fail to notice them at all unless they directly interacted with him.
Well... so far, so good, Berlioz supposed.
And by that, he guessed, he just meant that he wasn't dead yet.
How many days had it been since the army had taken over his home? The charcoal kitten had completely lost count; it felt like weeks and weeks had passed since that awful night - when armed and armoured figures, none of whom he'd got a clear look at, had raided the mansion - and the kitten still shivered to recall the attack. He had no idea what had happened after he'd been thrown aside and lost consciousness, and fear for Mama, and for Toulouse... and yes, even for Marie, pain in the tail though she was, curled though his gut whenever he thought of them - which was often.
What had happened to them? Were they out here somewhere, too? Had they been captured by the army?
Were they even... still alive?
He refused to dwell on that thought, shoving it aside just like he'd shove Toulouse when they were fighting. It just seemed impossible that they wouldn't be alive, somehow, somewhere. They were his family, after all, and family didn't just... die.
That prospect scared him far too much to admit to it being a very real possibility.
But if he was making it okay, surely they were too... and he was, if only barely. Even if his nights had been spent sleeping in the gutter, cold and miserable and awoken by every little sound; even if he had to scrape by on whatever minimal food he could find; even if every day felt like it dragged on for a long, lonely eternity...
He was still surviving. Who was the helpless little brother now, Toulouse?
Still, there was no denying that he looked more than a little worse-for-wear for these last few days or weeks. Berlioz had never been a model of neatness, his fur always a bit scruffy, his red bow often messy; but even so he was still an Aristocat and, as such, usually made at least a partial effort. Now, he just looked bedraggled; his fur was starting to resemble a little bit of a rat's nest, his whiskers drooped a little more than they should; and while his ribbon was still present, it was anyone's guess what kind of knot it had started life tied as. Put simply, he looked quite miserable.
But he was surviving, Berlioz reminded himself again. That was the key.
He'd even managed to procure some breakfast; awoken far too early, again, that morning, he'd seen a local baker setting out his wares; and, as soon as the man's back was turned, had made off with a bread roll that, while small from a human's perspective, was still roughly the size of his head. He wasn't sneaky nor subtle, but it seemed that surprise was on his side, and no-one stopped him. Once he'd got far enough away, Berlioz had hopped up onto a low wall and quickly begun digging into his prize. The outer crust was hard going for his little kitten teeth; but soon, he had gnawed his way through it to the soft bread inside. It wasn't on par with Creme de la Creme a la Edgar, of course; but it was good food, and he devoured it hungrily.
For several minutes, the kitten was lost to the world as he ate. While a career alley cat might know to remain alert at all times, Berlioz's ineptitude showed; if anyone was approaching near him, he would entirely fail to notice them at all unless they directly interacted with him.
