An inferno writhed and danced before him, grimy smoke coiling in plumes to stain the sunset overhead. With firelight reflecting in his unblinking glare, Beck watched his makeshift firewood slowly shrivel and curl into blackened slivers. He always despised cigarette fumes, especially the few times he grew bored enough to bite down on a cancer stick. The poltergeist only caught glimpses of an unfamiliar face and through a little eavesdropping, he could place a name to the doecat. Sam, although it was most likely short for something more. Sam garnered his curiosity,  or at least she would've if she didn't reek of ash and nicotine all the time.

    Naturally, Beck slumped by his rancid fire, burning her stash with little expression shifting his scarred face. A bandaged paw covered his snout as he stifled coughs and wheezes -- admittedly, igniting the stolen cigarettes proved to be a horrible idea. Tossing the pile into a river or even the swamp would have spared him from the inevitable coughing fit he could feel tightening his blood-filled lungs. Unfortunately,  a spark had already swelled into a volatile flame right outside his doorstep. Audrey III was joined at his side, too, albeit with a wide gap between its pot and the fire. It recoiled from the heat, its rows of formed teeth gritted and bared. Beck tilted his head to peer over his shoulder, watching Audrey for a beat before assuring himself that his friend was safe from the fire.

    It would be a shame if his bonfire ended up a waste of his time. Using his free paw to retrieve a firepoker and a bag of marshmallows from his apparition -- it took a minute to fish around for the stashed supplies -- he ripped into the plastic bag, not bothering to check the expiration date. Impaling one of the treats on the firepoker and holding it over the fire as he observed others do, Beck settled back onto his bony haunches and waited in silence.

    Impatience was quick to settle in the poltergeist's thoughts, clouding his vision as he vacantly watched the flames engulf the sugary concoction. Before long, his mind wandered to question how exactly marshmallows were created, only to jerk back to reality and find the poor treat incinerated on his fire poker. "Dammit," he hissed, bringing his makeshift stick closer to blow out the fire and examine whether or not the marshmallow was salvageable. Its sticky exterior had been burnt until it appeared more like blackened tree bark than a marshmallow and in defeat, Beck tossed his fire poker overhead before slumping lazily, resting his intact cheek on bandaged paws. A gluttonous Audrey III was more than happy to gulp up his discarded fire iron and marshmallow, teeth snapping the metal pole into jagged pieces and leafy trap tilting back to hork down the remains with all the grace of a ravenous baby bird. When it finished its snack, its pseudo-tongue greedily slid out from behind the lips of its trap to collect any crumbs it might have forgotten. The poltergeist offered a slight grimace at this -- he stole the fire poker from a house he terrorized years ago and now it was nothing more than plant food. His sigh could scarcely be heard over the fire's crackle and he returned to idly waiting.

    The woman of the hour finally decided to appear, more than likely having tracked down his bonfire with the assistance of its noxious smoke. The little feline straightened, pulling himself to lean back on scruffy haunches. While he parted his scarred mouth to speak, he hardly had any time to react as Sam bit down on his mangy scruff and flung him from his small-scale arson. Beck tumbled from the force of the throw, winding up sprawled on his side in shock. Then the pain kicked in. His ribs broken in the same manner Sam just demonstrated, the boy could've sworn he heard the fractured bones shifting and cracking as he hit the ground. Beck instinctively curled, bringing his legs closer to his underbelly while clutching the impacted side with one paw, and did his best to stifle a cry of pain. Mikolaj's scolding fell upon distracted ears as Beck simply lay in the mud, stunned. He wasn't pathetic. He would brush it off. Hissing through clenched teeth, the ghost ignored the buzzing conversation around him, focusing on staggering back to at least a sitting position. Even with his features twisted in old agony and his paw still folded over his chest to grip at his aching flank, Beck glared at his peers from the other side of the roaring fire. His mutated fly trap nudged his side, searching him for possible food before abandoning him entirely, withdrawing its vines into its pot.

    Faces with their noses crinkled in disgust -- disgust at the smell or at him? -- stared back. His blurred gaze sought out the doecat rather than Mikolaj or even Crow, finding her sifting through the bordering ashes of the smoldering cigarettes. With an expression of shame hidden in his face, a pained wheeze escaped him, aimed at the female. "I was -- I was doin' ya a favor." Why did all his good intentions fail so miserably? He only wanted to help her quit the ill-fated habit. Maybe through questionable methods, but the results should have been the same. Beck's frame slouched. Unable to voice his thoughts, he could only sink his claws into his side, his guilt shifting to frustration as he directed his glare from the creatures around him to the ground.

One of Tanglewood’s greatest traditions was its bonfires.

There were bonfires for parties, bonfires for feasts, bonfires for games - bonfires for just about anything. Initially, the choking fumes spawned by live flame proved to be fairly harsh at the very least least. For the duration of the first few recreational pyres, the hound desired nothing more than to be a good few miles out of the smoke’s reach. Trailer trash and hillbillies were the only classes that possessed the fortitude to withstand fire’s smouldery vapour, and the city slicker’s status stood above the both of those. Despite the rough first impressions, however, Leroy became more and more attuned to the fires, which eventually grew on him. A little ways down the line, the guardsman would even develop an adoration for them, and the adoration was kindled even brighter each time another one occurred. Whatever transpired that drastically changed his views for the better, he could not recall, but it got to the point where solely the sound crackling flame was enough to completely engulf him in implacable nostalgia. Moreover, smoke bothered him no more; inhaling it even brought pleasing, albeit brief, comfort to his marred cerebrum and aching joints.

As of late, bonfires were more uncommon than ever. The unfortunate circumstance dispirited the hound.

-

The aroma of flame met his wet nostrils, promptly perking Leroy’s folded ears. Its scent was more of a stench, actually - someone must have been setting something real funky ablaze.

On approach, what met his ears was not sputtering of flame or the sound of people’s content voices. In actuality, it was quite the opposite of the latter.

His arrival came far too late to witness the physical dramatics which had ensued between Sam, Beck, and Mikolaj, though he’d heard a good deal of what went on. Beck’s abashed heave struck a chord far inside the male, whom found himself in situations that practically mimicked the ordeal at hand. Acting on what he saw as correct as opposed to what actually is correct was one of his many flaws, allowing a shred of remorse to be felt for the poltergeist. On the flip side, however, Leroy understood just how important personal belongings are to specific people - him being one of them. You never fuck with someone’s shit; that’s a first-class ticket to scrap city.

Hues in a limpid yellow observed a physically-weakened Sam amble towards Arrow, his icy stare making note of the waterworks present in the young adult’s facial expression. Why she cried couldn’t be discerned simply by glaring, hence he knew not whether her tears were birthed from Beck’s fiery gesture, or by a reaction between her eyes and the smoke. What he did know about the current conflict was that Sam was an upset woman, and upset women were far from his area of expertise. To maintain what little steadiness found in these circumstances, his priority was dealing with Beck.

Carefully slipping past Sam, Crow, and the others who stumbled upon the cigarette blaze, a calm Leroy gradually edged closer to Beck by the second.  "There’re better ways you coulda helped, Beck," he mouthed bluntly, ere explaining in a much more reassuring tone, "but, I’m sure ya didn’t mean for it to end up like this. Ya were only tryn’ta help, after all."

Leroy couldn’t foresee the reactions he’d face as a result of his words. His interactions with Beck usually sustained a mocking undertone, and Sam probably wouldn’t appreciate him aiding the enemy. Though, just like Beck, he was at least trying.