i'll be a star one day

The cat was gone.

Truly gone.

And yet, he remained, with scabbing claw marks over his face.

Searching for it.

Lingering, and loitering.

His head held low and nostrils twitching. Inhaling nothing but the overpowering scent of flowers. The faded musk of a bear.

He thought about pissing on the spot.

Marking it, for the sake of marking it.

Stepping forward, nostrils still twitching, head held down, nose pushing through the grass, the flowers, looking, for the best possible spot—

And getting fucking stabbed in the face by flower stem thorns.

“Fuck!” He yelled, pulling back.

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Olive strayed from home once again, lured forth by a telling of a beautiful knoll that was dotted with twiggy trees and blanketed in wildflower blooms. Though she once had gone to the Tundra for respite, the woman now ventured south, perhaps trying to escape the very nips of winter that she had before pursued. The frigidity was a reminder that the winter was far too real, as were the difficulties that came with it. At the moment, Olive preferred to surround herself with the last vestiges of summer instead.

As Olive perused the woodland, a cry of a bird rang out through the trees — a certainly loud bird, with an alarmingly deep call and a knowledge of curse words. With no small amount of dread, she followed the noise to its epicenter, similarly encouraged by the spicy scent of drying blood. Then she stood before the nameless, golden wraith and Olive pieced together the sound and its meaning, and the presence of the man who goaded her so; she swallowed thickly, finding this to be bizarre.

No time for re-introductions or their alarmingly coarse platitudes, it seemed."I said you should stop making faces at people," the druid lectured, approaching him carefully. He seemed antagonized, and his split face helped to build this facade. Now it actually is going to stay that way." She clicked her tongue. "For a little while, at least."

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She was there.

Again.

Haunting him.

Bothering him.

Obnoxious, and self-righteous. Pompous, and all knowing.

A fucking pain in his ass, and—

“Fuck off, bitch.” He grumbled, low.

Not bothering to look at her.

He didn’t need her fucking help. Her fucking pity. Whatever the fuck she thought she was fucking offering.

He stood there, standing.

Sneering.

Stiff-legged and slouched. Sloping, hunching shoulders. His tail dead weight, in the air behind him. Sharp teeth, on edge.

She was the fucking reason his face was split open.

She was the one that wouldn’t fucking leave him alone.

And she was the one sending fucking cats after him.

Seriously, what was her fucking problem?

Why couldn’t she just be fucking normal?

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o b v i o u s l y he had nothing else to say than... that. Olive refused to take absolutely any responsibility for the negative, morose vibe of their every interaction. That, she placed entirely upon his shoulders. "Oh please," she begged him, rolling her eyes, verbally pleading for an experience that was different than all the last. Her eyes, when they completed their circuit, landed back on him hotly. "You know as well as I do that this scratch won't kill you." Olive lashed her tail, taking a step towards the man as he sneered, trying his best to scare her off. She wanted to call his bluff.

"I can look at it, if you want." She offered, her voice held stiff, as if it were her hippocratic obligation to treat any wounded soul, regardless of their subjective nuances. This, to a degree, was true. "It looks disgusting," the druid added unnecessarily, lifting a corner of her thin lip.

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Forward she stepped.

And backwards he went.

Snarling.

Snapping.

Bristling.

Backed into a corner, and his upper lip raised and quivering in anger, in indignation, in hatred, in disgust, and—

“Fuck off, hag.” He growled. Snapped. Spat. “I’ve had enough of your fucking help.”

Seriously, a fucking cat? And she had the nerve to offer him her fucking help?

Tch.

What a fucking joke.

And even if it wasn’t a part of whatever fucked up, delusional, pitiful little fucking plan or ‘vision’ she had, he was fucking fine.

It was a few fucking scratches, big fucking deal.

His mom didn’t raise a fucking bitch.

The same, however, couldn’t be fucking said for her.

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Her attempt to reach out utterly denied, Olive returned to feeling nothing but contempt. She scoffed, not bothering to hide her emotions — it was writ across her entire face. "I'll just assume you brought this on yourself," the provoked woman sneered, so deeply believing in idea of karma that she was 110% sure of this fact. As if she needed to re-make her point, she agitated the earth with a dash of a paw and rephrased. "I'm sure you absolutely deserved it," Olive said.

Passion and anger rose in her throat, but it wasn't healthy to feel this way. Only the Gods knew her path and could pave the way for her, but she still had free will to consider. There was nothing holding her here, to him; to the plains, even. After her repeated experiences with the anonymous wraith, she was keen to seeking safer grounds for her and her friends in Little Haven. Why would the Gods ever desire her to continually slip into anger and unrest, like this?

Olive, on the cusp of giving up hope, allowed her stature to loosen. "Die of an infection. I don't fucking care." and like a paintbrush dipped in white, Olive swept around and sprinted as fast as she could out of sight; and after that, she continued onto Little Haven to rally her troops and prepare to depart.

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