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+----- Thread: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now (/showthread.php?tid=7363)
DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - FELIKS - 10-26-2018
[align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width: 60%; font-family: georgial; font-size: 11pt;"]With all the recent goings on, Feliks had wondered how easy his life would've been if he just stopped playing around with others. Would it have been worth the boredom if it meant not having to deal with prolonged moments of wrath and superbia? The journey across hostile lands had given him plenty of time to debate such things in a back and forth internal dialogue, though unfortunately whilst the treeline ahead may have became clearer with every passing minute, the answer did not. Wings beating with all the grace of a one-legged horse, the gryphon was left rather bitter at the fact that the heat was not kind to his golden back. Eyes drafted down towards the ground once or twice on his journey, perhaps catching a figure or two far too distorted for the male to bother them. The way he saw it, it was far more torturous to walk across the sands as opposed to getting whisked up by a seething beast. No, he'd have to go daring and deep to relief the steam he'd built up these past several days.
Before having time to contemplate his guts, a creamy ground had turned green, and leaves began to poke at his underbelly - a warning perhaps, that if he flew any lower Feliks would end up hurting himself. Ugh, seems like he'd have to give up flight then. Tilting his feathered appendages, the Striker swung his hind legs forward, flapping drastically slowed down so he could begin a sudden descent. Past the branches he went, reddish marks appearing between his fur where his slim figure had decided to row with some pointy sticks, some more persistent foliage sticking to him. In spite of the discomfort, Feliks found a place to land among some thick, low-hanging arms of one of the jungle's many trees. A low grumbling sound emerged from him as he shook away the leaves and twigs. Seems like mother nature was his nemesis for the second time recently.
"Mm sick of jungles," he mumbled to himself, and with such a sloppy entrance as that, it was clear that stealth wasn't a complete priority for him. Whether it was confidence or apathy that caused him to ignore cloaking himself, the world may never know. Talons gripping onto the branch for dear life as he heard a creak, Feliks slowly settled his hind quarters down, lying down in wait of a patrol or slaver or... anything really. Common sense told him not to go any deeper into the lion's nest by himself, and whilst it probably should've also told him not to come here at all, he wouldn't take to being bossed around like that by his own smarts. Perhaps neglecting his better judgement would result in profit - time would tell.
[member=2345]WANDERER[/member] c:
Re: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - WANDERER - 10-26-2018
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Would his trip here result in some sort of profit? Probably not, at least this time around. Though the creature that stumbles into this mess now may be satisfying to fuck up (revenge always was at least a little nice, Val knows that), it's not like he's all that important. Most people here completely ignored him, and when they didn't, it was to say that he had a stick up his ass, that he needed to relax or — something. When it wasn't spin the bottle, it was someone's guts spilled across the floor or stumbling across a scene where literal jars of hearts were broken on the ground. They weren't really his idea of fun, so he didn't play along. Violence was met with gritted teeth and his own attempts to take care of the injuries later, and he avoided the captures. It was cold of him to do it, maybe, but he knows that he can't help anyone if he's dead. The only thing that matters is getting Butch out of that collar, then maybe he can work at chipping away at the edges of this group. But for all of his brains, he can't find a situation that would help things. He'd tried to clear his head with a trip out of the desert, but all it did was make him angrier. His mind wouldn't stop running through all sorts of scenarios.
Like the asshole he'd run into at that place's border, he was so. fucking. sick of jungles. The humidity makes his fur stick out oddly, and he knows that Butch would be trying to fix it even though his own's probably not too much better. This place stinks. He can't take a step without the crunch of leaves and twigs letting everyone know where he is, and if he tries to pay attention to that, he can't pay attention to the low branches and vines that proceed to hit him in the face. There's no easy way to win this, huh? Whatever, he wasn't someone who was in anything for the easy ending. He left home in a panic, searching for the man who had left him and everything they'd known for — for something out here, he doesn't even know what. Everything he cares about was gone except for the asshole that kept him here, in a place that he loathes.
Because that, for some reason, is how his life works.
The dog ends up spitting out leaves as he pushes through some of the undergrowth, half-dead pieces of it sticking into thick fur and tearing at his satchel. It's almost empty now and he should have left it back with Butch or something, but he's not turning back to that place now. Even with the sounds of life drowning him, this is better for his head than listening to those people talk. Breathing out here is like breathing in smoke; every breath in just makes the next more difficult. Every exhale is frustrated as he trudges forward. Even after a sharp crack of breaking branches and the smacking of light twigs on top of his head, Val can only feel frustrated. Then he looks up. Golden eyes widen and then narrow, posture defensive and leaning away from Feliks. "What, change your mind about listening to a dictator?" he scoffs, biting down crueler words.
