Permafrost Hollows salut i força al canut
/mAY ór kuh/
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Ooc — Rachel
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#1
All Welcome 

Rarely did she leave the peaks. She was a flash of gold amongst the arboreal emeralds that blanketed her milieu; no sounds heralded her movement — as was her feline nature.

Dextrous, pliant paws formed to ground and carried her lightly across the earth, as if she did not touch it but merely floated above it — despite such results, she was attempting no true effort to conceal herself. These were her peaks; she had declared domicile upon them years ago and her claim was well-established. The stronghold was shielded — it saw many creatures through its borders, including her lupine brethren that shared the expanse. The eremite had no qualms with such creatures as long as they did not poach her prey. No, it was the other cats she fended! and she did so vehemently, despite such instances being so few and far between.

The thought set her draping, argent pelt aquiver. The cat lived a life obscured amongst the dappled shadows and steep elevations that she was adapted specifically for; to remain anonymous, not seen or heard or discovered — until it was needed. Her scent and presence was thick in the spire’s upper reaches, but she so rarely descended that her summit sometimes went unattended to. The weather was stifling and as she descended, alpine timbers seemed to become thicker and thicker and then wider and wider, forcing her serpentine path to weave indiscriminately through the brush.

The apparition targeted a single birch and, leading with her forehead, ran her body against the tree’s thick bark. The grooves swept through her coat as would a fine-tooth comb, her spine involuntarily flexing at the shimmering sensation, and in this way, she scented her claim on this tree, then that tree, and then another — as if to say this is mine and this is also mine — every so often leaping amongst the low lying branches to tend to her territory above. Couldn’t hurt.
el gat és silenciós,  solitari;  el gat parla català  amb fluïdesa;
en la llengua comuna, el seu discurs és fracturat i amb accent

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#2
He’d been on the move for a long time now, the Bracken Woods had finally given up and their snare on the red pelt was released. How long had he been trapped, lost within? He did not know. But what he did know was that the feeding in the forest was mediocre at best. While the thicker vegetation benefitted a predator’s hunt for the plethora of spaces in which to lurk, it also afforded prey the same thing. In addition, with summer on the way, the game was moving out of the warmth of the trees and into more open terrain. So too would he move with the game and seek out range in which to call his own. 

After the hunt in the Bracken Woods, his belly had been filled and he was grateful for it. Though now he was on the move, ever the wandering vagabond and the wide eyed wanderer. Not much purpose save for survival to the next day. He sought the way forward and never back. The past was where it belonged, behind him. 

His path took him southward and to a higher elevation. As a wolf he was ignorant of many things but he could sense the thinner air as he moved. But the winds were the same here as they were anywhere and so he trudged onwards. His red pelt soon became contrast with the lightening terrain. The higher he went the more he seemed to stick out. But, being in the edge of spring, the snows were departing and leaving gentle puddles and creeks in the land, he would stop occasionally and lap the crystal fresh waters only to continue his journey. Learning the land was key to survival and even if he felt these lands beyond him, knowing them was essential. 

Rocks began to emerge from the ground, first as sharpened pebbled to sting his pads until he learned to evade their touch. Next came boulders the size of a wolf then a bear then a moose. The terrain ever shifted and the trees grew sparse and spread apart. 

It was here that Redmoon first caught a faint scent as he passed a tree. Doubling back, he approached it and scouted the scent more vigorously. He’d not smelt an air such as this. Back in his old home he had scouted something similar though this was by far more… deadly. He recalled the mountains afar to the south beyond the Teekon that lay west of the marshlands of his birth. Cats, sizable but no obvious threat. Bobcats they’d been called and he’d never seen one, but he’d scented and attempted to track one only to lose the scent in the tree tops. This scent though was no bobcat and the pungent aroma wafted into Redmoon’s nose, it sent his hackles to rise and so he stepped from the tree and lifted his nose into the air. 

While he wasn’t sure he wanted to track this feline down, knowing was better than not knowing. Little could escape his keen nose and sensitive ears as they twitched and sought out his new center of inquisition. He heard nothing at all but his nose felt the scent not of a trail but of an overwhelming station. 

He was approaching this animal’s territory… 

Showing no fear, his tail lowered, so did his head to parallel with his shoulders. Eyes on the horizon, he moved deeper into this feline’s lair. Friend, unlikely. Foe, very likely. But unsated curiosity never benefitted anyone.
/mAY ór kuh/
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Ooc — Rachel
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#3
Eventually, Majorca forsook the ground entirely and leapt freely amongst the upper reaches of the timberwoods. Her capacious form deftly navigated the puzzle work of branches, claws fully extended and gripping into the bark of the thick, norther specimens. She moulded to whatever environment she was in and thrived here just as much as she did on land, as much as she did in the humid, low-lying forests — but the apparition simply liked the solitude of the alpine peaks and was loathe to leave it the thin, chilled atmosphere. 

