Being a kitten, Phoenixe was always awfully fond of playing games.
The lean cat-boy stood with slothful confidence, a hand on one of his child-bearing hips, the tone of his muscle apparent even past the veil of his dusk-like fur. His coat was soft, and matte, like velvet, his tail swaying behind him with the intoxicating flavor of a decadent cream-filled pastry.
And those amber eyes, like a whirl of caramel in a vat of chocolate, drew their gaze in an intense fixation on any viable subject. One would think he wasn't a hunter, with how slow and light his movements were.
It seemed as if every movement was imbued with the grace of a raincloud, drifting in a clear blue sky. Forever black, forever heavy despite its lightness, forever ready to roar with the strength of the wind-gods and clash claws-like-lightning against fresh flesh.
His soft, supple fingertips grazed gently against his collar, the bell's jingles light on the wind, stilled to catch a glance.
Phoenixe wants to play.