09-27-2018, 03:15 PM
Following the day of the amputation - god, that was quite a whiles ago, was it not? - he sensed a metaphysical barrier betwixt the hound and the vibrantly pelted femme. Her leg, trapped in that trap as it was, had to be cleaved off, and fate did not exude an ounce of mercy that day. There was no other way. Delilah knew it. Leroy knew it too. Yet, knowing the fact could not spare him from a bombardment of bother originating in his mentality. In the end, concurrently saving the feline’s life, a Tangler was harmed at the end of his gray, wayward paws, and the guilt that followed shared the same lack of charity as fate. Hung over his shoulders, in similar fashion to a backpack or carry on, self-reproach was a weight dragging him down, the only efforts in having it lifted made by others instead of himself. All of his clanmates’ reassurance in that he had been a hero instead of villain were feeble, in his mind, yet they almost... worked.
The cool night’s breeze disabled Leroy’s sense of smell, mucus clogging his snout’s ventilation. However, Delilah’s flowery aroma somehow gained entry, and it inspired the burly canine to say hello. He hadn’t truly spoken to her after that (drunkspeak doesn’t count), and it was high time that he did. Perhaps they could share something to eat, maybe she’d even like her leg, which Leroy had safely contained - unlike the rest of his items -, back.
Delilah’s limp, benumbed figure had greeted him upon appearance, opposite to the active, benevolent medic he had come to know. With haste, he dashed to her, lightly prodding at her noggin before calling her name. "Ya alright in there, Delilah?" he’d gingerly inquire, subsequently prodding her once more. She wasn’t dead - she couldn’t have been. He may not know a ton about health and medicine, but he understood that one could not just... die, like that. Right?
The cool night’s breeze disabled Leroy’s sense of smell, mucus clogging his snout’s ventilation. However, Delilah’s flowery aroma somehow gained entry, and it inspired the burly canine to say hello. He hadn’t truly spoken to her after that (drunkspeak doesn’t count), and it was high time that he did. Perhaps they could share something to eat, maybe she’d even like her leg, which Leroy had safely contained - unlike the rest of his items -, back.
Delilah’s limp, benumbed figure had greeted him upon appearance, opposite to the active, benevolent medic he had come to know. With haste, he dashed to her, lightly prodding at her noggin before calling her name. "Ya alright in there, Delilah?" he’d gingerly inquire, subsequently prodding her once more. She wasn’t dead - she couldn’t have been. He may not know a ton about health and medicine, but he understood that one could not just... die, like that. Right?