We haven’t spoken for a while, You and I.

The forest was never more alive than late in the day – twilights and early sunset dawns are always described by poets to be the most beautiful and romantic times, but on a warm day in the deepwood late afternoon had majesty written on the thick foliage in the shape of slowly lengthening shadows and bright highlights cast by a faraway and distant sun. This afternoon was just one such spectacular display: bright sunlight glowed across the resplendent leaves of a tall shrub with fire-colored flowers, and made long the shadows of tiny faerie mushroom cities in hollows carved between the roots of old, old oak trees.

I have not had much to say.

Lying on his side, the late light dappling his fur through the leaves and branches, Kierkegaard relaxed alone in the deepwoods, far from his home town of Otari dens. The location he’d chosen was sleepy and languid, dust motes flickering like pixiedust in front of his cool, slightly watery eyes, only the faintest breeze deciding to stir slowly the ferns and flowers.

Then what has changed that we’re on speaking terms now, Lady Tamerlain?

A ball of thistledown tumbled past Kierkegaard's face, and he padded absently at it with his paws. It rolled out of reach, into a shadow under a thorn bush. For a while, there was no reply from the Godess, as though she too was wondering what dark creature had swallowed up the thistledown.

Nothing has changed, Kierkegaard, that was no bound to change. Nothing has changed.

Somewhere, an owl hooted to announce the oncoming night. Kier rose to a sitting position and begged the lady Tamerlain to stop speaking in riddles, but she was no longer listening and the old tom was on his own, sitting on the forest floor waiting for the stars to come out and the priesthood of the Moon religion to come to life.

Kier opened his eyes, breaking the connection he’d had with the sky – there’d been nothing coming through it anyway. Instead of the huge white tiger he’d been looking at before with his lids closed, his open eyes met the shocking blue steel glance of a young shecat with possibly the most remarkable fur he’d even come across. She smelled of Otari Dens and just the faintest tang of Tamerlain, and the sunlight was kind to what he suspected would otherwise be wild features. He rose to sitting, jut to be polite, his fur still in disarray and his entire appearance just generally quite scruffy and just-woken-up.

“You too, though,” Kierkegaard said, stretching. His spine cracked a little and he was aware that was he far too old. “I’m Senator Kierkegaard, pleasure to be woken by you…?”

Sunlight warmed the air, although it was now just starting to fade. The air was thick with sunlight, floating dust motes and the heavy smell of Dead Man’s Bells tinkling further away into the forest. The two cats looked a little out of place, their voices muffled by the atmosphere, sitting in the golden glow.

Kier smiled, his eyes as soft and dark as shadows. “Newly raised?” he asked, sitting up and wrapping his tail around his front paws. He could barely remember when he was raised priest – he folded his ears back at what he did remember. It was a hard training ground for most priests, even those learning of the Word rather than the Action, scripture in spoken format rather than scripture in violence. He wondered sometimes how it was for females, if they made that same choice, but it was unwise to ask of such things.

“How do you enjoy the Tamerlain’s touch? Has She spoken to you yet?” Kier asked, but part of his mind had already wandered away and he was paying her less attention than she was due. His twin brother had taken up the Action discipline and Kier hadn’t seen him for many months now. Kierkegaard flicked his whiskers, dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight in front of his gaze.