12-05-2018, 03:39 PM
The resident spook's arrival was far less than fashionably late. While he neglected to approach at Morgan's call, Beck wobbled toward his unofficial seat on the outskirts of the crowd, his limp worsened by an elevated haze and a blue-white froth clinging to his chin. To an untrained eye not yet accustomed to the poltergeist's unsavory antics, the toxic substance bubbling along his lips would be assumed as rabies, although death rendered him immune from further disease. Flopping onto bedraggled haunches with a whistling sigh, his bloodshot stare failed to locate where the distant voice of Morgan was drifting from, pupils dilating at the blur of stimuli before him. He couldn't feel the burning in his throat and airway like he used to, but the fuzzy chemicals had still managed to engulf his senses in a suffocating yet needed hug. A giddy smirk twisted the remaining half of his maw into a numbed expression as he stared ahead without watching, strikingly blue drool spilling over scar tissue where his cheek had long since been seared away.
Leroy's nearby voice pierced through his alkaline-induced muddle, stirring the boy enough to echo after him, "Good, good job." Wait, who got a job? His head gave a lopsided turn to see the wolfhound retreating from Jim. With his dopey smile still intact, Beck clambered to his feet and limped to the newly-branded chaser's flank. His bandaged paw reaching to pat Jim's arm as he once observed before wrenching back and ruffling his unkempt cowlicks instead, he struggled to form words as amber eyes blankly gazed at the pin on the mutt's scarf. "Um, good jo-job, Jimmy," Beck finally managed to slur, fiddling with the gauze binding his arm before hobbling off with a nauseous lurch, presumably to sulk under someone's porch until the effects of bleach withdrew from his system.
[align=center]»――➤Leroy's nearby voice pierced through his alkaline-induced muddle, stirring the boy enough to echo after him, "Good, good job." Wait, who got a job? His head gave a lopsided turn to see the wolfhound retreating from Jim. With his dopey smile still intact, Beck clambered to his feet and limped to the newly-branded chaser's flank. His bandaged paw reaching to pat Jim's arm as he once observed before wrenching back and ruffling his unkempt cowlicks instead, he struggled to form words as amber eyes blankly gazed at the pin on the mutt's scarf. "Um, good jo-job, Jimmy," Beck finally managed to slur, fiddling with the gauze binding his arm before hobbling off with a nauseous lurch, presumably to sulk under someone's porch until the effects of bleach withdrew from his system.