[shadow=black,left]PAOLA VASQUEZ[/shadow]
[table][tr][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][td][/td][/tr][/table]I just wanna taste it; Watermelon sugar high!
Paola had offered to host a party to celebrate Mr. Michael's coming litter of pups, and she had never been the kind of person to go back on her word, and especially not when someone she deeply cares for is concerned. It had taken about a week's worth of planning, resource gathering, and decorating, but by the time the weekend came, Paola was satisfied she'd done the best she could do.
On a small clearing just a few steps away from the coast, beanbags and tables were strewn around a very small firepit set on a patch of sand. Black and silver streamers were strung up on the wiry canopy overhead, and a larger white banner marked the impromptu entrance of the little party, "IT'S YOUR DAY TODAY, MR. MICHAEL" written in thick, block letters.
Some of the vines had been grown to tangle into each other, forming a loose mesh fence, and where some panels were decorated with panels, one was left bare and contained a small note held by a peg:
By the foot of it, a small basket of blank squares of paper and an assortment of pens were left behind, clearly an invitation to write something to the celebrant.
She'd asked the barkeep of the tavern to help her cook, and they'd agreed after some light convincing and the promise to help wash the dishes for the next few weeks. A small price to pay and a worthy exchange. For her trouble, he'd helped cook an assortment of seasoned meat, placed opposite a small pile of fresh meat. The newcomer, Vandal, had even brought rainbow-colored chicken wings—a Typhoon staple, she had stated. Six different punch bowls were spread out, each clearly labelled "alcoholic" and "non-alcoholic", but both boasted the same type of flavors to keep anyone from being left out.
Lastly, an perhaps what had taken the most amount of time to gather, a small pile of plushies decorated one corner of the clearing, behind a sign that said "Gifts for Mr. Michael". There were seven in total, for she had not known how many pups he carried: an elephant, a crocodile, a moose, an orca, a hyena, a lion, and a white bear. Each one wore an empty nametag around its neck, presumably to allow the children to name them.
Giving the clearing one last look-over, Paola grinned in satisfaction and hit the small, battery-powered radio with the end of her tail. Some song played, she didn't recognise it, but it suited the mood enough without being too obnoxious. With her final touch complete, Paola called the attention of a nearby clanmate and asked if they could call everyone to the clearing—especially Michael. It's a party, after all, and a party wouldn't be complete without its guest of honor.
[table][tr][td]On a small clearing just a few steps away from the coast, beanbags and tables were strewn around a very small firepit set on a patch of sand. Black and silver streamers were strung up on the wiry canopy overhead, and a larger white banner marked the impromptu entrance of the little party, "IT'S YOUR DAY TODAY, MR. MICHAEL" written in thick, block letters.
Some of the vines had been grown to tangle into each other, forming a loose mesh fence, and where some panels were decorated with panels, one was left bare and contained a small note held by a peg:
"I think you'd be the coolest dad, and I'm glad I met you.
- P"
- P"
By the foot of it, a small basket of blank squares of paper and an assortment of pens were left behind, clearly an invitation to write something to the celebrant.
She'd asked the barkeep of the tavern to help her cook, and they'd agreed after some light convincing and the promise to help wash the dishes for the next few weeks. A small price to pay and a worthy exchange. For her trouble, he'd helped cook an assortment of seasoned meat, placed opposite a small pile of fresh meat. The newcomer, Vandal, had even brought rainbow-colored chicken wings—a Typhoon staple, she had stated. Six different punch bowls were spread out, each clearly labelled "alcoholic" and "non-alcoholic", but both boasted the same type of flavors to keep anyone from being left out.
Lastly, an perhaps what had taken the most amount of time to gather, a small pile of plushies decorated one corner of the clearing, behind a sign that said "Gifts for Mr. Michael". There were seven in total, for she had not known how many pups he carried: an elephant, a crocodile, a moose, an orca, a hyena, a lion, and a white bear. Each one wore an empty nametag around its neck, presumably to allow the children to name them.
Giving the clearing one last look-over, Paola grinned in satisfaction and hit the small, battery-powered radio with the end of her tail. Some song played, she didn't recognise it, but it suited the mood enough without being too obnoxious. With her final touch complete, Paola called the attention of a nearby clanmate and asked if they could call everyone to the clearing—especially Michael. It's a party, after all, and a party wouldn't be complete without its guest of honor.
10 MOONS
[/td][td]BETA
[/td][td]TYPHOON
[/td][td]SHE/HER
[/td][td]© AUDACITY
[/td][/tr][/table] BABY'S GOT A FACE LIKE THUNDER:
