Bermondsey wouldn't call himself a morning person. Frankly, he didn't exactly have a scheduled bedtime either; he was up at all sorts of odd hours depending on what needed to be done...but anyone who knew him understood that he liked moments alone, especially out at the marsh. Except, he hadn't intended to be there today. In the early hours, before his kits were awake and bothering him, he had slipped away, to the old ruins. The others had their rumors, that the old gods used to dwell here, that this had been their place of worship, that cats long before their time had talked about gods who could control life and death, that sometimes if one was still, they could hear voices, whispering...

He knew this place differently; before they dwelled in the mansion, and years ago, when he was just a kit, this was where his sister had sliced his mother's throat.

It was strange really, that he no longer felt anything seeing this, that those nightmares that once plagued him of his family curse had faded into...whatever this was. There was always something strange about the forest in these hours, the fog and mist so thick he could barely see anything but the shadows ahead of him. He had left the ruins as the sky began to lighten and the birds began their morning harmonies, and soon, he found himself meandering in the wilderness, going above the morning mist by using the bare branches of the trees on this winter's day. It might've been a dangerous habit had he not gotten used to leaping through the branches in even this weather. He too, thought himself alone, until he heard a voice.

"It's a bit early for a morning hunt, don't you think?" he called back out, peering below as the fog slowly thinned as the sun's timid rays began to shine.

Frogs? He always thought frogs were a little bit slimy, their bulging eyes and the way they never seemed to close their eyes–at least fully–creeped him out. He remembered looking at one closely as a kit, and they blinked sideways for gods' sake. The thought of eating one sounded unappetizing. "Aren't some of them poisonous?" he voiced his confusion out loud, "they don't sound very good." He was never one to mask his words with polite niceties after all. He had never tried that...delicacy, and he wasn't exactly eager to either.

Bermondsey wasn't the kind to share anything about himself unless necessary. Even now, when his paranoia had abated just a little, he had been raised with a healthy fear of being stabbed in the back by anybody and everybody. It was the only thing his mother ever taught him after all, in both life and death. Still, there wasn't much Charon could use with something so irrelevant, and he was right. It was early. Bermondsey's wariness had dropped in this misty hour.

"The ruins," he spoke in a deadpan, "have you ever been to them? They look like an old temple, nothing like the stones twolegs use to build their nests in the city."

Bermondsey eyed Charon for a few more moments as if gauging whether the tom really did eat frogs. He couldn't see the appeal of them at all other than if he was starving and it was the only thing he could find, which...well, it still wouldn't be appetizing at all. However, it amused him to know that few truly ventured by the ruins. It made sense; there was just a strange energy about the place sometimes.

He had never really been a cat who believed in ghosts, but then again, he believed in curses, and what was so different about the two? Still, he had his errand to run. "They are," he agreed, "but I suppose everyone has a different idea about the place. Some say you can get a sense of the cats who once lived here from that place, that even now, it reeks of death."