If she must descend, then she might as well take advantage of her feline capabilities. Up here, she was much less likely to encounter another, of any kind.

The gilded eremite only made it several more treelengths before she was halted by an invisible, yet potent intrusion. It was the scent of another, and it was not something Majorca could simply ignore. Involuntarily did her taut lips quiver, revealing a hint of her pronged ivories. The cat pulled in close to the treebranch, hunching between ductile shoulders, concealing herself incase the other was within eyeshot. 

From above, her moonbright eyes found him — a wolf, a pest.

The canines were more of any annoyance than anything else. They were greedy, taking prey as they pleased with no regard for anyone other than themselves. Only in the respect were they competitors, and only in this respect was she concerned about this brute’s presence. It was determined that she needed to descend and so came her catlike saltation, using limbs to reach forth and grab the land so that she might lightly, silently, alight upon the earth. From there she obscured herself in the shadows on the underbrush so that her form was nothing more than an argent flash of light. Her quicksilver gaze trained on the dog and tail lashed behind her in a devilish manner, observing him completely. 

el gat és silenciós,  solitari;  el gat parla català  amb fluïdesa;
en la llengua comuna, el seu discurs és fracturat i amb accent

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#4
If Redmoon was aware of the lion’s approach he did not show it as he cruised forward in through the underbrush of the way. Removing himself from the game trail, he set off into a thicker set of brush. It wouldn’t give him much in the way of cover but perhaps this route would led to a more open patch of ground sooner to allow him to draw out his hunted quarry. With light steps he picked his way through the terrain - up and over a set of large rocks, around a massive boulder and through a depression only to rise to a higher elevation on the other side. This was a winding maze or so it seemed though as keen as Redmoon’s nose was, he’d be able to track himself back out it needs be. 

But he was leery in another, obvious, predator’s territory. The musk of the feline was strong and so for insurance purposes Redmoon made his way through and occasionally stopped at a rock or a tree and he marked it with a line of urine. He kept his eyes sharp as he did so to make sure he wasn’t caught unawares. Though little did he realize his quarry was actually behind him! 

A twig snapped and he twitched his ears to the rear, spinning with speed to see nothing. It was then that he perhaps caught the notion that he was being hunted. His demeanor lowered and he flashed his fangs. Spinning back around he shot off at a sprint. Knowing he couldn’t outrun a territorial predator in its own territory, he sought out better terrain that would suit him more. It was doubtful that he’d find any but perhaps the flight in itself would bring this mysterious predator out of the shadows for Redmoon still hadn’t even captured a glimpse of it save for feint scent trails due to the predator’s own markings. 

He raced higher and the terrain gradually advanced in elevation until he found himself right back on one of the well worn paths that he’d tried to avoid. It wound upwards until the cool air became dominant and as he wrapped around the hillside he spotted the beautiful view of the Bracken Woods from afar. He couldn’t dawdle though, and off he went until the path deadended into a little cove where the walls on three sides were straight up and into the cliff’s edge. The only way out now was back the way he’d come - right into the eyes of whatever was after him. 

Turning about and perked his ears to listen for anything to signify the approach of this being. He was ready to defend himself! His claws dug into the dirt and prepared to propel him forward in a dramatic lunge. His panting temporarily ceased, such was his focus on the matter at hand. Though it wasn’t just that he was prepared to defend himself but he was also well ready to stand his ground. Redmoon was proud and he’d not have an apology cross his snout for crossing into another’s domain. No, he’d show this other that he was not a force to be taken lightly. And so he scanned the area, his nose kept his awareness up while his ears would let nothing flank him. 

This was it! This is where Redmoon would prove his worth.
/mAY ór kuh/
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Ooc — Rachel
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#5
Her image was obscured and fractured amongst the limbs of the lowland pine — and just so, she remained unespied. As far as the beast in front of her, she remained entirely unconcerned and gave a languid pursuit; her heart did not quicken, nor did the needlelike fur bristle and rise upon her serpentine rachis. It was but a wolf, more of a nuisance that needed to be monitored than an actual threat. Still, smokescreens were her nature and she melded tactfully into the background, every muscle and every hair artfully orchestrated into something so smooth and fluid it was almost invisible to poor canine eyes. Perhaps the only thing that might have given her away was the tail, pale and dancing against the vividly of their alpine milieu.

The brute was exceedingly nervous and when he began racing, the apparition returned the gesture. Her footfalls padded silently against the earth, moonbeam eyes carefully trained on the haunches of the wolf, given some concern by his erratic behavior. She welcomed many in her lands, including her canine relations — they were not her competition, as she was too far above for comparison — but he was threatening the sanctity of her lowland hunting grounds. Nearly all her prey chose the wooded summit rather than her own snowcapped elevation, and he threatened it all with his racket. He was becoming her competition, all upon his own spooked volition. 

