[Skooma]

The only thing a rainy day was good for was avoiding it. There wasn't much cover in the craggy area just before the Fringe, mostly bare mountains and a few caves mottled around, one of which Skooma was occupying, along with his various wares, his claws carefully carving into a piece of petrified wood. The rain was intense, wind whipping the droplets into the sides of the mountains. He laid a good bit away from the entrance, despite already being soaked, Skooma wasn't exactly ecstatic at the idea of getting more wet. He harrumphed, more than a little miffed that his wares were nearly as drenched as he was, his tail waving back and forth.

The cave wasn't exactly deep, but it was shelter enough. If he wasn't so much of a traveller, and if his first experience in this area hadn't been being hit by a violent storm, he almost would have considered making this the base of his operations, somewhere to return to and rest up when he was travel-weary. Unfortunately, that was the last thing on his mind.

The plants he'd brought along smelled wonderful, however, and something in him ached to roll in them, to chew and feel the pleasure tingle under his fur. It filled the cave, a scent that was familiar and warm. He refused to, however. He wasn't exactly sure if he would have to cross the Fringe once more to retrieve any, not exactly knowing the area well yet, or really. Knowing anything about this land.

His claw slipped, tearing right through the wood, entirely by accident. Skooma swore quietly, retracting his claw. Perhaps he could string something through the hole?

Thunder crashed overhead, startling him, his damp fur sticking up slightly as his claws extended and he jumped to his feet. Oh hell no. No thank you, no sir.

[Megatron]

He broods beneath a stormlit cathedral of mountains and sky. He has spent the better part of a day motionless, curled in the damp bowl of earth beneath the exposed root system of a fallen tree, waiting out the inclement weather. But rainwater is beginning to pool beneath him, churning the earth into mud, and the cold is creeping into his joints. He will be sore tomorrow, if he sleeps out here.

Lightning splits the belly of the thundercloud, briefly casting the valley into chiaroscuro. He grumbles. His thin fur is drenched through, and clumps of wet earth are clinging to his legs.  His mane is slicked into soft, wet spikes. Anywhere would be better than this. A hollow beetle-infested rotten tree would be better than this, but perhaps there will be a cave further up the mountain, if he can muster the strength to climb.

His gait is stiff. As he limps past the treeline, he wishes for the cover provided by the sparse pines scattered across the lower mountain slopes. The sharp scree shifts under his paws, forcing him to lower his weight and grip with his paws.

Awful. And, in all likelihood, well deserved. His ears are pinned flat to his skull in an expression of utter, resigned misery.

As he crouches on the slope, he detects a faint scent of unfamiliar vegetation. Parsing the scents of his environment is a skill that he has worked hard to hone, and beneath the petrichor and pine needles there is a trace of something warm.

He slinks towards it. Threat? Quite possibly, but he is beyond caring. It is likely that there will be shelter.

As the scent grows stronger - now underlain with the scent of another cat - he picks out the shadowed entrance to a cave beneath a rocky overhang. Shelter. He approaches without hesitation - he is mottled with scars, his jaws barely close around his sabre teeth, and his muscles are sharply defined beneath his wet fur. That is usually enough of a deterrent, should one be needed.

He doesn't bother to look at the other cat as he settles into a corner of the cave.

[Skooma]

Skooma watched as a much larger stranger approached, seeking shelter from the weather. He settled himself back down into the damp rock as the fuckhuge sabre stalks stiffly inside, riddled with scars. Skooma doesn't ask, simply sharing his space, of which there was more than enough, with the larger male. The other doesn't so much as look at him, giving the impression he was not up to talking.

Fair enough, with the stink of wet fur coming off of him. That made two of them, at least for a while. Skooma kept himself occupied, arranging and re-arranging the bits of wood and bone strewn around his paws, as well as grooming himself. Time passed slowly, and the storm did not seem to be letting up much, if at all. He sneered at it as rain hit his whiskers from a particularly rough gust of wind, and turned away from the entrance, now having nowhere to look but at the sabre that had sat in relative silence.

He could tell the sabre was relatively old, but strong. Sturdy. Very old, fur worn short and coarse, the muscles underneath stiff but defined, with great aching bones that nearly creaked with every move. This was less of a big cat, and more of a behemoth, with unimaginable years upon his frame.

"You from around here, big guy?"

He certainly didn't smell like any land Skooma had visited, something foreign. Something heavy, something bloody, the kind of heady guilt that doesn't wash away with an apology, the kind of smell that doesn't come out easily, built up over years of bloodshed. The old cat reeked of death, stale and metallic. Wherever, whatever pride or hollow this guy had come from, there certainly couldn't be many still living there.

Oddly, that didn't leave him with a sense of unease. There was a reason this sabre was still kicking, even at this age. If anything, Skooma felt just a bit safer, sharing a cave with him.

[Megatron]

He lifts his head slowly, turning his dim red gaze upon the other cat. He had been enjoying the silence, coloured only by the tortured howl of the storm and the occasional rumble of thunder. He appreciates the character of a cat who does not react to a stranger entering his space, even if he spends all his time hence fiddling with toys.

"No," he says. The harshness of his own voice startles him. Degraded with age and disuse. Much like the rest of him.

He idly appraises the little jaguar. Black fur dappled with sunlit gold. Sleek and healthy, but small enough that he poses no significant threat. A complex, many-leaved scent of herbs hangs about him, masking his true scent - inconvenient. One can learn a lot from the scent of another animal's fur and breath and excreta, although he supposes that the herbs are telling enough. Intoxicating substances, most likely indicating some defect in character.

He rolls onto one side and stretches, attempting to relieve some of the growing discomfort in his bones. He is exposing his belly to the stranger, but decided long ago that he no longer cares what happens to him. Gut me if you so desire, little jaguar. You would gain nothing from it.

His joints are as gnarled and creaky as a decaying oak. He should have stayed in the valley. It is far too cold up here

"And you?" he continues, motivated by politeness more than genuine interest. He has no intention of making friends.

[Skooma]

The stranger's voice is rough and harsh, enough to make his ears twitch. Skooma hadn't thought so in the first place, but it was polite to ask, he'd figured. He didn't push the stranger on the whereabouts, the scent rolling off him told Skooma more than enough, such as not to pry.

He felt the strangers eyes on him and looked away, suddenly shy. The stranger was old, but well. Still fairly handsome. The other cat, seemingly done looking him over, rolled over to one side, exposing his belly. For a moment, Skooma had been a little surprised at the show of trust, before realizing that look was not of interest, but simply sizing him up, and he'd been quickly filed away as Not a Threat. Not that Skooma would have put up much of a fight even if he was particularly hostile, the sabre was very much taller, heavier and bulkier than anything he had seen in his life.

He snaps out of his thoughts as the other speaks again. It doesn't take Skooma long to answer, idly sorting his trinkets as he responds. Something to keep his paws busy. Anything.

"No," He pauses, before continuing, " I'm from beyond the Fringe back there. I'm a trader."

There's another pause. Longer, this time, as he thinks what he wants to say over. None of it really mattered anyways, not to the stranger. Skooma just wanted to fill the silence, really.

"I got separated from my caravan. We were all planning to peddle our wares past the Fringe anyways, so I went on ahead, in hopes of finding them here."

He keeps his voice steady, despite some part of him mourning the loss of his family. Despite some part of him somehow knowing that they wouldn't meet again. He rolled his shoulders, looking back over at the stranger with a smile.

"I'm Skooma. And you are...?"