Picking fights (open)

A sleek black shadow zipped through the forest, yellow eyes aglow with wonder. The figure paused in a patch of grass to catch his breath as he clawed at the pesky red collar around his neck. "The dumb thing," he mumbled quietly to himself. Making no progress in getting it off, Omen gave up with a frustrated snarl and sat down to take in his surroundings. The forest was a nice break from the dirty allies of Twolegplace, but the rouge could not see how this was an appealing place for any cat to live. Before he came into the woods, he knew that he'd probably encounter a clan cat or two, but he didn't mind. Omen was always up for a good fight - especially if he could sink his fangs into some vile forest cat flesh. Speaking of which, the scent of one of those pesky cats filled Omen's nostrils and he heard pawsteps nearby; perhaps one pair, perhaps more. The sound of the underbrush made it hard to tell. Omen was downwind and standing still, so he doubted the cat or cats had noticed him yet. Silently, the tom unsheathed his claws and crouched down with a menacing growl, waiting to be heard.