11-06-2018, 12:01 AM
Just as those who had arrived before him, Miami is drawn forth by the shrill static screeching that rings through the halls of the Observatory. The cream-furred wolf has risen to his paws and ambles onto the scene with an impaitent flick of one ear and a crookedly set jaw. There's a sense that he's heard a sound such as this before, even though he can't quite place from where he recognizes it nor exactly what it comes from, but he's more concerned with the fact that what it is hurts his ears. Whatever curiosity he may have is pushed down in favor of vague irritation, written across his usually-disinteresed countenance in faint annoyance as he comes to a halt.
Lips part to speak and just as suddenly the noise stops. Miamihorror's copper gaze, half-hidden below a furrowed brow, drifts to the Bryn and then the roots that are now curled around the sputtering noise-box and back to the girl once more, only connecting the dots through her words. Any sign of discontent seems to melt away as the male relaxes, his expression that of mild interest as he rolls his shoulders back slightly. "Gee, kid, ya sure know how to kill a party," he deadpans. Miami doesn't actually care that Bryn had completely destroyed the radio — it wasn't exactly playing anything worth hearing. To have the ear-splitting blaring silenced was a relief, but he can't resist the joke, regardless of how drily the wolf delivers it.
The object catches his eye again — and, amid the newly-found silence, he remembers it now. It's one of the many manmade objects he became familiar with during his time living on the outskirts of the city as a lonely cub, though not one he knew well enough to probably operate himself. He was never into that kind of stuff, messing with human toys. Miami couldn't claim to know much about music save for a vague acquaintance with it. "'s a radio," he adds abruply, eyes lifting lazily once more to glance at the group, "was a radio, I guess. Plays music, usually, but I don't think you'll be get gettin' any more out of this one."
Lips part to speak and just as suddenly the noise stops. Miamihorror's copper gaze, half-hidden below a furrowed brow, drifts to the Bryn and then the roots that are now curled around the sputtering noise-box and back to the girl once more, only connecting the dots through her words. Any sign of discontent seems to melt away as the male relaxes, his expression that of mild interest as he rolls his shoulders back slightly. "Gee, kid, ya sure know how to kill a party," he deadpans. Miami doesn't actually care that Bryn had completely destroyed the radio — it wasn't exactly playing anything worth hearing. To have the ear-splitting blaring silenced was a relief, but he can't resist the joke, regardless of how drily the wolf delivers it.
The object catches his eye again — and, amid the newly-found silence, he remembers it now. It's one of the many manmade objects he became familiar with during his time living on the outskirts of the city as a lonely cub, though not one he knew well enough to probably operate himself. He was never into that kind of stuff, messing with human toys. Miami couldn't claim to know much about music save for a vague acquaintance with it. "'s a radio," he adds abruply, eyes lifting lazily once more to glance at the group, "was a radio, I guess. Plays music, usually, but I don't think you'll be get gettin' any more out of this one."
TIME TO MEET THE DEVIL