Her presence needed to be known. 

The wolf slowed and she pulled ahead, slowing her momentum with several lagomor[hic bounds. As if a switch had been flipped, the apparition came into view and the gold of her being glinted in the dappled noon sun. For a moment, Majorca stood so still it was almost as if time had suspended — but then the paw, hovered ominously above the leaf litter, placed itself softly and through barely parted lips she spoke. Benvinguda. Deixar tot com està.” her voice was viscous and honeylike, thickly accented and spiced with sibilant flicks of the tongue. Majorca’s voice was an underutilized weapon — so solitary was she, so rarely did she encounter others, that her voice was largely mute. Sooner would she decamp, propelled not by fear but an aversion in inanity, than engage in discourse with any craven; especially this craven, who ruined her carefully cultivated hunting grounds as would a bull in a china shop. Majorca again froze and remained unmoving, prepared to react quickly. He was welcome here, and if the wolf heeded her words [as nonnative as they were] he would not be harmed.

el gat és silenciós,  solitari;  el gat parla català  amb fluïdesa;
en la llengua comuna, el seu discurs és fracturat i amb accent

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#6
The scent came in first and he pivoted as the feline seemed to materialize from nothing. In its domain the cat was a graceful goddess being summoned to entertain a lesser. Redmoon could feel the danger in this animal and he lowered his center of gravity in preparation to attack, his ears slipped to the side and were made flat as he flashed his fangs and released a deep growl in warning. Though as he did, he noticed and watched the cream coated pelt, she did nothing so overly hostile and that alone told Redmoon he was either not being taken seriously or that this cat was truly a friendly one. His nose rampantly sought for a better bearing on this cougar, so deadly a foe, he wasn’t looking for a beating. 

Then, she cooed a venomous symphony of words he understood so very little of. Her words alone told of a storied past which Redmoon was sure he didn’t want to step across wrongly. Though for she tone, he realized she wasn’t here for a fight. At least just yet. He relaxed and his growl vanished, as did his snarling display. He rose to his full height and his ears move back to focus on the cat. 

Needless to say her voice was attractive enough, welcoming almost, but a cougar was not something to be taken lightly. Redmoon would be a fool to lower his guard. He opened his mouth to give words in return and lost them - if he failed to understand her then how in the world, would she understand him. Clamping his mouth shut he took several gentle steps towards this curiosity, his eyes were wide and locked on target. One wrong step here could show him hostile where, in truth, he was not. An injury way out here could prove trying in the coming days. He needed to tread carefully. Swallowing, he produced voice. It came from a rough source, gravel and coarse though youthful in origin. 

“This is your territory.” He made a statement - his approach to this point had collected a plethora of scents and now in front of this cougar he matched them. There was no dismissing that fact. But he would not back down like a coward, especially not to one of the wolf’s natural enemies, “I’ve been roaming for a while now.” He paused, such a confession was pointless for he wasn’t in search of anything except for the next day’s light. A wanderer was all he could be. Though he’d already said too much. A vagabond such as he was, the cat would spot him as a scavenger and a threat to her food caches in the area. He couldn’t blame her if she did, he likely would seek out such an easy meal. Then again, he wasn’t even sure if she could understand him - an unfortunate language barrier. 

But as he studied her and her body language, not to say he was so in tune with a feline’s movements and such, he could see the disdain in her form. As if he was nearly insignificant to her very presence. Such a lordly attitude began to sour on Redmoon’s mind and he began to realize how out of place she thought he was around here. What right did this ‘cat’ of all things have to think so poorly of him? He almost chuckled as he knew well he didn’t even belong anywhere to speak of, she was very right! But the audacity was unbecoming all the same. 

He may have started acting like a total scab if he wasn’t so concerned of watching her every movement. “Know of any good hunting grounds nearby?” He inquired, taking a few more steps towards the cougar. The closer he got the more he smelt on her and knowledge was power. “This time of season, I’m sure you see a lot of traffic come this way.”
/mAY ór kuh/
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Ooc — Rachel
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#7
Majorca watched as the beast’s apprehension slowly melted away and he spoke plainly, the thick accent of the common tongue staining his words. At first it offended her ears, and the feline’s velveteen ears fluttered against the drawl of it and she was instantly irritated by the grating of it. It was no help that the meanings of the brute’s noises were lost upon her. She was a woman raised upon one language, and even that was a tool that went largely underutilized.  

— and, ugh, he spoke so much!

