January's halfway mark was creeping up, and the festive decorations that laced the tavern had yet to come down. The holly, the tinsel, hell, even the 'mistlto' were strewn across the wall as if the current month were December. Additionally, the velvet tablecloths, now besmirched by countless stains and smudges, rested upon all of the tables - and the tree still sardonically towered beside the hearth. The general hadn't given any outright orders to take the holiday baubles down, but shouldn't have it been common sense to do something about them by now?

Whatever. He put the stupid decorations up, and now he was putting them away.

A an unkempt bundle of Christmas lights sat at the foot of the tree, along with a fair amount of ornaments, some of them broken. The other adornments, such as the tinsel and whatnot, had already been stuffed in their respective boxes. All that stood in the mongrel's way of de-holiday-fying the building was the tree. And, fuck, he didn't have the foggiest idea as to how he'd manage the damn thing. It was ginormous. The options before him were slim; either he could carefully remove each remaining ornament from the plant's branches and then bring the thing down, which would certainly take all day, or he could yank it down right from the get-go and pray that no more decorations become smashed to smithereens. The latter of the two options did not seem appealing, though, as enough ornaments had fallen victim to gravity already, producing a layer of sharp glassy pieces that'd slit one of his paw's pads open.

He eyes a particular trinket, one of those fragile red spherical ones, and discerns it as his next target. With his wounded paw, he reaches up and swipes at the branch it was situated on, attempting to shake it loose. When it does fall, it doesn't touch down on the cushion that the wolfhound had put out as a landing surface. No, the ornament falls and crashes into his thick noggin, shattering into a zillion pieces. Disoriented, he backs away, only to fall on his rump (luckily, his ass made no contact with any sharp segments).

Having help with this demanding task would only benefit him.

The pain that pulsated about his skull wasn't of urgent nature, but damn, did it cause the male a good discomfort. At first, his visage contorted itself into a grotesque wince, before his brain kicked in his body's natural reaction to pain - cussing. Fair was the number of curses and swear words that he indignantly muttered in the wake of the impact, which would persist for quite a while actually. Only upon the entry of another individual did he strenuously stifle his maw, and even then, it was a move done in total reluctance. An inhale aquiver, and a subsequent unsettled exhale, he reclines his shoulders from the tense hold they were in and allows himself to relax. Whomever inserted themselves into the tavern, the canine could not say for certain. He'd solely heard the stranger's footfalls faintly thudding against the ground yonder, and had yet to identify them by appearance. With that being the case, his eyes scan the surrounding area, not ceasing in their search until ultimately falling on another individual.

"Oh, it's you, Roy. Hello there."

Aurum's adopted, flame-wielding, skeleton-patterned son. Not someone that Leroy interacted with a whole bunch, less not at all. From what he knew of him, though, the kid didn't seem to indulge himself in the same gratuitous chaos that the rest of the tribe did. Rather, the tiger preferred enterprises of the peaceful variety. That was all he made of the boy.

"Well," he starts, fixing to answer the young feline's query, "I ain't dead. So that's good." By then, the aching had completely subsided. Gone. Eliminated. At the same time, however, the motivation to continue in his pursuit of cleaning up had discontinued, out of fear of a similar event occurring again. "I hate puttin' stuff away," the mongrel blurts, "especially holiday stuff. Especially holiday stuff this late. Kinda leaves me feelin' a little blue."

"Errr- did ya have a good holiday, Roy?"