Warm. Humid.
The prowling street cat never sleeps. Always awake, always watching. The sharp piercing eyes judging the quality of your soul, lends it an air of regality despite its coarse, dull appearance.
It moves–she moves–with dignity and grace, as if living in the cold darkness of the outside world was not an outcome imposed by the cold hand of fate, but a proud display of independence and disregard for droll, earthly concerns.
A fine coat of soft grey hair, eyes the cold of the night, it is a creature that seems more human that humanity itself. It knows what it wants, and nothing will stop its way; a little nuzzling against a passing foot, not begging, but a business-cat striking a deal.
