08-14-2023, 10:50 PM
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[div style="margin-bottom: 4px; height: auto; font-family: baskerville; font-size: 26px; letter-spacing: 3px; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; color: black;"]NO CHANCE THAT I'LL BE OKAY
ACTIONS | "SPEAKING" | THINKING | TELEPATHY
Ah, alcohol. One of life's toxic pleasures, up there with tobacco and other natural remedies. It seemed that no matter where Project was, the lovely temptation to drink would present itself. Fortunately, he was no stranger to the stuff, having even made his own batches of rum, mead, whiskey and moonshine before, but only when he was completely dry on the rest of his stash.
However, he had yet to learn of the tension between the Typhoon, his lovingly called "pirate guys" and the Tanglewood. Since he had washed up, little over a week before this, he hadn't really had the chance to learn about what was what, and who was who. This meant that, unfortunately for Zjarr, the vampire would wander at night, spending the sleepless midnight hour drinking his horrific visions away as he walked the land, trying to decode them.
This very night was even more unfortunate, as the black and orange wolf had wandered perhaps too far, leading the husky to be discovered by the newcomer, the porcelain mask giving the Typhooner away immediately, the shadows forsaking him as he appeared from the underbrush, bottles slung in an ancient cloth bandolier.
"Ah, shit. You up too? Guess that nightmares are common here? 'Specially by that cursed ship?" Came the tired, gruff question, corn liquor heavy upon his breath. The other canine could, even in his own drunkenness, tell that Project had been drinking heavily, or at least consumed it on a regular basis, as the sharp smell of controlled decay clung to his neat jet black fur.
However, he had yet to learn of the tension between the Typhoon, his lovingly called "pirate guys" and the Tanglewood. Since he had washed up, little over a week before this, he hadn't really had the chance to learn about what was what, and who was who. This meant that, unfortunately for Zjarr, the vampire would wander at night, spending the sleepless midnight hour drinking his horrific visions away as he walked the land, trying to decode them.
This very night was even more unfortunate, as the black and orange wolf had wandered perhaps too far, leading the husky to be discovered by the newcomer, the porcelain mask giving the Typhooner away immediately, the shadows forsaking him as he appeared from the underbrush, bottles slung in an ancient cloth bandolier.
"Ah, shit. You up too? Guess that nightmares are common here? 'Specially by that cursed ship?" Came the tired, gruff question, corn liquor heavy upon his breath. The other canine could, even in his own drunkenness, tell that Project had been drinking heavily, or at least consumed it on a regular basis, as the sharp smell of controlled decay clung to his neat jet black fur.