Fijit Fidgets

Fijit was a teenager. And an orphan. And hadn't exactly been hanging out with the good crowd.

She was kicked out of the orphanage last week and hadn't seen any of her "running mates" since. Once you are out of the protection of the nuns, you are on your lonely own. Solely and completely.

She shoved her way through the crowd, keeping her keen eye out for the perfect mark, not realizing how conspicuous she appeared, being a young, catfolk girl in a human town, alone and wearing a heavily tattered and hooded cloak on a clear skied and early evening.

The hood wasn't an attempt to "blend" in (which was the opposite of what she was doing), but because she had a threesome of very visible scars on the top of her muzzle from the fight she had gotten into at St. Carthanyn's with the head ne'er-do-well in the girl's bunks, so has it happened, was also a catfolk girl, only slightly older. They had been the only two.

Catfolk territory was far from here.

"You can do it, Fijit" she said to herself, fidgeting nervously.