HEARTFELT PROMISES { .:*・°☆ } ——— [size=10pt]TAGS

What started out as him taking a trek through the lands of the Typhoon, running an errand for a friend, turned more into him going off course and finding his way to the gate. What exactly called him to it's edge, he had no idea, but he was eager to find out. It had been a long while since he crossed the tracks, his paws itching to once more do it again and find his way to whatever source had been drawing him in. The first few pawsteps the Toyger took were already deep, making the fur on his underbelly wet and causing him to be weighed down quite a bit. The currents of the water nearly swept his paws off the water covered tracks, claws unsheathing in a desperate attempt to keep his body balanced amongst the slippery railroad. Every wave that came, even though tiny, threatened to sweep his body off the rails which in turn sent shock through him and fear to overtake him, his heart beating and pounding every time water would brush up against the sides of his small framed body. What he wouldn't do to get his cheetah body back right at this moment.

His claws made a desperate attempt to dig into the rusty rails as he began to pick up his pace, finally ending up on the other side with his fur drenched and body weighed down. As far as he could see there had been no signs of anyone on the other side of the railroad. "Great, I came all this way for nothing." A narrow of his eyes formed as he huffed and turned back to walk back onto the railroad until,

snap.

Marcellus froze in his tracks, his eyes widening in pure fear as his heart raced while his mind tried to comprehend what that was. For a moment he thought the wind, crouching down ready to jump back onto the tracks until the heard the sound of pawsteps in the soil. A part of him wanted to turn around and another wanted to flee, fear the only emotion he could feel. He battled with himself on whether to turn around or to flee, but eventually curiosity got the best of him and he decided to slowly turn his head over his white colored shoulder to see a tall figure standing right behind him, a part of the figure looked like an angel while the other a demon. No words seemed to escape the domestic feline's mouth as his full body turned to face the much larger creature; a Doberman as white as snow, eyes that were as pink as he could imagine. For a swift moment he had completely forgotten how to talk, remembering that if this creature so decided to attack that he would be defenseless.

He would be dead.

He stammered, he stuttered, he made incoherent noises until finally he let out a simple word. "Hello." The realization that he was no longer in his territory, in his home. No one would hear his agonizing screams, his yells of pain. Only Luca would know and even then it would be far too late for him, he would be gone. Though the Doberman made no moves on him, he remained cautious however carried a conversation with the canine. A few phrases later, the Typhoon was brought up and in an instant it had seemed to peek the dogs interest. A place to stay, Marcel phrased it. A group of "pirates" that competed with a few other groups that thrived near them. A group that lived on a tropical island across the railroads. His description, though not vivid so he didn't give away too much, seemed to reach Latterday and with that, Marcellus gave the Doberman an option. He could follow Marcellus and join the Privateer in his group, or stay and remain a loner.

With their conversation drawing to an end, the Toyger gave a dismissive flick of his tail and turned away from the Doberman, making his way across the railroad once more as he struggled to stay on it.

// please wait for latterday / persia to post!

Walking. Most events in The Typhoon always started with walking. It was always aimless - patterned by the rhythmic landings and launchings of his weight, the heaviness of each stride transferring from one foot to the other. He misses the way it felt to walk on two legs. It felt less balanced but he also felt more freedom in his movements. He could pivot on his heel, change directions immediately, and now he had four paws to clumsily move about on. He was more stable this way, less likely to fall, but the confines of having four legs made him feel like a table, fixed and unable to move. And yet here he was, doing what everyone else was doing: walking. He was walking to nowhere, disappearing and allowing himself to be overtaken by the hands of elsewhere. He's unsure what he'll find, banking on the idea that strange things always loved to unravel before him when he was out walking. Of course, during Bakugou's directionless walk, his eyes were always peering about and looking for anything of interest. His hues darted about like agitated pixies, restless as they zip into the tree-lines, dash into the bushes and skip carelessly along the soiled grounds. It does, however, leave him to notice pawprints and the lingering scent of Marcellus.

Seeing as there is nothing better for the Reaver to do, he fancies himself to a game of seek, curious to see where the male must have head off too only to be led towards the railroad tracks to see the piebald king cheetah accompanied by an albino doberman. At first, Bakugou hesitates to come closer, unsure what kind of exchange is going on between the two before seeing Marcellus turn around, begin to walk away, only to be followed by the doe-eyed canine. He steps back a little, reanimating in almost a defensive but rather confused stance when he sees the two begin to get closer. Their features are starting to align and sharpen, the Reaver able to notice the creases and sunken in belly of the doberman. He must be absolutely famished, on the brink of death maybe... but Bakugou still isn't sure, flicking an ear when he begins to walk himself towards the pair, catching the other's name as Latterday. "Seriously? Ya pickin' up dead corpses along the railroad now?" the Reaver asks, though this is more in a playful manner towards Marcellus (not that it'd stop others from interpreting otherwise from his usual nasty attitude). He's in no mood to be aggressively patted by Pincher, no mood to be lectured by lowlifes who didn't know their place. He had, after all, been in a coma for twelve days. He would rather not be so angry that his intestines exploded on him. "What d'ya eat, L- uh... Litterday, was it? Ack, whatever it was."

He was never good at registering names into his memory bank.