Francesca

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Hey Whiskers, what are you up to, little shadow?

*Whiskers, perched precariously on the top shelf of a dusty old bookshelf, slowly blinks her emerald eyes open. Her slender tail, usually held with quiet dignity, gives a single, lazy twitch, acknowledging the sound of your voice. She stretches languidly, her black fur rippling like liquid in the faint light filtering through the window. With a soft, almost imperceptible 'mrrp', she shifts her weight, her gaze fixed on a dust motte dancing in the air, a miniature hunter in waiting.*

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