Summary: Macavity has gone too far this time, almost literally - catnapping Dem and Bomb, he has fled to yorkshire, the homeland of the dreaded pollicles. the chain of events that follows threaten the lives of the london jellicles, andcould unveil the secret that has kept their society alive through the centuries.

A/N: Well, methinks this would be my first story fanfiction in a while. I'm not entirely sure where it will go, almost certainly to some rather odd places, but hopefully we'll come to an ending that's saticfactionary for all. A little warning before we begin: Since we are dealing with cats here, there may be mentions of topics some may find... disturbing. Also, the timeline may be a little confusing, but I'll try to make it as clear as , sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

However, their luna-based power was not equally distributed, and so it came to be thatthe tribe of each area met once every year, to leave their glamours behind for one night, and dance and sing and be themselves, and to recharge near the end via a spell set by the more magically powerful of the tribe.

They say that cats never forgot they were once thought gods.

The Jellicles never forgot they were descended from them.

The Rum Tum Tugger was miserable. He was sore, hungry, and tired, all things cats in general, not to mention Jellicles, hate being. He was also getting increasingly worried about his half-brother. Munkustrap was unconscious, slung over Tugger’s back, covered in blood, his breathing hoarse and heartbeat too slow against Tugger’s neck for his liking. The black and tan Jellicle, bleeding himself from a wound on his temple and a gash on his side, paused to catch his breath and his bearings – there wasn’t much of either.

They were out of the city, although he wasn’t sure that was a good thing or a bad. The night on the moorland was dark and thickly foggy. There were foggy nights in London, of course, but at least there were lights, headlights and streetlamps that guided the way. Out here there was nothing – his feline eyes could pick out vague shapes in the fog, but they were so vague it was oddly frightening – he had a feeling that, had he been human, it would’ve been like he was completely blind. The cold created short bursts of steam rising from his mouth as he looked around trying to find something, anything, that could give some kind of indication of a direction to go in. The smell of blood, both his own, Munkustrap’s and Macavity’s, was near to overpowering, and the accursed fog muted sound until all he could hear was the pounding in his own ears.

He thought longingly of his den back at the junkyard, warm and dim and full of soft, purring fan-queens. What he’d give to be back there, or even at his human’s home, on her bed, listening her chatter inanely into the little box-thing she seemed so fond of.

Munkustrap gave a small moan, jerking the Tugger back to reality. They had to find a shelter, and quickly, or Munk would almost certainly be headed Heaviside.

Eventually, he found a hollow in the heather, a wind-worn dent surmounted by large, spiny bushes he couldn’t give a name to in his current state. Pushing his sibling into the deepest part (an action that aggravated the worst of his own injuries, causing black spots to dance in front of his eyes) the Rum Tum Tugger, mane ragged and torn and matted with blood, collar long fallen away and lost, bleeding in several different places, collapsed onto the moss, too exhausted to notice that the limb he stretched out was no longer a paw, but a hand.

you should know what to do!

I've written, you've read,

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(Please note that flamers will be given to the pollicles)