An entire gator cadaver was what he had donated to his employer last. That was, what, two weeks ago? Nothing had been given to her since then, and now that the spider had disappeared (whom also aided the boss in her efforts), the supply of body parts likely shriveled.

That meant additional effort was needed. Gizzards and stomach chunks could only get you so far. Fresher, better portions were required.

A leather attaché encircled the mongrel’s midsection, inside containing a flask, a few scraps of food, an a rather sharp curved blade meant for dismemberment. An unlucky sap was gonna lose a limb. An unlucky sap from the Ascendants. It was the perfect operation. All the eggheads that were cooped up inside that observatory of theirs weren’t going to hear the yowls of agony emanating from his amputee-to-be. No offence to the group was intended; the whole science-y aspect to them, you had to look up to it. But, the enterprise they had running meant that somebody would easily be in the right place at the right time, a factor which Leroy hankered for.

The plan was simple: get in, get a limb, and get away scot-free. It would be humorous he obtained someone’s back-left leg, as that was the same appendage that was injured on his own frame (that damn gator). Hobbling along on his three that worked, the Irish wolfhound chose the penumbra cast from a tree along the contour of the canopy as a site for his little stakeout. Once a victim came along, he’d strike, first with wit, then with violence.

Murder was not his intent.

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In no time at all, someone had encroached onto his preying grounds. Okay. This little interaction was not going to be difficult. Just sweet talk him up, and take the leg and dip.

"What’s buzzin’, cousin?" a voice would greet from the shadow, before the tall figure of a mutt limped towards the stranger, before halting at what seemed to be a respectably normal distance. The air here was much cleaner than the radioactive humidity that was Tanglewood’s. He rather enjoyed it, too bad he wouldn’t be welcome back here until his friend here moved on. ”You a traveler, too? Leroy asked innocently, attempting to not sound too cheesy. If the person he was dealing with had an upper level of intellectual prowess, identifying that something was a tad off wouldn’t be very difficult.

Leroy had his antics, though. He wouldn’t lose easily. 

On his mug, nigh convincing visage flourished as the Ascendants’ denizen explained that facts of the situation. The mongrel foresaw this, him being too straightforward to a defensive reaction. It was all going swell, this was not outside of the scheme. To Roman’s request for a name, the prevaricating Leroy smoothly lipped "’F that’s tha case, I’ll tell ya that m’name’s Otto." Otto, his alias for foreign affairs such as this. Assuming that a surname was ever required, ‘Barrett’ would be provided. Here happened to be the debut of his fake name, which he had thought up while drunk a few days back, and would be one of the many times that the name Otto was muttered in ordeals similar to these. ”I don’t exactly have business here, per se,” the rich vocalization started, ”I was simply campin’ out ova’ here for tha time bein’.”

”’F that’s a problemo, I could bounce”

Poor Otto. Just hanging out by a tree and being told by a stranger to vacate the area, as it was his group’s land. Who’s to say Otto wasn’t here first? What if this place was his home long before the Ascendants came along?

Buffoonery aside, work was indeed advancing well. Presuming this guy’s quick changing of sentiment from sharp to relaxed was out of good faith, the hound could count on these next few steps to unfold comfortably. "I’ll geddup and go, then," Otto mumbled morosely, falsely beating his own breast. Roman was quite a sublime fellow, the fact that he’d soon be mortally wounded nearly bugged Leroy , howbeit not enough to modify his will. Slovenly fur affixed securely its surface as he rotated towards the canopy, his tail hung low in concocted gloominess, before beginning to hobble in the direction of the hardwood. ”See ya ‘round, then”.. It may not seem like it, but the canine was going through a lot of effort to emulate disappointment - displaying any genuine emotion (barring anger and passion) happened to be a rare feat for him. Otto was not him, though. Otto is a traveler, Leroy is a swindler, the only similarity between the two was their appearance and voice, as well as that goddamn foot.

Speaking of which-

Once barely in the shadow of the woodlands’ leaves, his injured leg, the one on the rear left, deliberately made contact with the earth below. Both Otto and Leroy felt the pain. Proceeding from a holler of agony, his frame collapsed, hitting some rogue twigs preceding striking the same earth he stepped on with his damaged limb. Though in authentic pain, it was exaggerated to the point he felt like a fool. It would all be worth it in the end, as long as his victim assisted him.

Smirking into the ground below, the hound bordered on flipping his wig in anticipation as the footsteps of Roman neared. The ploy was progressing. Unlucky pooch, he’d be going home legless today.  "I’m-" he’d feebly mutter, raiding his head to face the caring individual, ”’m okay, I guess.”. Too bad his friend here wasn’t about to be.

Hastily rearing his head, the wolfhound would force his hardy forehead towards Roman’s mug, attempting to stun the lad. If that worked, not only would it hurt Leroy, but it would also render his prey immobile for a short while, just the right amount of time for the amateur surgeon to operate on him.