|an| Featuring:
My cat. In Camelot
cats that see in colour.
Procrastination.
Leave any suggestions. |an|
The dark brown tom blinked slowly in the afternoon light. People were always calling him black, which was stupid- black cats didn't exist, they were either really dark brown or really dark grey. The tom, in this instance was proud to be brown thankyouverymuch.
He loved this light, a crisp November afternoon. The sun low in the sky, glinting softly, lighting up his pelt. It was only, in this light, that you could really see the dark, silky brown that made up his coat which he fluffed up proudly against the chill. Stretching out, he relished in the attraction he brought from passers by.
A small boy and an older girl approached and held a hand out to stroke him. He pulled politely away, no one was ruining this perfect pelt at this perfect time of day.
You never saw a dark grey cat out in this light. They relished in their so-called black coats the rest of the day, believing they were the lucky little ninjas of the lower town. The afternoon sun showed off their truly grey complexion. They looked like rouges, disrespectful and scruffy.
The November sun always showed a cats true colours. It separated the high class from the low, in the toms opinion. He began to saunter down the street, as he always did, aware of his glinting fur complimenting his green eyes perfectly.
He passed the illuminator at the parchment makers. Maybe if he ever got a look at the dictionaries held in the libraries of Camelot, the tom thought smugly as the illuminator turned to gaze his way, maybe he would see a beautiful picture of himself under the word 'majestic'.
The tom continued to strut his way through the lower town, passing the Rising Sun, the empty market place where a few boys were playing with a wooden sword and the training ground. He sat and curled his tail round his paws for a moment to watch seven young Knights, sweating despite the chill, being drilled by the young prince, Arthur.
His serving boy sat contently on the side, sharpening a couple training swords and glancing up every so often to watch as the new recruits were taken down one by one by his masters fighting prowess. Though it hardly matched the toms experienced hunting skill, he had to admit that the Prince was good. Far better than his father had ever been.
He had grown too, over the years. Especially since the serving boy had turned up from a little farming village somewhere in Cenreds kingdom, judging by his scent that had lingered for the first week he had arrived.
Every day the tom came to observe, just for a few minutes, the afternoon training. He always had, he was a cat of routine. From as soon as Arthur took over the training of the Knights from the King, the tom had seen great improvement, but the young man had been a bit of a brat. Basking in the spotlight was something that took years to master. You couldn't just rush in like you owned not only your place in the sun but everyone else's. He had treated the serving boys terribly, he had picked favourites, boasted, jibed. An all round wanker, really.
Until the serving boy had turned up. The tom had known, straight away he was special. Different. Powerful. It was an instinct, he had been drawn to the young man immediately. He had turned up in the most dangerous place for his kind, befriended the most dangerous person to be around besides the King, and stuck by him. Shaped the Prince into who he was today. Arrogant still, but aware of it, smarter and more considerate. It was no wonder the serving boy looked pleased with himself.
The tom shifted on his haunches, waiting for the moment to come. And.. It did. The serving boy spotted the tom and smiled warmly. The tom flicked his ears back in recognition, swishing his tail, mimicking the greeting gesture people used with their hand. The serving boy grinned even wider.
Casting one last glance at the Prince, who was now busy positioning one of the new recruits arm in a demonstration of the perfect stance, whilst the others watched on, engrossed, the tom stretched once more in the sun. He ruffled his neck fur, glancing down with pride at the blue neckerchief around it that he always wore.
Some had made the connection, but to most, Emrys' cat was any old cat. A dashingly handsome one at that, but any old cat the same.
|an| as much as I want my cat to wear a neckerchief, he ripped off any collars we gave him within an hour, so we gave that up within a month or so of getting him. I also respect the fact he wouldn't like it.
His name is Preston, and he's a rescue cat. We had had him for 11 years now and he is about 13 (We only have an estimate for his dob)
He's very full of himself as a cat. Has that trademark condescending look of "You know I only stick around here because it suits me."
Fun fact, black cats do not exist. True. My cat is dark brown, it's a very glossy dark brown, like chocolate, but you can only see it in certain lights, otherwise, like he does now I glance over at him next to me, he appears black.
Okay enough of me rambling. |an|