10-21-2018, 02:01 AM
//will this child survive the blade of my fickle muse? time will tell
Near the entrance to the Typhoon, the clearing was silent, save for the rustling of the breeze in the trees and ferns. Quiet. Yeah, quiet. Stealthy. Stealthy? Very stealthy. Quiet and stealthy.
The clearing was almost silent. Almost directly across from the gate, a butt stuck up from out of the ferns, slowly moving forward. A stumpy black tail slowly waggled from side to side. Dark brown eyes peered out from the plant's depths and shifted from side to side, scanning the clearing once, twice. A paw reached up to press the microphone attached to his earpiece closer to his mouth. "The coast is clear," came a harsh, needlessly loud whisper. There was a pause. "Roger."
The mysterious hero crept out of the undergrowth, butt higher than ever while his chest brushed a trail in the sand-dirt mix. It was a puppy- a doberman puppy. His face was hard, eyes narrowed, their gaze darting around almost comically. Was he serious, or was this an act? What the hell was going on?
The puppy abruptly straightened up as if standing to attention, paws slapping together and chest puffing out. He was absolutely covered in dirt. At least his apparel was still visible. Camo pants wrapped around his haunches and back legs, snugly held in place with a utility belt strapped around his belly. Also covered in dirt. Unironic dog tags hung around his neck, with nothing but his name crudely scratched into them. A digital wristwatch (which wasn't even working - probably didn't have batteries) sat curled around his left wrist. There was an earpiece clipped to his ear, a microphone trailing down to hang near his mouth. It was fake - but you won't catch him admitting that.
The puppy had various scrapes and cuts on his body. Most were in the process of healing, but they would heal faster if he didn't keep chewing the scabs off. The other portion were on their way to becoming scars. Not cool, giant and deep battle scars you'd see in the movies. No, more like 'the time I accidentally scratched my arm on the corner of a shelf at Walmart' kind of scars. But a scar's a scar, right? Scars are cool.
A rust-colored chin tipped upwards, the doberman parting his jaws as he called out loudly. His father had told him to come here, so it had to be safe. "Heya! Uh..." Darn, what was this place called again? "Typhoon! Heya, Typhoon! I'm Dustin Saulman, reporting for duty!" Maybe his dad would be waiting here for him. That would be the best thing ever! He couldn't wait to hear all of his stories.
[align=center]ATTACK IN BOLD #528246 - TAGSNear the entrance to the Typhoon, the clearing was silent, save for the rustling of the breeze in the trees and ferns. Quiet. Yeah, quiet. Stealthy. Stealthy? Very stealthy. Quiet and stealthy.
The clearing was almost silent. Almost directly across from the gate, a butt stuck up from out of the ferns, slowly moving forward. A stumpy black tail slowly waggled from side to side. Dark brown eyes peered out from the plant's depths and shifted from side to side, scanning the clearing once, twice. A paw reached up to press the microphone attached to his earpiece closer to his mouth. "The coast is clear," came a harsh, needlessly loud whisper. There was a pause. "Roger."
The mysterious hero crept out of the undergrowth, butt higher than ever while his chest brushed a trail in the sand-dirt mix. It was a puppy- a doberman puppy. His face was hard, eyes narrowed, their gaze darting around almost comically. Was he serious, or was this an act? What the hell was going on?
The puppy abruptly straightened up as if standing to attention, paws slapping together and chest puffing out. He was absolutely covered in dirt. At least his apparel was still visible. Camo pants wrapped around his haunches and back legs, snugly held in place with a utility belt strapped around his belly. Also covered in dirt. Unironic dog tags hung around his neck, with nothing but his name crudely scratched into them. A digital wristwatch (which wasn't even working - probably didn't have batteries) sat curled around his left wrist. There was an earpiece clipped to his ear, a microphone trailing down to hang near his mouth. It was fake - but you won't catch him admitting that.
The puppy had various scrapes and cuts on his body. Most were in the process of healing, but they would heal faster if he didn't keep chewing the scabs off. The other portion were on their way to becoming scars. Not cool, giant and deep battle scars you'd see in the movies. No, more like 'the time I accidentally scratched my arm on the corner of a shelf at Walmart' kind of scars. But a scar's a scar, right? Scars are cool.
A rust-colored chin tipped upwards, the doberman parting his jaws as he called out loudly. His father had told him to come here, so it had to be safe. "Heya! Uh..." Darn, what was this place called again? "Typhoon! Heya, Typhoon! I'm Dustin Saulman, reporting for duty!" Maybe his dad would be waiting here for him. That would be the best thing ever! He couldn't wait to hear all of his stories.
i draw sometimes