11-16-2018, 06:18 PM
Obligations around these parts had just taken a turn for the better. Almost the entirety of the spooks which terrorized the glades over the entirety of last month had vanished (barring that friendly one which made a home out of his jukebox), and the Tanglers had returned home from a more-than-welcoming Sunhaven to find that the stomping grounds were largely unaffected by its temporary ill-favoured ghastly residents. No sooner than a week later, and the General had already organized a slew of events to improve the town’s neighbouring conditions. Not only that, but a far-fetched influx of new faces had turned up, greatly improving Tanglewood’s previous status as a dwindling family. A definitive sensuality of blistering nostalgia overwhelmed the mutt like a forest fire in dry season, for the current setting mournfully reminded him of his early days in the tribe - a booming population, unique personalities, and likeable faces. The feeling was a bittersweet one, as Leroy realized that this meant prior individuals such as Malphas, Abathur, and even Ophelia, all were being replaced by the folks of tomorrow.
That last thought caused him to wonder, what if the very same fate that befell the aforementioned names happened to him? What would happen to those around him if he had suddenly died? Would they care? Would they falter? Not that he cared about his own well-being, of course; but, if he ever languished enough to negatively affect any of his comrades, Leroy would certainly be inordinately gutted.
Unkempt paws conveyed his lanky frame through the underbrush, each footstep following a stable rhythm. It was known to some that the male enjoyed these walks, on which he thought over the decisions he made, and about the many affairs transpiring in the odd world that he lived in. Though the abundance of joiners was a pro for the clan, their presence also meant that Tanglewood wasn’t any time soon going to revert to how tight-knit all the established Tanglers had become. And he pondered on those who had left, and what would happen once he left, himself. And yet, the thought of anybody current dispersing never once traced his mixed mentality.
The smell of blood was a metallic twang that the mutt had gotten used to over the years; the source of it either coming from his own wounds, or from the poor sap that Leroy had just beaten to a pulp. However, today’s scent was very... different. It was as if blood had a very distant cousin, a cousin from another country, who spoke another language. Luckily for the mongrel, he, too spoke the language that the exotic fluid had to speak. To Leroy, the blood had cried out, ”yeah, she’s getting killed over here”. Not one to distrust liquids, the hound switched his strut to a soft trot, then to a jog, and finally to a desperate scramble (his unkind mind had implemented theories on whom who had just been attacked, each thought adding another layer of speed to his movements).
Now, he stared over her. His amber eyes calmly examined the pink feline’s truncated figure, whilst his heart beat profusely. He had to keep his cool. He had to keep his cool. ”You have to keep your cool, man,” Leroy believed the blood to have said in reply.
She still seemed to stir. That was good. Poor blind Delilah was not dead. Yet. Beside her lay a decal, one apparently crafted from a fine paint can. Intriguing. The sprayed picture, along with the fact that the feline was practically rendered defenceless on account of her blindness, put an inkling into his mind which suggested that this was a planned attack of sorts, not some spontaneous brawl.
It was a dirty move to prey on the disabled, a dirty move which he’d never have committed even in his wildest days. An act of which would need repayment.
"Who did this to ya?" the hound mumbled, the question so grim it was devoid of any tone whatsoever. Whoever it was, he’d make sure to eviscerate them, maim them only to have them succumb to a slow demise, instead of putting his target out of their misery. Delilah is- Delilah was innocent of any act which would bring upon her a fate like this. She deserved none of it. She deserved better. She deserved retribution. As the crippled femme was the clan’s only medic, Leroy called not for aid. Loud noises could do more harm than good for her. Instead, he’d just stare, requesting one last answer from Delilah before she collapsed to an inevitable fate.
That last thought caused him to wonder, what if the very same fate that befell the aforementioned names happened to him? What would happen to those around him if he had suddenly died? Would they care? Would they falter? Not that he cared about his own well-being, of course; but, if he ever languished enough to negatively affect any of his comrades, Leroy would certainly be inordinately gutted.
Unkempt paws conveyed his lanky frame through the underbrush, each footstep following a stable rhythm. It was known to some that the male enjoyed these walks, on which he thought over the decisions he made, and about the many affairs transpiring in the odd world that he lived in. Though the abundance of joiners was a pro for the clan, their presence also meant that Tanglewood wasn’t any time soon going to revert to how tight-knit all the established Tanglers had become. And he pondered on those who had left, and what would happen once he left, himself. And yet, the thought of anybody current dispersing never once traced his mixed mentality.
The smell of blood was a metallic twang that the mutt had gotten used to over the years; the source of it either coming from his own wounds, or from the poor sap that Leroy had just beaten to a pulp. However, today’s scent was very... different. It was as if blood had a very distant cousin, a cousin from another country, who spoke another language. Luckily for the mongrel, he, too spoke the language that the exotic fluid had to speak. To Leroy, the blood had cried out, ”yeah, she’s getting killed over here”. Not one to distrust liquids, the hound switched his strut to a soft trot, then to a jog, and finally to a desperate scramble (his unkind mind had implemented theories on whom who had just been attacked, each thought adding another layer of speed to his movements).
Now, he stared over her. His amber eyes calmly examined the pink feline’s truncated figure, whilst his heart beat profusely. He had to keep his cool. He had to keep his cool. ”You have to keep your cool, man,” Leroy believed the blood to have said in reply.
She still seemed to stir. That was good. Poor blind Delilah was not dead. Yet. Beside her lay a decal, one apparently crafted from a fine paint can. Intriguing. The sprayed picture, along with the fact that the feline was practically rendered defenceless on account of her blindness, put an inkling into his mind which suggested that this was a planned attack of sorts, not some spontaneous brawl.
It was a dirty move to prey on the disabled, a dirty move which he’d never have committed even in his wildest days. An act of which would need repayment.
"Who did this to ya?" the hound mumbled, the question so grim it was devoid of any tone whatsoever. Whoever it was, he’d make sure to eviscerate them, maim them only to have them succumb to a slow demise, instead of putting his target out of their misery. Delilah is- Delilah was innocent of any act which would bring upon her a fate like this. She deserved none of it. She deserved better. She deserved retribution. As the crippled femme was the clan’s only medic, Leroy called not for aid. Loud noises could do more harm than good for her. Instead, he’d just stare, requesting one last answer from Delilah before she collapsed to an inevitable fate.