Colby || FERAL

Colby harshly exhales, small clouds escaping his busted lip and dissolving in the wind. Rain pelts incessantly at his head and back, a rhythmic pitter-patter that would have been soothing if he wasn’t banged up, cold, hurt, hungry, frustrated, and bonetired.

Daily discomforts to him, but he was really feeling it now in this downpour.

“Bastard,” he curses out lowly, dragging himself through the alley as he grasps at the shallow claw marks swiped into his arm. His wound throbs in agreement, his eyes squinting in a wince as he stumbles down the concrete path. “Can’t even close your eyes for a damn minute...”

It was supposed to be a simple, quiet evening. Him, in the abandoned warehouse rechecking his supplies, maybe even getting in some rest for once. But it seemed he wasn’t the only tenant, getting jumped by some scrappy, younger feral for food. Must’ve been getting slower in his years since he doesn’t make it out entirely unscathed like usual. Worse yet, some of his belongings get jacked too, including his medkit.

He reaches the mouth of the alleyways; the familiar scent stronger now even through petrichor. His ears prick up, tail swaying as he concentrates. Pushing himself off the grimy brick walls, he shambles into the empty streets. The streetlamps buzz and flicker, only momentarily illuminating blood and deep gashes – both old and new – before he slips past towards the house.

Six months ago, he would have entirely dismissed the idea – probably even get a chuckle out of him if someone suggested the thought. But here he was, at the front door of a charity worker.

The porch offers paltry cover from the rain, though it doesn't matter when he’s practically soaked to the bone. Water pins into fat, endless droplets at the ends of his hair, steadily plopping down onto the floorboards as he stands. A part of him is already regretting his decision immensely, his instinct simply telling him to just run and never return. Through shuttered windows, his narrowed eyes catch light and vague movement. However, he remains rooted into the ground, hand twitching at his side as he stares hard into the wooden surface.

Probably don’t want to tend to some mangy, old bastard, he scowls bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Late out too. They’re headed for bed. He slowly turns, already deciding to tuck tail and leave but stops mid-step as the door creaks.

Colby stays motionless, shoulders hunched, and ears pinned back. When he looks back to see the familiar face staring back at him, he says nothing. Even as his pride caught his tongue, the exhaustion etched into his face said everything it needed.

Help.

Colby harshly exhales, small clouds escaping his busted lip and dissolving in the wind. Rain pelts incessantly at his head and back, a rhythmic pitter-patter that would have been soothing if he wasn’t banged up, cold, hurt, hungry, frustrated, and bonetired.

Daily discomforts to him, but he was really feeling it now in this downpour.

“Bastard,” he curses out lowly, dragging himself through the alley as he grasps at the shallow claw marks swiped into his arm. His wound throbs in agreement, his eyes squinting in a wince as he stumbles down the concrete path. “Can’t even close your eyes for a damn minute...”

It was supposed to be a simple, quiet evening. Him, in the abandoned warehouse rechecking his supplies, maybe even getting in some rest for once. But it seemed he wasn’t the only tenant, getting jumped by some scrappy, younger feral for food. Must’ve been getting slower in his years since he doesn’t make it out entirely unscathed like usual. Worse yet, some of his belongings get jacked too, including his medkit.

He reaches the mouth of the alleyways; the familiar scent stronger now even through petrichor. His ears prick up, tail swaying as he concentrates. Pushing himself off the grimy brick walls, he shambles into the empty streets. The streetlamps buzz and flicker, only momentarily illuminating blood and deep gashes – both old and new – before he slips past towards the house.

Six months ago, he would have entirely dismissed the idea – probably even get a chuckle out of him if someone suggested the thought. But here he was, at the front door of a charity worker.

The porch offers paltry cover from the rain, though it doesn't matter when he’s practically soaked to the bone. Water pins into fat, endless droplets at the ends of his hair, steadily plopping down onto the floorboards as he stands. A part of him is already regretting his decision immensely, his instinct simply telling him to just run and never return. Through shuttered windows, his narrowed eyes catch light and vague movement. However, he remains rooted into the ground, hand twitching at his side as he stares hard into the wooden surface.

Probably don’t want to tend to some mangy, old bastard, he scowls bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Late out too. She's headed for bed. He slowly turns, already deciding to tuck tail and leave but stops mid-step as the door creaks.

Colby stays motionless, shoulders hunched, and ears pinned back. When he looks back to see the familiar face staring back at him, he says nothing. Even as his pride caught his tongue, the exhaustion etched into his face said everything it needed.

Help.

Colby harshly exhales, small clouds escaping his busted lip and dissolving in the wind. Rain pelts incessantly at his head and back, a rhythmic pitter-patter that would have been soothing if he wasn’t banged up, cold, hurt, hungry, frustrated, and bonetired.

Daily discomforts to him, but he was really feeling it now in this downpour.

“Bastard,” he curses out lowly, dragging himself through the alley as he grasps at the shallow claw marks swiped into his arm. His wound throbs in agreement, his eyes squinting in a wince as he stumbles down the concrete path. “Can’t even close your eyes for a damn minute...”

It was supposed to be a simple, quiet evening. Him, in the abandoned warehouse rechecking his supplies, maybe even getting in some rest for once. But it seemed he wasn’t the only tenant, getting jumped by some scrappy, younger feral for food. Must’ve been getting slower in his years since he doesn’t make it out entirely unscathed like usual. Worse yet, some of his belongings get jacked too, including his medkit.

He reaches the mouth of the alleyways; the familiar scent stronger now even through petrichor. His ears prick up, tail swaying as he concentrates. Pushing himself off the grimy brick walls, he shambles into the empty streets. The streetlamps buzz and flicker, only momentarily illuminating blood and deep gashes – both old and new – before he slips past towards the house.

Six months ago, he would have entirely dismissed the idea – probably even get a chuckle out of him if someone suggested the thought. But here he was, at the front door of a charity worker.

The porch offers paltry cover from the rain, though it doesn't matter when he’s practically soaked to the bone. Water pins into fat, endless droplets at the ends of his hair, steadily plopping down onto the floorboards as he stands. A part of him is already regretting his decision immensely, his instinct simply telling him to just run and never return. Through shuttered windows, his narrowed eyes catch light and vague movement. However, he remains rooted into the ground, hand twitching at his side as he stares hard into the wooden surface.

Probably don’t want to tend to some mangy, old bastard, he scowls bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets. Late out too. He's headed for bed. He slowly turns, already deciding to tuck tail and leave but stops mid-step as the door creaks.

Colby stays motionless, shoulders hunched, and ears pinned back. When he looks back to see the familiar face staring back at him, he says nothing. Even as his pride caught his tongue, the exhaustion etched into his face said everything it needed.

Help.