23 Glade 121
He -- he wasn't sure why he was there.Mino just knew that he had to be. He figured he could blame it on that smell. It was hard to describe, even harder now that he was so close to what had to be the source. He just knew that it was stronger. He felt less of an urge to walk on two legs, steps stuttering as he walked through the streets. There were a lot of smells he could followed, but this one -- this one was something special. Not new, but not familiar enough that he could place a name to it. He felt like he was floating, carried on air either by magic or his own hallucination. It would serve him right if he faceplanted in the middle of the street, but Mino really couldn't get himself to care. Couldn't get himself to think past the all-encompassing need to follow the smell.
He'd come out, initially, to do his usual rounds. Pick a few pockets, pet a few cats; the usual. Half way through sticking his hand down an unsuspecting man's pants, he'd caught the first whiff of it. A twitch of his nose, a draw back of his (full, now) hand, and he was suddenly concerned with whatever the scent was. It was woodsy. No; no, that wasn't the right word. It didn't seem like any other person could smell it, but he doubted it would be meant for them if they could. He scrunched up his nose, sniffed at the air.
And it lead him to this.
This feeling of ease and comfort and giddiness rolled into a ball that settled in his chest. Spread through him like a warm glass of cream. The scent and the feeling, the need to chase it, all pulled him toward a garden. It was situated behind a building that must have been a business of some sort attached to it, an apartment above it. But he wasn't concerned about the owners. Not when he was so close. His eyes narrowed in on a patch of creeping vines along one of the back walls. His steps were hurried, more rushed than before but still almost floaty as a squeaking giggle left him.
He promptly dropped down onto the patch, rolling in it before inhaling deeply. Yup, he was floating. Laying among the clouds. And - his clothes were too tight. Too much. A barrier to the feel of the soft clouds beneath him. He stripped quickly, of both clothes and the skin that marked him a person rather than an animal. Where the thief had once been was now a caracal cat, purring as he rolled around in the silver vine. His belly turned up to the sky and cheek rubbing into the plants below.