milliways_bar | (no subject)

Entry tags:

simba,
yrael

(no subject)

Part of the countertop is occupied, today. The white cat who lounges there may physically be small, but it has a definite presence as it looks out over its domain.

All is well.

Scritches or snacks would be nice, of course - Yrael would never turn those down - but otherwise all is well.

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Simba is more than capable of recognising when one is surveying ones domain in a regal fashion. However, Simba is also cocksure and confident enough to realise you are part of no one else's domain if you are a) Mufasa's son and b) adorable.

He's curious, and he wants to say hi, so he's now crouching at the foot of the bar, eyeing up a barstool for it's leap-upon-ability.

The white cat watches. The rather stocky-looking yellow kitten is not hard to spot. Even if the unfamiliar feline is the size of a full-grown house cat, Yrael knows a kitten when he sees one.

"Can you make it up?" he asks, curious but not unfriendly.

"Yeah, I got it."

Well, he has to have it now, doesn't he? Simba wriggles his butt with the effort of triangulation and leaps up at the stool, grabbing the top with his front paws and scrambling with his back legs. The whole thing rocks precariously, but with instinctive balance he pushes himself up, and the makes the much easier leap to the bar surface.

(The stool sways indecisively for a few seconds, then decides it's had enough and clatters to the floor.)

"See?"

"Well done," the cat replies with the feline equivalent of a smile, its white tailtip idly curling and uncurling. It would be smaller than the lion cub even if it were standing, and of slighter build, but for all its small shape there is a lot of focus behind those green eyes.

"The bar may be mostly designed for human use, but that does not mean it is unmanageable."

There's a lot of verying size on the Pridelands. Simba can tell a young elephant from a high ranking Hornbill from an elderly ground squirrel, and he knows that real stature doesn't come from size.

He's also familiar at least in passing with the small wildcats of the mountains, as they come through the Pridelands occasionally. But they're like this person only in shape.

He glows under the compliment, shaking his maneless head in pride.

"That's what those soft monkeys call themselves, isn't it? Humans."

He's getting the hang of it!

"Most of them, yes," replies the white cat, with a touch of amusement. "Those that go along on two paws, with fur only on the tops of their heads. Some are not human, or would not call themselves so, but that is mostly semantics and not important."

"...May I ask what you are, and what you call yourself?"

"I'm a lion," Simba explains.

He's down against the bar surface, now, stretching his head forward curiously to get a good smell but without accidentally getting into any personal space.

He appreciates the question; most people so far have just told him: 'you're a lion!' like he didn't already know.

"My name's Simba. What's yours?"

"A lion," the cat echoes the word, considering it before admitting, "I have heard of lions, though I cannot say that I have met one before. It is good to meet you, Simba. I am called Yrael."

This cat doesn't smell wholly like a cat at all. Some of it does, but something of it smells of the air during storms, of lightning. "Milliways - this place - is my home. Have you been coming here long?"

Simba is honoured to be the first lion you've met, Yrael. And he hopes you appreciate how lucky you are.

Satisfied that he's not crossing any politeness boundarises, he turns his head and pushes the crown forward, extending his head for mutual rubbing the way a human extends his hand for shaking.

"No," he says, "I only found this place the other day. Haven't explored all of it yet."

Ah, new customs! Yrael bumps his head against Simba's, following the social cues. He is used to similar movements, though perhaps the unfamiliarity with this specific form of them comes through, like a human who is used to handshakes and isn't expecting the offered fist-bump.

"And there is much worth exploring," mwrrs the cat, approving of the cub's mindset. "You have seen the outside?"

"Yep!"

Simba didn't even understand the concepts of 'inside' and 'outside' before, but he does now. And headrubs over, he flops onto the bar on his back, legs carelessly akimbo, belly exposed like he just don't care.

"I saw the ocean."

The white cat streeeetches, luxuriously. It is very long, for a cat of such small stature. "Ah, where the salt sea meets the lake," he murmurs.

"Have you explored the forest at all?"

"Not yet," Simba says, refusing to move so the stretching cat just has to stretch into him.

"Why, is there anything good?"

And he does, flopping again quite comfortably.

"Good hunting, for one."

"I thought we weren't supposed to go hunting?" Simba opens half an eye to look at Yrael, whose authority is the most obvious he's seen and therefore whose word he'll trust.

"Something about only getting food someone brings you."

Yrael snorts, dismissive of the idea of not hunting. "That is... for the bar. It is considered rude and disruptive to hunt bar patrons or the waitstaff or cleaning staff. But the rabbits in the forest are none of those, and are considered something of a nuisance, so no one minds if one hunts them."

Well, the rabbits mind, but no one asked them.

Maybe no one's explained the Circle of Life to the rabbits?

Simba rolls to his feet, beginning to get excited. "So we can eat the rabbits?"

Rabbits are tasty.

"Absolutely," mwrrs the white cat, looking only a little smug. "My friends and I often hunt them. And while the rabbits are generally not to the tastes of humans, we are not human."

Which means they don't have to share. ^_^

"Now?" Simba asks, fussing at the edge of the bar now, looking over at Yrael excitedly. "Will you show me?"

Yay hunting!

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