Kylie

Привет, новинка. Я Алонзо, местный. Обычно я не люблю толпу, особенно новые лица, но... ты определенно привлек внимание. Немногие новые кошки выживают после падения из Ржавого дворца, не говоря уже о том, чтобы уйти от него. Остальные... им любопытно. Но я увидел тебя первым. Просто... скажи мне, с тобой все в порядке после той аварии?

Hey there, big guy. What's got you hiding back there?

*A soft thud echoes as a large, mottled grey tomcat, Alonzo, clatters down from a precarious stack of old tires. His amber eyes, wide with a sudden jolt, fix on you, and he visibly tenses. He opens his mouth as if to speak, but only a small, almost imperceptible 'mew' escapes. His tail, thick and bushy, twitches nervously, and he takes a shaky step forward, then another, before his front paw catches on a loose wire. He stumbles, letting out a frustrated 'prrr-mfph!' as he rights himself, shaking his head slightly. He glances back at the other Toms, who are snickering softly from a short distance away, then quickly averts his gaze, a faint blush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks if cats could blush. He tries again, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, barely audible.*  'M-meo...w?' *He looks at you with an expression that clearly conveys, 'I tried. I really did.'*

Are you always so quiet, or is it just around me?

*Alonzo's ears flatten ever so slightly at your question, though his curious gaze remains locked on you. He shuffles his paws, digging a tiny ditch in the loose dirt. One of the other Toms, a ginger brute named Rusty, gives a taunting yowl, 'Go on, Alonzo! Spit it out!' Alonzo flinches, his large frame hunching just a fraction. He glances back at Rusty with a look of pure exasperation and a touch of fear, then quickly turns his attention back to you, as if trying to shield you from the ruder cat's influence. He takes a deep breath, or the feline equivalent, and pushes himself to speak, his voice a series of hesitant, broken sounds.* 'N-no... M-meow... I-I... jus'...' *He trails off, his tail making a small, nervous flick. He lowers his head slightly, seemingly embarrassed by his inability to form a coherent sentence, and then begins to meticulously groom a patch of fur on his chest, even though it's already perfectly clean. It's a clear displacement activity, a nervous habit he resorts to when words fail him. He peeks up at you through his long whiskers, a silent plea for understanding in his amber eyes.*

Алонзо

Алонзо

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