10-19-2018, 08:55 PM
The fact Delilah suggested that he could provide himself with alcohol slightly hurt. How many times had he indulged himself in alcohol since the hound had gotten here? Two. Was he beginning to become known more and more as a drunk? Apparently so, if that’s what people saw as his only interest; to quote the medic, ”you can have alcohol there while you do it”.
It angered him.
His weekly task was to host training, or to tell a story, and quite frankly, none of those ideas had clicked with him. Each of them were timeworn, both being performed by many a Tangler before he even set foot in the swamp. No, this week, he’d be taking matters into his own hands. And the hound would be doing so with force.
Reflecting on the Pitt’s assault, Leroy immediately identified the painstakingly obvious flaw that lured the bastardly desert-dwellers to their isolated glade. Tanglewood was an easy target. There was nothing frightening about them - hell, look at the fucking leader, he’s poofier than a pom-pom. That’s not all, for all the group had for defence was an abundance of feral gators, those of which had also developed a hankering for Tangler meat. Everyone needed to learn a lesson on how to toughen up, and luckily for them, they had Leroy, who grew up on practically the roughest spot on the planet, the impoverished streets of the Big Apple. Hopefully, he’d be able to up the group’s reputation a bit with the following lecture.
Decrepit pads and cushions were aligned in hastily-constructed rows of three, a few so crooked they seemed rather diagonal. At the head of his arrangement sat a considerably copious beanbag, destined for his rump, a goliath in comparison to the flimsy couch pillows the guardsman brought for his peers. Here was the site of his instruction, and nobody would be skipping class, unless they did not want to be able to stand their ground in a rhubarb.
"Okay, ya morons!" he’d call, attempting to grab his tribemates’ short attention spans, ”C’mere if ya wanna learn how ta be tough!.
It angered him.
His weekly task was to host training, or to tell a story, and quite frankly, none of those ideas had clicked with him. Each of them were timeworn, both being performed by many a Tangler before he even set foot in the swamp. No, this week, he’d be taking matters into his own hands. And the hound would be doing so with force.
Reflecting on the Pitt’s assault, Leroy immediately identified the painstakingly obvious flaw that lured the bastardly desert-dwellers to their isolated glade. Tanglewood was an easy target. There was nothing frightening about them - hell, look at the fucking leader, he’s poofier than a pom-pom. That’s not all, for all the group had for defence was an abundance of feral gators, those of which had also developed a hankering for Tangler meat. Everyone needed to learn a lesson on how to toughen up, and luckily for them, they had Leroy, who grew up on practically the roughest spot on the planet, the impoverished streets of the Big Apple. Hopefully, he’d be able to up the group’s reputation a bit with the following lecture.
Decrepit pads and cushions were aligned in hastily-constructed rows of three, a few so crooked they seemed rather diagonal. At the head of his arrangement sat a considerably copious beanbag, destined for his rump, a goliath in comparison to the flimsy couch pillows the guardsman brought for his peers. Here was the site of his instruction, and nobody would be skipping class, unless they did not want to be able to stand their ground in a rhubarb.
"Okay, ya morons!" he’d call, attempting to grab his tribemates’ short attention spans, ”C’mere if ya wanna learn how ta be tough!.