Re: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - FELIKS - 10-26-2018
[align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width: 60%; font-family: georgial; font-size: 11pt;"]Company had been swift, a fact that should've been expected and treated with a guarded view - alas, it was too late for him to think about acting defensive now. Emerald eyes flickered down towards the approaching canine, leaning his head down to get a better look at them. As his memory came back to him a thin tail began lashing, talons tapping against the bark one toe at a time whilst his glare seemingly intensified. If he recalled, the other had never shared his name when visiting strangers in their homes, a rude gesture that would've been ignored by Feliks had it been another walking in the mongrel's paw-steps. Snorting in faux amusement at the interrogation, the winged creature stood himself up. If Val had been the Pitt's overruling dictator, he was sure there would've been a revolution already, yet with a conversation with Stryker being nigh impossible, he figured that 'talking' with this thing would have to do.
Or would it? Unlike Val, Feliks didn't come to hostile lands to just talk for a bit, though no stranger to taunting enemies on their borders the gryphon wouldn't ever be foolish enough to approach foes for casual conversation (most of the time, at least). He began making his descent down the tree, strings of various curses being sprouted mentally as he struggled to find a grip on the humid trunk. Before he fell headfirst to his embarrassment, he leaped off, landing in a crouch with beak open as if he was baring teeth. Not a bad coverup for the sudden tweak he felt in his hind leg, he thought, standing and shrugging off the pain as best the veteran could do before pacing closer. "I have no intentions of agreeing with a cur," he rasped, failing to masquerade a wounding pride at being told off by such a horrid beast. "Though I do wonder what the other slavers will say when I tell them of an unfaithful mutt within their ranks. If you're telling the truth about having a 'friend', that is,".
A bluff Feliks had no problems admitting to, the lion-sized creature seemed to be watching for a reaction as he tried further closing the gap between Typhooner and Pittian. It wouldn't be so easy to attack, the male was hotheaded but certainly not stupid, it seemed that Feliks was just looking for an excuse to get physical. Perhaps the wrong phrase spoken, perhaps the shepherd dog would attack first, he wouldn't be fussy with the reasons so long as they didn't toy too much with his faint pulse of morality.
Re: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - WANDERER - 10-26-2018
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Well it was kinda hard to give a name when everyone was telling him to leave and throwing fireballs, yeah? Or maybe that was just some weird custom he could blame on The Typhoon. Maybe everyone had to go through some test and he'd just failed it. But if that's the sort of game they want to play, he wasn't a willing participant. He's sick of people toying with each other, he's sick of people finding enjoyment in fucking with one another. That's not the only reason he would have been such an awful dictator here — his morals weren't that bad. The worst he's done is steal a drink for Butch every now and then. His teeth are already gritting by the time that Feliks snorts at him and stands. The griffon may have wanted to talk, but he's standing here looking for a way to get out of this conversation. A conversation with him is the last thing he wants on his plate.
Nobody was his enemy solely because of their alliances, maybe that's where he'd tripped up, but boy oh boy this guy's starting to make the list. The young canine takes a step back as the gryphon lands, body lowering slightly towards the ground to better balance his weight. His position is more wary than aggressive, though his eyes are still narrowed right up until the moment that they roll flippantly at everything he says. Cur. Other slavers. That one has him growling, the noise low. But it stops suddenly when he registers the rest of it. Val's expression changes in a blink, truly fearful for the first time that he had been confronted with the strange creature. Anger quickly bubbles up again, but can't fully chase away the way that his heart starts to race.
"So much for you having the moral high ground," he snaps with venom in every word, teeth bared. "All your talk about me, and you're willing to risk a slave's life because your ego got bruised." Typically, he's got no issue throwing the first punch in a fight. As everyone who spit out all kinds of insults when he was a kid and expected him to take it. But this time, all he wants is for these words to sink in and sting a bit more, throw salt on a wound. He doesn't back down when Feliks starts advancing, which was probably stupid, but — he's not afraid. "Get bent, asshole," he spits.
Re: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - FELIKS - 10-27-2018
[align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width: 60%; font-family: georgial; font-size: 11pt;"]Upon seeing thinly veiled taunts taken seriously, hints of amusement appeared on an other wise sour expression, perhaps revealing some truth behind Val's reasoning for joining. No matter though, he was sure that to rescue someone, the other would have to provide some sort of contribution to the group, whether it be food or other captives. If there was a choice between saving the slaves and killing all the Pitt, the latter would have to be taken - more slaves could always be made, but burning a clan to the ashes would prevent hardships from happening for much longer. The Striker hadn't come to discuss whether or not he was more of an angel though, the only high ground he could ever truly claim would be physical and up in the trees. Morally, though devoted to attempting a black and white spectrum, was too grey and complicated for him to debate.
A quiet albeit shrill sound escaped from his parted beak, halfway between a growl and a squawk as the tensions in the other became clearer. It was fuel for him, a reason not to back down and stick to words. No matter how cold he was acting, no matter how hard he tried to fake his aloof attitude, every part of him burned hotter and hotter as his pride was called upon for questioning. Pupils normally so wide narrowed like a cat's, underused hind claws destroying leaves that tainted the jungle's soil. You didn't come here to get angrier, smirk at him, mock him, do anything. He blinked, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, wings flapping in an almost cartoon-ish way to try and cool himself off. "One slave dies, another innocent replaces them. Attacking a snake's tail will do nothing but make it turn around and bite you,".
