10-21-2018, 07:08 PM
[size=9pt]It's gotten to the point where Moon doesn't leave the border. When he's not hosting Meetings, finding corpses, or staring at the ceiling of his room, begging whatever allmighty fuck sits in the clouds and calls the shots to give him a wink of fucking sleep, just a wink-- he's at the border. It means he can patrol until his paws trip themselves up against the dirt and his lids fall slack and he can go back to the Observatory and pass out.
The problem with this technique was that patrolling usually resulted in finding joiners. Which was all well and good - Moon preferred to be the one to give them the go ahead, these days, anyway - but the plan began its slow descent to crashing and burning when Moon has reached the point, hour 4 of trudging through the fields, where he's borderline collapsing in on himself with the need for sleep, a well-run shell of a creature. He's not the most welcoming to be around, these times.
"Lover boy?" Says the lion. One side of his lip lifts in a questionable facial expression, glassy eyes glancing the panther up and down. He scoffs a laugh. "Tell me you're fucking joking."
The problem with this technique was that patrolling usually resulted in finding joiners. Which was all well and good - Moon preferred to be the one to give them the go ahead, these days, anyway - but the plan began its slow descent to crashing and burning when Moon has reached the point, hour 4 of trudging through the fields, where he's borderline collapsing in on himself with the need for sleep, a well-run shell of a creature. He's not the most welcoming to be around, these times.
"Lover boy?" Says the lion. One side of his lip lifts in a questionable facial expression, glassy eyes glancing the panther up and down. He scoffs a laugh. "Tell me you're fucking joking."
[align=center][div style="width: 500px; height: auto; text-align: center; font-family: ; font-size: 9pt; color: COLOR; letter-spacing: -.5px;"][i][b]and die like a hero going home.[glow=black,2,300]