She turned her head to reveal that the bird's pretty little cream chest now painted her chin a dripping red. Her blue eyes had caught the end of that scowl, a moment before it turned into a genial smile. She’d displeased him.

What had the bird done? When she was hungry she killed — that logic seemed pretty obvious to her, but it seemed that this tom had another way of thinking. She’d vaguely wondered what he’d been doing, perched up there, watching the bushes for the last half hour. Probably skirting his duties to watch this little bird dance. She’d hadn’t had the care to accost him though, but now his stung tone drew all her wicked attention.

The prison guard arched her long neck to look up at him, while her pink tongue slowly slid over her lips, savoring every last drop. “His idleness offended me,” her eyes gleamed as she looked at him, wondering if he would pick up on her double meaning. Though her moods were often black as night, she wasn’t above some banter, for entertainment’s sake. “Sorry to ruin the show.”

Some semblance of recognition devised in her dark thoughts when he reflected her suggestive speech back at her. She often found herself disappointed, and not from a lack of birdsong. Perhaps this tom would be a better source of amusement than the rest. Her blue eyes were veiled behind black lashes when she replied “Elizabeth,” every syllable pronounced with prideful clarity. “Do you always sit around, waiting for little birdies to come sing for you… Hywel?”

The world at her paws was a thought that aroused the smoky-furred huntress. But the tom’s glib manner was suddenly beginning to challenge her nerves. That was one of the defining characteristics of Elizabeth — a deep-rooted cynicism that transformed doubt into resentment.

“A king?” she echoed skeptically, seeming to pick up on his shifty fashion. Little birdies were amusing until they began to sing a false tone. She had an affinity for the precision of language, and this tom didn’t strike her as ambitious, or world-weary for that matter. Still, she wasn’t one to make assumptions, and he talked well enough to warrant her curiosity despite her darkening mood. “And what trials have invited such a jaded worldview?”

Now, this piqued her interest. Talk of curses and immortality. Gods and demons. Elizabeth wasn’t a superstitious type, but she’d seen enough in her life to believe in some higher power. Most creeds sounded like utter nonsense to her — the queen on the moon, the cat in the sun, and the lord of mouse dung — but it was a pleasure to imagine a god that could light a path to paradise. That would cleanse the world of its impurities with a euphoric fire. Only a right bastard of a god would be worth worshiping, though.

Why Primal Instinct? The question etched a frown on her pretty maw. She’d resented this place at the start. The title prison guard, had been shoved onto her the moment that damned Funk E’tan had set eyes on her. She supposed she had the right making for it. She hurt those that needed hurting, and helped to keep the crypt in proper order. But if it were up to her, there would be no crypt or prisoners; felines would do to each other what they would. And all would receive their justice the old-fashioned way. Alas, she took her job seriously enough, only because it was her job, and she ultimately wasn’t planning on remaining at this station for long.

Why Primal Instinct? At the core of it: “This group is more tolerant of felines of my... tastes.” She suddenly remembered the half-eaten bird at her paws and subsequently bent to take another tear of flesh. “I’ll save you the self-righteous monologue,” she mewed after she swallowed. “And put it this way. The weak die so the strong can survive. Any group that doesn’t think so is living a lie, and lies are a waste of my time.” But stating the obvious bored her terribly. She wanted to get back to this topic of immortality. She had registered his sour expression when the topic turned to his hometown, but that didn’t deter her — rather it only made her more eager. He must be hiding some nasty knowledge. “You must have been one of the unlucky types... to run away from a place that heralded eternal life?” Her comment turned to a question, a query that groped for more information. "We all aspire to be treated like kings, right? Or... gods?" Her crystalline eyes shone.  

[omg I'm sorry if I wrote too much... I just kept writing and writing... ]

“I wouldn't trust any god that offered eternal life without asking for something in return,” she mewed cooly. The prospect of a blood sacrifice didn’t turn her stomach. Indeed she was a true hard-lined cynic, indulgent to the basic truths of life, even the more unsavory ones. Still, his cryptic words evaded her total understanding, and nothing provoked her more than doubt. She managed to reign in the first fires of her annoyance before they became something more fierce, and her gaze was impassive when she commented, “well that doesn’t sound like eternal life at all. Sounds like your god punishes fools with the insolence to eat from this — tree of eternity — without offering anything in return. A punishment.” Her lips curled into a naughty smirk. “Well, an eternal punishment, I’ll give you.” She eyed him sardonically, wondering if anyone ever tried to put him on some sacrificial slab. That’d account for his disillusionment. “I bet your god's more square than most of the cats I’ve associated with.” She gave a nonchalant shrug. “If he’s real.”