Perhaps it was that the words were meaningless blather, wasted upon her ears, that made her disengage; but her interest very quickly lifted and peeled away at the edges. Still as ever, and without a single golden hair out of place, Majorca’s salmon pink nose twitched as the cat decided this was too much effort for a creature that was no real threat. He seemed to understand the power dynamic at play, better than most; he was not one to be worried with. So the gilded apparition made to unceremoniously depart, leading the way with a sweeping movement of her ductile shoulders — but was halted when there was a phrase that registered in her lexicon.

Good hunt,” the catalan echoed in her honeylike tones as she turned to face the brute once again, vowels all ossified and pronunciation all stifled as the woman tested the sounds upon her tongue. Good was a sound made when one was happy, and she knew hunt because she consistently warned interlopers not to do just that. If the dog believed he was going to have a good hunt here, then he was mistaken. Her response came quickly and sternly.

Non. 

The catalan was nearing the extent of her knowledge common tongue, so ’no’ was all she could say; it was all that needed to be said . If it had anything to do with hunting and with her, then she would not entertain it. Then, the brute forgot himself and moved towards her and in that same moment her taut upper lip rippled back to reveal just the tips of her fangs — extraordinarily piked and fantastically sharp — and a large, saucerlike paw swiped at the air in front of her. Back off. It was more of a warning than it was any real attempt to harm the wolf; the thing was clearly on edge, which meant she frightened it, and that pleased her. Hers was the power.

Why here? the cat asked venomously, grasping at the common tongue and failing to find it. Her agitation was becoming palpable.
el gat és silenciós,  solitari;  el gat parla català  amb fluïdesa;
en la llengua comuna, el seu discurs és fracturat i amb accent

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#8
He leaned away from the faux strike and snapped in return with a sinister snarl on his lips, like his kitty counterpart, it was not an attack but an equal display that he didn’t appreciate her attitude. But he didn’t take any more advancing steps - the message had been received. Redmoon was testing the limits of this cougar, he’d never met one and knew it was a dangerous thing to be so near one. But he was very curious, and cautious too. The scents he’d obtained from the closer proximity and particularly how the swipe had wafted air his way, he could tell that this feline held this place as her palace grounds and she was the duchess of it all. Her lips spilled voice to him that was broken and limited, he understood little but enough to know her efforts. 

Clearly she didn’t want him hunting here. That much was painstakingly clear and frankly he didn’t want to challenge that aspect of her domain. Where with another wolf he’d simply challenge it to obtain dominance but with this cat, he knew not how to behave. Not that he wanted to contest these lands, there was easier prey elsewhere, lower on the mountain’s ledge. 

So, he took a stride to the left, a few steps and then he made about and walked right. A gentle pace though he never struck his eyes off her. She was fast, very fast, well toned muscle too. He continued to eye her up and down as the tension gradually increased. This time he offered no small talk to break the ice, clearly she didn’t want it. Then as if time stood still, awaiting them to fall into a dance of death, she spoke again and his muscles eased, her question was fair and so he desired to respond, no need in being impolite. 

“Passing through.” He spoke slowly and intently to reveal that his intent was not to find a place to settle, for Redmoon’s scent would be mixed with many lands and settings, he was a wanderer. 

He could tell she was growing impatient, but so was he.
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Ooc — Rachel
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hover for english translations :)

The brute snapped its slender, bony maw and Majorca did not really care much for that — nor did she care at all. It was at this point that the flashing apparition had begun to feel contrite regarding her decision to leave the permafrost and descend from the heights; the lands below were overflowing with common folk, none of which could add anything to her life that she really wanted or valued. But as much as she was loathe to be interfacing with the dappled man in front of her, Majorca knew it was for the best. She now realized how badly the borders guarding the lower outskirts of her province needed refreshing; and even though her scent markers were not necessarily targeted towards canines [more to ward off the infrequent, ghostlike passing of other felines], the audacious wolf persisted in his approach. Though he was still welcome, many would have turned to flee. Speaking of many

”¿On són els teus amics?” she spat, slipping easily into her native tongue as the thought began to distress her. Where there was one wolf, there was usually several more, waiting in the shadows for their time to strike — while the lion could easily combat one wolf and emerge a victor, success was not so certain when there was two or more. In that way, wolves fought without honor. The brute danced around her and so her moonbright, silverspun eyes remained locked upon his. She did not like the way he moved about and spoke so freely with his quicksilver tongue, even if most of the words were lost upon her. Her large head followed her gaze as he rounded about her, easily turning her neck [as would a curious owl] while keeping her body stilled. Realizing she needed to clarify in order to receive the information she so desired, Majorca rolled her dry, sandpaper tongue against the roof of her mouth and searched the registry of her mind to form a single word.

“Others?”
el gat és silenciós,  solitari;  el gat parla català  amb fluïdesa;
en la llengua comuna, el seu discurs és fracturat i amb accent

-hover for translations-