「 ❝ PRETTY LITTLE GANGSTER ❞ ┊ JOINING 」

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The b l o o d ; it stained the brute's muzzle, soaking to his skin. Two cuts were freshly carved onto the bridge of his nose, [sub]deep[/sub] red in color and stinging like mad. The scratches were recent, indicating that he had been in a bit of a scuffle, though the male had managed to make his way to the thick canopies of the Ascendants. He wasn't clueless—he knew what these clans were. Although he had been born and raised in a concrete jungle, he was still aware of the groups of feral animals living miles and miles away from human civilization. That being said, the male knew what to expect when he came out here. Now it was just a matter of running into a feral.

He gave a long sniff of the air around him, and a border was clearly indicated here. Dark eyes ( scanned ) the horizon, and once they landed on an approaching figure, the Beaceron straightened up and spoke, "'Scuse me . . . do ya' suppose I could stay here?"

As his cranium s h i f t e d , his silver chain necklace adjusted, a tooth-charm dangling from it. His tone was calm and leveled, a clear upper east-coast accent present in his voice. While many tended to view "street dogs" as rabid, dirty, and vile, it seemed that the brute here was an exception. The Beauceron dog was t a l l and handsome, lean with muscle (though not overly bulky). His fur was relatively well-groomed and glossy—quite impressive . . . for a stray. It was as if he could pass for a former housepet, though that would've been far from the case. He just so happened to be raised in a group who valued not smelling or looking like rat-shit. The only parts of his body that remained d i r t y for most of the time were his paws — take that as you will.

[div style="width: 48%; line-height: 14px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 13px;"]Time and time again would he see these street creatures, domesticated animals that lived as strays in concrete jungles, appear on the borders of feral groups, seeking shelter or assistance or simply waltzing about, unaware of just where they were. Some were vile and aggressive, others petty and demanding. And a rare amount simply wished to turn a new leaf in a new place, whatever their reasons might be. His own...hmm, friend and body-mate Flamey was once a housepet, a playful domestic cat whose curiosity led him to do things he did not want to do. (Or maybe that was due to Zjarr.) His inquisitive looks casted upon the unknown led him to hop the fence and never returned to the life he bore before. Perhaps the decision was for the better. Things were better here. And if Flamey really decided to sit in a yard for the rest of his life, the demon would have tried to kill himself. He could not have spectated that shit for another decade or so.

But this creature that lay upon the borders of the Ascendants' territory was different. He was certain. He knew just what he would be getting himself into...allegedly. There was the definite air of stray about this fellow, one that could not be found in one of these sentient feral folk or some wild loner. For a stray, he could applaud the endeavor. Could. Not would.

A newcomer was a newcomer, and the cyborg abandoned his pleasant stride around the territory to face the Beauceron. "Hmm, suppose ya can. Y'got a name?" he replied with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "Eh, I'm Zjarr."

[glow=#f24b00,2,300]how'd it get so scandalous?[/glow] — ☼

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He had always wondered what life would be like as a house pet. Constantly being pampered, having three meals a day, getting your fur and nails trimmed on a regular basis. . . Admittedly, it sounded nice, although he could never stomach the fact of having a human . . . own you. ( Like a slave. ) He was his own dog, and he didn't belong to anybody ( technically he had worked under his family, but that was a story for a different day ). The Beauceron had ventured out into the wild simply because he had a life he wanted to live, and he didn't want to spend the rest of his days in the city, as much as he was still loyal to his family.

As the approaching figure grew closer enough to observe, the brute had taken note of the other's . . . metal anatomy. At least it looked like metal. Either he was talking to a living cyborg or this guy had gotten banged up so badly that he had to get his body parts replaced. However, being a rather blunt fellow, he couldn't help but comment, "The hell're you supposed to be? A robot?" There was no ill intent behind his words, for he was simply "pushing buttons" like he normally did.

Well, it seemed that he was going to be allowed to stay here. "Good to hear." He sported a small grin before introducing himself to Zjarr, "Bugsy." As odd of a name as it was, Bugsy had managed to say it with a straight face. He must've been telling the truth.

[size=9pt]"The hell are you supposed to be? A wabbit?" Moon pipes up, stepping out from behind an errey of bushes with leaves in his fur and his brow raised. At that moment, he was caught up in his quip, and he didn't quite realize just where he stood with his retort; someone with the name Moon wasn't exactly any more normal or any less questionable than someone with the name Bugsy. Perhaps he'd realize once he introduced himself. "Whats up, Doc?" he quoted, voice angled to replicate the Looney Tunes character he'd essentially grown up with. He'd never been a fan of Bugs Bunny; Lola deserved better. "Welcome to the Ascendants. Better get used to Cyborg, here. We got way fuckin' weirder."

— TAGS