09-08-2018, 09:34 AM
//long post, so tl;dr: leroy gets drunk, makes a mess of his collection of old stuff around his home, and decides on a last name
//a lot of noise was being made, so y/c could come investigate??
Antique license plate and similar vintage commodities littered the surface of the home. If one were to intrude upon the scene, they’d feel like they were caught in a time-warp, transported spontaneously to a 40’s junkyard. Cardboard boxes, ones that were transferred into the home with the help of some other Tanglers, were toppled over, spewing their contents unto the chilly floor.
Leroy was a collector of this stuff, a hoarder one may say, and his specialty was the days of yore. Musical records, worn-in leather jackets, dusty photographs, and a broken jukebox were just some parcels from the cache, and to say it wasn’t expanding would be a lie.
A bitter cloudburst was lickety-split growing outside, each diligent drop knocking on the walls like a rent collector anxiously sweating it out for their fees. Days seemed to be growing nippier with each morning, and it was only a matter of time before patches of ice started showing up. The post-summer blues were even now nailing a portion of people, the tall Irish Wolfhound not being an exception. Yeah, the colours of Autumn were nice and chaotic (and he loved chaos), though he’d instantly trade them for year-long warmth and comfort. All these mixed feelings - he hated them. What had happened to him being a cold, callous browbeater? He didn’t necessarily miss being a bully, yet he didn’t aim to be a hero either. Tanglewood was in the middle, henceforth it was the perfect clan for him; but, as of late, his good-deeds-to-bad ratio was severely unbalanced.
Contemplating all this cramped the hound - that’s what good and bad people did in unity: thinking about their actions. His goals should only be for the best interest of Tanglewood, not his own, or other people’s.
At this point, the guardsman had enough. A true reason behind all this mulling over morality was lacking. Perhaps he had believed he was of some worth in this messed up world for a second? If that was the case, he needed a method to remind himself that those were not the circumstances he was currently in. How long was it since he last got buzzed? Some months ago? Today, that would change. Under the influence of alcohol, Leroy had the potential to commit some pretty impulsive things, the fact of which was the perfect way to “wake him up”.
Scotch whisky. He used it more often as a currency than a specialty, Leroy’s defence being that, as hardcore as he was, he did not drink, or ingest drugs on a regular basis. Cowardice had nothing to do with that, it was more along the lines of him having better things to do, although dope has eternally held a special position of interest in his mind. The liquid went down tingling, and two rounds of it was the ample formula to get him tipsy. Getting absolutely hammered was not a priority, the hound wanted to do something bad that he’d regret later, and puking in a bucket followed by falling asleep was too cliché.
Merely seconds ensuing consumption, he left the bottle to sit on a counter, shifting his gaze to the two containers that Aya and Vigenere helped move inside. Those looked fun. CRASH!! cried the first box as it toppled over, its freight painting the ground in rusty artifacts and old garments. The same fate was shared with the other receptacle, and before long, his entire home was flooded with odds and ends.
Unsatisfied with making the worst mess possible, the hound next began thoroughly inspecting each and every article present, starting with some old records. A lot of this stuff hadn’t seen sunlight in years, which upset him, as he had quite the selection of rare oddities. One thing he wished for in his collection was a hand-operated record player, as his jukebox was broken and had no power source. If, in the days to come, he could get his filthy paws on one of those, the mongrel could consider his collection complete, as he could finally audibly enjoy “Jim Croce”, or “Eric Clapton”, or another human musical artist he had on vinyl. The canine set those aside, groggily picking up a dark leather coat - and at once spotting an item that appeared of high interest.
A photograph, one not vintage nor old. It was a family, a human one, featuring a smiling husband and wife duo with a child. The thing that caught his attention wasn’t the man’s formal clothing, or the city backdrop; along with a homo-sapiens group, there was a family of canines, ones that looked exactly like him - two adults, three pups. If that wasn’t enough, along the bottom was written in pen: Starkweather family, ‘12.
"Holy... shit... hic!".
He had been in a family. He had been loved.
If that was true, how did he end up on his own? There was more to this story, and though discovering it’s plot seemed unlikely, there was an entire room full of possible clues.
