[Rainbowfox Ari]

Ooooh. *Feels like a newb* Well, I do have this:

In the rain. At night. Lost and wandering with nowhere to go, and nothing to explain what had happened to him. He couldn't even remember.. snatches of words... phrases... blurred faces, and misplaced names. Where was he? WHO was he? Was there any rhyme to his reason at this point? Or was he simply fishing in the dark for answers that would never come? Was there any point in even dwelling in his own situation, stressing his own mind for such sake as to recover thoughts and emotions that might have never existed in the first place? Or to strain an already-taxed body for some semblance of a journey's end - from a place that might not even be real? Was all of this an imagining of a dreamworld, taking him far beyond the confines of truth and logic? Or was there some grain of fact in all of this, which he could hold to and draw from, to form the pictures in his mind that plagued him by remaining just out of reach.

All he knew right now was what he was living. The wet, yet solid, ground under his pawpads, and the fresh scent of an odd sort of death in the air. When had his senses ever been this acute? And when had the rain ever been this cold and lulling? He was frozen to the bone, fur soaked and matted with mud, blood, dirt, and other such refuse of the gutter. Haunting, space-colored eyes - unnatural in ANY animal - complimented the black fur, giving the beast the impression of something mysterious and magical. A familiar of old. But in such a state. One ear was bleeding and torn, as well as several spots on his small body. Bones showed through, just above the visibly pulsating heart and pumping lungs. Such a thin and scraggly creature to be roaming in a storm. A vet would have surely put him down as a lost cause.

Yet, there was something about him that was enticing. Like that last little bit of cake that just begs to be eaten. One simply HAD to know of this creature. To see it. To touch it. And the creature itself was much obliging to this notion. Slowly, caution written in the odd eyes and stance of the frail body, the cat approached the one who smelled of death.

Picking his way with his paws, toward the odd one who called him so sweetly, he left his cardboard shelter with an air of uncertainty. And what creature could blame him? Soggy as it was, the box had been a haven. A destroyed haven now - as the weight of the very water the rain produced proceeded to collapse the roof as the cat was leaving, granting him a double soaking. He looked like a well-drowned rat, and felt like one too. One weak 'miaow' was given to the dead-one, as he approached further. Now, he was wet, tired, and very hungry.

As the animal drew closer to the vampire, his eyes shifted left and right. Studying the situation. Should he prove to be the dead-one's snack, he would have no chance to escape. He was too weak to trust his own body, and too sick to make much of a struggle. If it came to that, he would succumb to death as surely as he might if left untended. It was a gamble as best, and a mission of suicide at worst. Either way, he'd end up the same as all the strays before him. Collarless and cold, murdered by the cruelty of the Nature they belonged to, and the heartless barrage of the streets of Man. A bleak existence, leading to a bleaker departure. But a home? Even with that smell of the grave, it was a better offer than he'd had in a long time - or ever would again. He was a cat at the very end of his nine chances for survival. A fall at THIS point would not land him on his feet, but on his back with paws dangling in the air. A chance for comfortable slavery was better than no chance at all. And soft hands to touch and pet and tickle sounded better by the moment.

Another flash of lightning showed the grisly animal stalking toward the one who offered such a life. Stalking slowly and with much care - as if a single missed pawstep would shatter the hope that waited in the arms of that other, waiting there to take him 'home'. There was something familiar and comforting about that word, home. Something he wanted to discover. He offered another vocal assent to the dead one, before reaching him, and arching against the outstretching hand, soaked or not. Misplaced affection? Perhaps. But it was a sorely needed dose of purity in this damp and dirty cell of choice imprisonment. And, even though his fur was dirty and thoroughly imbued with the deluge of rain, it seemed a caress.

Which is fairly long, and I don't USUALLY write that much unless I'm feeling uber-inspired...