The tom's footfalls were light, as if he was walking on clouds. It was because of these light steps that Altaire was only ever noticed when he wanted to be. It allowed him to be a silent thief, stealing blood and treasure while the rest of the world went unbothered in their slumber. It allowed him to dance like a shadow. It allowed him control. He had not always been so light-footed, though. At one moment in his life, he had been the exact opposite. He had been clumsy, a prince who had not learned the art of ballet. He had once been awkward and fumbling, the kind of creature that one could easily pass by. Life had taught him that such behavior was useless, would not get him where he desired to be. He had since killed that cat, the young tom that had once smelled the roses. In that kittens place, Altaire had built a monster. This world was too filled with heroes, and he had made himself a perfect villain, built himself up from what he himself had torn down. Perhaps that had been one of the reasons that he had been a cat worth seeking out; his control of his life and his devilish dance.

Perhaps it was not so complex, though. He was a conventionally attractive tom, one with velvety furs that had been bred in the same way as the cats around these parts had been bred. While Primal Instinct had once been a league of bandits built in bengal coats, the world in which grew Altaire was one of Egyptian Maus, carefully bred to create the perfect specimen. This perfect breeding left the tom to be something quite desired, especially in a world cursed by the same marbling. Spots and stripes grew old with time, yet his delicate paint-stroke curves were something one could get lost in, one did get lost in.

Either way, the tom had been selected by Morgana, and with his selection came a power. Of course, this wasn't to say that in his life before, the devil did not deal cards. His dealings did not start in Primal Instinct. However, it was easily understood that the life he lived now was much different than the one before. The proxy was different now, and he owed it in part to the she-cat who herself had a crown.

"Is there a particular reason that we had to come to a place to get our paws wet?" he meowed, his voice one that you would expect on late-night radio. It was soothing and rich. He spoke with a half-smile on his face, one that denoted that he wasn't particularly bothered by the mud that saturated his paws, or at least, he wouldn't be once he had a chance to lick himself clean. "It's a little cold for a swim, hmm?"

Working differently was often good, though, at least in his mind. After all, he had no interest in a business partner. If their brains had the same mechanisms, she would think that she deserved the empire in which Altaire had come from. It had been why he hadn't mated before; having an heir to his kingdom had never been more important to him than the risk of breeding with an indigent who felt that she held claim to anything in which he held worth. It was perfect, then, that Morgana was a cat who looked for the short cuts and he a cat who always tied each end. It prevented the risk of crossover; she would never be tempted too far into his personal life. His empire, a pet project that the tom had created in his moons as a rogue, did not operate in a way where things would ever get done quickly. It was his and his alone, and it worked in a way that was a foil to the empire of Morgana. That's why their union worked out so perfectly in his eyes; she already bore a crown on her head, and her own crown had a plethora of opportunities that came with it. This was a much better bargain than he had originally expected when she first brought to him the proposition.

"Funny," he replied to her with a chuckle. He was surely not going to go in the water, even if it was one hundred degrees out. "Whether or not the water touches me directly," he then continued, "the water's edge is still damp. If my paws were to be damp, I'd like it be because of other, more viscous liquids." His eyes flashed at the comment, amused at himself. He then blinked. "You are not very good at holding one conversation at a time," he teased her. "It's a good thing I didn't agree to suit you in exchange for philosophical conversations about the meaning of the world." If one wasn't to know about the inner workings of the tom, one might think that he was a good cat, one who had been mistakenly brought to Primal Instinct, a land in which he would never fit. His mannerism made him charming, the kind of creature one didn't mind talking to for long periods of time. Yet, there had been no mistake. He was just as dangerous as any other cats, perhaps more so; after all, a devil in disguise is always more of a risk than a cat who wore their sin on their shoulder. "Matter of fact, I haven't. Is there something I should be concerned about?" he meowed after a moment in reference to their child.

When she turned around, his lips twisted into a smile. "The hunters talk about me? Why, I'm just honored," he asserted with a wink. "I had every intention of letting you know as soon as we were alone again. Who would have suspected how easy it was to find myself in the top of these felines? I expected to at least have to put a little leg work in, but here we are." His voice was a purr. "It is a fascinating group that you found yourself born into, cherry."

Playful was how he intended to present himself. After all, one was far more likely to trust a cat who had a smile on his face and a pep in his step. Cats that were too serious, or too murderous right to the face, tended to be the expected threats. They were the cats that you knew to stay away from. That was no fun, though. He didn't want to be an entity that people knew they should fear. That took away the sense of possibility, of challenge. It took away the aspects of the game that he liked to play most: getting cats to fall right into his paws, and then making them regret it. Soon enough, his reputation would start to build that not everything about the tom was as it seemed, but until then, this was the part that was most amusing. However, it was not his only dealing. Morgana allowed the beast freedom; in almost all accounts, that was a mistake. Without being caged, the tom had plenty of playthings, many ways to entertain himself. With each plot, he grew darker, the black of his soul grew richer. She knew this, though. Each time he danced with death, it changed him. He was as malleable as clay, and his runs with death made the monster just that much more... monsterous. That was perhaps not her concern, though. After all, none of his playing would interfere with duty to her or their child; that was always his one assurance.

"Would that be so bad, hmm? I think that that would be quite a thrilling conversation. We could start about how long it takes for my paws to dry, and then work into how wet fur adds weight and, well, I surely have gained a little bit in my old age anyways." He laughed at his own joke, something he did often. There were several reasons behind that. One was that some cats were to shallow to understand his joking. The light was on but no one was home for many of these cats, which meant that they took his words for face-value. Very seldom was Altaire's words intended to be taken as such, at least when his voice kept a charming tone. His laughter was a sign to others that it was meant as a joke. The second reason was because interactions with other cats really did amuse him. His laughter, then, was in part genuine, even though he was the funniest cat of them all. He flicked his tail. "Unless you have more important things we should discuss?"

His nose then twitched. "I've been meaning to," he meowed in response to her statement about their daughter. "In an ideal world, I would be the perfect father who sits his daughter down at his side and tells her old fairytales. This is not an ideal world." He tilted his head. After deciding a long time ago that he probably wouldn't have children of his own, he didn't really know how to interact with their daughter. How did one groom an heir? She could not be his plaything, yet he knew not how to sculpt her. Perhaps he would make time to figure out how to connect with his daughter in the near future. It would be the best for both of them if they at least understood the ground in which each other stood. "Is she old enough to travel, yet?" He asked after a moment. He realized how bad this sounded that he didn't know, but hell, he wasn't the medicinal wonder of the duo. She was old enough to begin training, but did that mean she was old enough to take a trip off of the island? If she was, that gave the tom an idea. He could take her to his stomping grounds, a little day trip. That would be the easiest way to teach him the things he knew, to bring her to the places that he learned them She could train him in the way his father taught him in the same place the instruction was done. What better parent-child bonding?

"Gossips, the whole lot of them," he meowed, as if he was shocked to hear that the group had things to say. He would have to keep an ear out from this point on; he was curious what words came to their lips when they spoke of him. "I hope they say all good things, hmm?" Right, like a Primal Instinct cat would gossip in a positive way. He then noticed her reaction to his pet name and filed the information in the recesses of his mind, in the stores that he placed all other information that would prove helpful one day. He then shrugged in reference to what made him proxy. "A man never tells his secrets when it comes to how he achieved the status that he did," he replied easily. In reality, it was perhaps a combination of those things, in addition to the promise that he made. Altaire had no loyalty to the Vera, so when Solaris was looking for cats to support him, Altaire became a prime candidate. That, on top of his skill and adjustment into the group? The rest was ihstory.