Starkweather. That was a cool last name.
//a lot of noise was being made, so y/c could come investigate??
Antique license plate and similar vintage commodities littered the surface of the home. If one were to intrude upon the scene, they’d feel like they were caught in a time-warp, transported spontaneously to a 40’s junkyard. Cardboard boxes, ones that were transferred into the home with the help of some other Tanglers, were toppled over, spewing their contents unto the chilly floor.
Leroy was a collector of this stuff, a hoarder one may say, and his specialty was the days of yore. Musical records, worn-in leather jackets, dusty photographs, and a broken jukebox were just some parcels from the cache, and to say it wasn’t expanding would be a lie.
A bitter cloudburst was lickety-split growing outside, each diligent drop knocking on the walls like a rent collector anxiously sweating it out for their fees. Days seemed to be growing nippier with each morning, and it was only a matter of time before patches of ice started showing up. The post-summer blues were even now nailing a portion of people, the tall Irish Wolfhound not being an exception. Yeah, the colours of Autumn were nice and chaotic (and he loved chaos), though he’d instantly trade them for year-long warmth and comfort. All these mixed feelings - he hated them. What had happened to him being a cold, callous browbeater? He didn’t necessarily miss being a bully, yet he didn’t aim to be a hero either. Tanglewood was in the middle, henceforth it was the perfect clan for him; but, as of late, his good-deeds-to-bad ratio was severely unbalanced.
Contemplating all this cramped the hound - that’s what good and bad people did in unity: thinking about their actions. His goals should only be for the best interest of Tanglewood, not his own, or other people’s.
At this point, the guardsman had enough. A true reason behind all this mulling over morality was lacking. Perhaps he had believed he was of some worth in this messed up world for a second? If that was the case, he needed a method to remind himself that those were not the circumstances he was currently in. How long was it since he last got buzzed? Some months ago? Today, that would change. Under the influence of alcohol, Leroy had the potential to commit some pretty impulsive things, the fact of which was the perfect way to “wake him up”.
Scotch whisky. He used it more often as a currency than a specialty, Leroy’s defence being that, as hardcore as he was, he did not drink, or ingest drugs on a regular basis. Cowardice had nothing to do with that, it was more along the lines of him having better things to do, although dope has eternally held a special position of interest in his mind. The liquid went down tingling, and two rounds of it was the ample formula to get him tipsy. Getting absolutely hammered was not a priority, the hound wanted to do something bad that he’d regret later, and puking in a bucket followed by falling asleep was too cliché.
Merely seconds ensuing consumption, he left the bottle to sit on a counter, shifting his gaze to the two containers that Aya and Vigenere helped move inside. Those looked fun. CRASH!! cried the first box as it toppled over, its freight painting the ground in rusty artifacts and old garments. The same fate was shared with the other receptacle, and before long, his entire home was flooded with odds and ends.
Unsatisfied with making the worst mess possible, the hound next began thoroughly inspecting each and every article present, starting with some old records. A lot of this stuff hadn’t seen sunlight in years, which upset him, as he had quite the selection of rare oddities. One thing he wished for in his collection was a hand-operated record player, as his jukebox was broken and had no power source. If, in the days to come, he could get his filthy paws on one of those, the mongrel could consider his collection complete, as he could finally audibly enjoy “Jim Croce”, or “Eric Clapton”, or another human musical artist he had on vinyl. The canine set those aside, groggily picking up a dark leather coat - and at once spotting an item that appeared of high interest.
A photograph, one not vintage nor old. It was a family, a human one, featuring a smiling husband and wife duo with a child. The thing that caught his attention wasn’t the man’s formal clothing, or the city backdrop; along with a homo-sapiens group, there was a family of canines, ones that looked exactly like him - two adults, three pups. If that wasn’t enough, along the bottom was written in pen: Starkweather family, ‘12.
"Holy... shit... hic!".
He had been in a family. He had been loved.
If that was true, how did he end up on his own? There was more to this story, and though discovering it’s plot seemed unlikely, there was an entire room full of possible clues.
Starkweather. That was a cool last name.
![[Image: mfTikER.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/mfTikER.gif)
