12-03-2018, 08:47 PM
Now, don’t take this as the truth, but Leroy often referred to himself as the ‘king of 42nd Street’, alluding to his dwelling prior to Tanglewood. According to his tales, both factual and tall, it was a nickname that wasn’t meagrely bestowed upon him for no plain reason - he earned the damn title. Whenever the time for storytelling was nigh, the mutt took absolutely no shame in going into as graphic detail as he can when describing the various acts he’d partaken in during the course of his four years in the Big Apple, intermittently conveying images of blood spilling from the throats on those who opposed him, and now and again shamelessly exemplifying how cutthroat some of his actions exactly were - before reminding those present that he’s a changed man, and rarely acts akin to his past self these days. A further notion construing his use on the battlefield, in addition to reputation, was his experience with this genre of life. It would be a lie to say that Leroy was young; it would also be a fib to say that he was old. No, Leroy was a median, aged enough to have more than plenty exposure to what the world has to offer, though not ripe enough to have seen everything. Though if one asked him anything on the topic of fighting, owing to the canine’s copious background knowledge on the subject, it was more than likely that an exceeding-proper answer would be given. The folks back on the impecunious avenue made him endure a torturous “initiation rite”, as they called it (which later turned out to be nothing more than deceit), and then taught him everything he understands now about combat. And, those guys were tough. Not sufficient enough to escape their comeuppance for their dishonesty, but they were tough nonetheless.
He’d watch with the utmost interest as the Jim fellow tore into his targets with fang, and with repugnance as the wolf/monkey hybrid took his turn with machetes.
That must have been a fucked up orgy if a dogmonkey came out of it. No. Focus, for once. Your shot is coming up quickly, and you’re thinking about intercourse - between dogs and monkeys.
Shaking the unruly inklings out of his mentality, which proved to be the bane of his very existence at times, the hound readied himself, lowered his spine into a stance that was shown to him by his old mentors, and on his go, he began.
Another strength that Leroy has, one may add, is his imagination. To him, it was quite easy to visualize the inanimate ice constructs as members of the Pitt, or perhaps a Rosebloods, who’ve fleetly established themselves as enemies in the guardsman’s aged eyes. Merely putting one of the groups’ names into his mind fueled a hate-lusting fire inside of him, and hate only ensured extra energy. With only twenty seconds to cause as much damage as possible, he initiated his ferocious onslaught with a leaping headbutt towards one of the sculptures. Indubitably, he had underestimated the sheer strength of the motionless moulds of solid water, as regret instantaneously drowned his mind whilst his noggin rammed into his idle oppenent, making “blunt-force” sound like a stark buzzword. Sure, the ice-wolf’s head was clean off, spewing its foul violet contents unto its attacker’s forehead and chest, but it rendered him confounded for a period of maybe five or six seconds. In the grand scheme of things, that was very short, but in the span of twenty seconds, that was a huge fraction. Realizing this, Leroy on the dot swapped targets for one which remained intact, feasting upon the soulless creature’s solid exterior, and to the melancholy to his taste buds, the artificial blood as well. Then, knocking it into its side with a less-than-swift hind kick, a paw of sharpened claws slit from where he’d bitten the fiend, and slit downwards until reaching the groin area. Sucks for this guy if he wished to have some icekids with a nice icelady or something.
It was at this moment, when he began to attack yet another sculpture, snarling horrendously as he did so, and drawing even more false blood onto his chest area, that his brief interval of allowed destruction was at its end. At this time, his head, chest, and front right appendage were completely drenched in the stuff, swapping the natural tone of mixed greys to that of a liquid purple. For one, it tasted vile. For two, the paint smelled just as vile.
Strutting satisfyingly away from the scene to get cleaned up, his eyes widened out of piercing realization - his razor was in his satchel the entire time.
He’d watch with the utmost interest as the Jim fellow tore into his targets with fang, and with repugnance as the wolf/monkey hybrid took his turn with machetes.
That must have been a fucked up orgy if a dogmonkey came out of it. No. Focus, for once. Your shot is coming up quickly, and you’re thinking about intercourse - between dogs and monkeys.
Shaking the unruly inklings out of his mentality, which proved to be the bane of his very existence at times, the hound readied himself, lowered his spine into a stance that was shown to him by his old mentors, and on his go, he began.
Another strength that Leroy has, one may add, is his imagination. To him, it was quite easy to visualize the inanimate ice constructs as members of the Pitt, or perhaps a Rosebloods, who’ve fleetly established themselves as enemies in the guardsman’s aged eyes. Merely putting one of the groups’ names into his mind fueled a hate-lusting fire inside of him, and hate only ensured extra energy. With only twenty seconds to cause as much damage as possible, he initiated his ferocious onslaught with a leaping headbutt towards one of the sculptures. Indubitably, he had underestimated the sheer strength of the motionless moulds of solid water, as regret instantaneously drowned his mind whilst his noggin rammed into his idle oppenent, making “blunt-force” sound like a stark buzzword. Sure, the ice-wolf’s head was clean off, spewing its foul violet contents unto its attacker’s forehead and chest, but it rendered him confounded for a period of maybe five or six seconds. In the grand scheme of things, that was very short, but in the span of twenty seconds, that was a huge fraction. Realizing this, Leroy on the dot swapped targets for one which remained intact, feasting upon the soulless creature’s solid exterior, and to the melancholy to his taste buds, the artificial blood as well. Then, knocking it into its side with a less-than-swift hind kick, a paw of sharpened claws slit from where he’d bitten the fiend, and slit downwards until reaching the groin area. Sucks for this guy if he wished to have some icekids with a nice icelady or something.
It was at this moment, when he began to attack yet another sculpture, snarling horrendously as he did so, and drawing even more false blood onto his chest area, that his brief interval of allowed destruction was at its end. At this time, his head, chest, and front right appendage were completely drenched in the stuff, swapping the natural tone of mixed greys to that of a liquid purple. For one, it tasted vile. For two, the paint smelled just as vile.
Strutting satisfyingly away from the scene to get cleaned up, his eyes widened out of piercing realization - his razor was in his satchel the entire time.