[That sounds fun. What's the cult? ]

[ I want Lizzie to get involved! I hope I'm not too late... ]

"How macabre," she simply commented, seemingly not hearing his question about her background — or choosing to ignore it. She instead bent to tend to her bird again, which, to her irritation, had grown cold. After a few neat bites, all that remained of the carcass was an array of cocoa feathers, piled about her dainty paws. She sat back on her haunches and began to clean her bloodied maw, taking her sweet time about it, before she finally drew her icy gaze up to him once again. “How presumptuous, to ask a lady such forward questions,” she simpered. Her pout was chiding. But this tom had shared so much already. It’d only be fair to offer a fragment of her own life in exchange. “Cats are made, not born. Whatever...god... made us like this isn’t anything like the dust bunnies in the sky that most cats worship. That I know for certain.” She sat on that for a moment, in silent thought. Suddenly amusement gleamed in her eye. “I used to believe in them, you know? Starclan.”

[ Great! ]

“It’s hard to follow what any cat believes in these days,” she sighed, her tone more irritated than wistful. From what she’d gathered from Foreign Affairs, the clan cats didn’t believe in Starclan anymore. They had all gone and splintered into their own sects: the queen on the moon, the cat in the sun, and the lord of mouse dung, as she liked to surmise it. It made no matter to her what other cats worshipped, but the features of the different denominations made for redundant conversation.

“I had thought every cat knew about Starclan though,” she admitted. “I suppose they don’t teach you that where you’re from. I had the pleasure of having those ideas drilled in my head before I knew up from down.” She lashed her tail hotly, reminiscing. “But yes, they were a product of the forest cats. Very simple beliefs; ancient ancestors that live in the sky. Guide you when they feel like it, shroud the moon in clouds when they’re upset… that sort of thing. Evidently, our ancestors aren't very upset that we've all dumped them.” She smiled darkly and gazed up at the blue sky. “No, the world’s moved on from Starclan just fine.” She wondered what those dead cats were doing now that their descendants had stopped praying to them. Likely what they’d been doing before: nothing.

“From where I’m standing, the world’s gone a bit cuckoo. Cats come up with a new god every moon. Curses, eternal life, and blood-sucking heads aren’t too hard to believe.” Her eyes gleamed as she cast her gaze back down to him.

“Yes, a gateway,” she reflected with a lecherous murmur. The league had an ambiguity to it she often thought demonstrated the reality of life quite well. An open-endedness a cat of her nature could inhabit without restraints. “No, I wasn’t born in the league,” her eyes became hard crystals. “The league claimed me as much as I claimed it.” She wasn’t fond of sympathy — sympathy meant you saw something worth pitying in the other, a weakness. And she couldn’t permit weakness. Her tone was more terse when she responded, “my ancestors marched in the ranks of Moonclan. My parents were clan-less vagabonds who latched onto the idea of that old glory, thinking it gave them someplace in the world, a false pride to fill their hearts.” She shook her head with naked contempt. “They were fools. Worse yet: hypocritical fools.” She narrowed her eyes at the tom, studying him. “I suppose we both got out of bad situations.”

Elizabeth’s mind didn’t operate in such a way. Doubt could never survive the fires of her resolute mind. “If I ever get to thinking like that,” she mewed crisply, “you’ll never see me again.” As long as the league offered her relative freedom (apart from her duties as a prison guard, which couldn’t be helped), she would be content here. For as dark and mysterious as the she-cat could be, she was quite simple in other ways. She flattened down to her belly, amusement flickering in her prismatic gaze. “What’s the matter? Having regrets?” She smiled scornfully. “Thinking blood sacrifice ain’t so bad compared to the league’s tiresome chores?”