( SHOUT : OPEN )

[WANDERER]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Staying here had been a mistake, Butch or no. Or maybe he should just take out the or no — it was a shitty idea. Everything about this place makes the dog's skin crawl, from the heat and the chains to the people themselves. He couldn't say that every decision he made was out of the goodness of his heart; sometimes he could be selfish, sometimes he could be cruel. But he'd never been this sort of cruel, he'd never thought about keeping someone locked up for his own benefit. Nothing about this place is morally right and — and yeah, maybe he should have headed out when Butch told him to, especially when the exact way he'd said it sent pinpricks through Val's chest. He knows that he wouldn't really be all that willing to leave the collie behind, even if an argument had started this, even if he'd been an asshole their entire lives. It's whatever it is. He'll adjust to this place, which is awful on its own, but better than the alternative.

The air feels suffocating at the entrance to the building he'd decided to duck into for a moment of rest, and even though it's still dry inside, it's a little less hot. (It's far enough away from people that he feels less crowded, too. Less likely to start a fight.) He shrugs off the dumb jacket and it falls to the ground with a muted thump. His bag of supplies goes with it, which had been the plan in the first place, aside from the fact things start to spill out. "Shit," he breathes, jumping to scramble after carefully rolled bandages and dried herbs. Everything's gonna be so damn dirty. Not that anything here is clean. That's probably not something that should apply to the stuff he puts on others' bodies. Half an hour later and the golden-toned canine is still sitting there, but now he has lines of his supplies laid out in front of him on the jacket he'd left there, too busy chasing bandages to pick it up. It's gonna stink like herbs for a few weeks. At least that's better than sand, right? It stopped smelling like its original owner a while ago.

(Not sure if that's a pro or a con. Neither. It's not the important part of this, anyway.)

The important part is the way his expression furrows in concentration and distaste, or the rustling and soft curses that echo out from the room. That sounds about right.