So it seemed he was attacking the viper's torso instead, at least he thought. An analogy flawed by his inability to think straight at the given moment in time, it all seemed to reach a boiling point once some parting words were offered. Get bent, asshole. The reaction from the pirate was near instantaneous, not even given the insults time to sink in. The gryphon lunged forwards to close the final few feet of the gap, swiping a forelimb diagonally in an attempt to strike the other with his talons in a gesture similar to a slap. "Yeah well fuck you too mutt!" he rasped loudly.
Re: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - WANDERER - 10-27-2018
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]In a sense, Val agrees with him: the people here deserved to die, not for their alliance, but for their actions. They hurt others and enjoyed it, and he's not perfect either. He wants them to die, he doesn't want to offer them the chance at redemption. But if he thought that one person could do it, that Val could do it, he needed to rethink a few things. Maybe it's just that he's never killed like that before. Not in a fight or any situation where they can beg, and never senselessly. There was never a perfectly right or wrong way to do things, sure, but there's sure as hell a better one. Whenever there was the option for it, Val would avoid conflict. His temper might get the better of him when they hit the right buttons, but so far that's the only thing to get him riled up too much. See, the dog isn't the strongest opponent out there, with only a lean build and minimal experience. And maybe he just doesn't want to be the reason that people end up in the ground. It makes sense that he wouldn't go throwing himself around with those big problems.
Right now, both of those are showing pretty clearly. Compared to Feliks, Val is tiny. Most of his shape is fur, covering a body that isn't soft anymore but certainly isn't strong. Everything about him is rougher than when he started out into this world, from his paws to his personality. Snapping back at bullies became standing up to people like this, when it meant more, but it also became a bitter anger that often turned to people who didn't deserve it. He doesn't know if that's what's happening now — he keeps getting angrier and angrier the more Feliks talks, but maybe it's just because every word out of his mouth feels like another threat to his friend's safety. His teeth grind until his jaw starts to ache, not having wings to flap and not daring to move from where he stands. "A life is a life. You can't — justify or excuse what you just said." What was that phrase he'd heard thrown around all the time? Helping one person might not change the world, but it will change the world for that one person.
It is selfish that he chose Butch, of all the people here that could need his help, but selflessness has already cost him too much. With the way that the gryphon lunges at him, he wonders if it could possibly cost even more. Claws cut through his cheek, parting the white fur around his muzzle with long tines of red. He doesn't register the sting for a moment, but by then he's already in motion. The dog jumps right back at him, [b]aiming to clamp the same forelimb between his teeth. Tug-of-war was one of the few things that he had been good at when it comes to physical activity, and although his jaw couldn't clench too tightly around a limb like his, he has no intention of letting go if he manages to get a good grip.
Re: DUST BOWL DANCE | p, for now - FELIKS - 11-03-2018
[align=center][div style="text-align: justify; width: 60%; font-family: georgial; font-size: 11pt;"]/ oof apologies for the late reply, my muse kinda just went haywire
A life may have just been a life, but why safe the life of one if you could save the life of dozens? Killing a leader or high position could disincentive those of a weaker disposition to go down a truly evil path. To the gryphon, there was no point trying to rationalise with the Pitt, time and time again now he'd talked to creatures like them and time and time again he'd been hurt for it. A scar here, a broken heart there, though his hybrid body had been the perfect coverup for years of torment at the paws of monsters due to it's lack of injuries, mentally it wasn't so easy to repair his better judgement. To have it called into question was like having a branch impaled right through his knee again, he'd made it perfectly clear throughout this whole interaction that he wasn't a fan of the questioning.
Moral debates were almost always inspiring or provoking, but not in a way that made him irritated. A lowly Pittian had no place telling him what he could and couldn't believe. Pain in a scaly forelimb brought all boiling thoughts to an end, a furious screech emanating from his throat. Adrenaline well and truly coursed through his veins now, intensified by the sight of the other's blood... and his own between the other's teeth. Feliks doesn't pull back or resist the dog's savagery, pain could've riled him to do something foolish and further damage his captured limb but he thought he was a more experienced fighter than that. Five years alive and four years of constant battling for both his survival and others', though his training may not have been as extensive as some creatures, the one advantage he had was experience.
Sparring for months would hardly quell one's fears or excitements when first entering a battlefield. It was a whole new experience, going against creatures that genuinely wanted you dead as opposed to friends or mentors... it was exhilarating (until of course you got hit, then it sucked). Craning his neck forwards, the Striker aimed to snap his sharp beak against the top of the other's maw multiple times, finishing his assault of with an attempted headbutt to the other. He'd have to drag his own limb closer for that of course, which wasn't ideal (and a brief albeit pained expression showed that), but it was worth it if it meant getting the cur away from him.