03-04-2019, 12:24 AM
Following a series of adversities and grievances on Tanglewood’s end, today was the day of compensation. The swamp’s relatively-neutral populace found themselves as the victims of an onslaught of attacks and killings, with each strike seemingly without reason.
Many opportunities for retribution presented themselves, to unfortunately recede after little to no action was taken. Even when the Pitt was at its weakest, Morgan utterly refused to lay harm upon the malignant Pittians. As good as the guy was, the Samoyed’s righteous can-do attitude belonged not in a band of beatniks and bohemians.
Fortunately for the Tanglers, Morgan was not in charge anymore.
Unfortunately for the Pittians, Morgan was not in charge anymore.
Crow, as a successor, was a tremendous verdict. The alabastrine feline consummately embodied the spirit of his people; helter-skelter, harum-scarum, and topsy-turvy. In complete honesty, the immediate decision to launch an incursion on the Pitt stupefied the experienced male - but what a welcome surprise it was. He’d paid the desert-dingalings a visit only once prior to this event, as a successful breakout attempt for a comrade, but he used what little knowledge he had to aid his tribe’s cause. He’d informed Crow of the eremetic underground tunnel system which ran below the desert’s surface, the insight which would be precariously utilized in the very near future.
The exorbitant mask barely rested on his broad features, and the sticky paint awkwardly held onto his coat’s gray shags, scarcely resembling a pattern whatsoever. However the discomforts, he was ready. Leroy paid extra close mind to the numerous shakedowns Crow brazenly provided the gang, each maneuver and exercise flawlessly memorized for the upcoming skirmish. The guardsman took it upon himself to be of little importance, today; whereas a number of his peers contributed to the territory’s ruination, Leroy would go about as a bodyguard, making absolutely sure his busy, much smaller counterparts weren’t harmed in any manner of sorts.
His visage contorted in reaction to his aversaries’ foul smell, ere he shifted his gaze expectantly to Crow. If all went well, that stench wouldn’t remain in his sniffer for more than an hour, give or take a few minutes. "Waitin’ on you, boss", he’d utter, patiently anticipating the imminent action.
Many opportunities for retribution presented themselves, to unfortunately recede after little to no action was taken. Even when the Pitt was at its weakest, Morgan utterly refused to lay harm upon the malignant Pittians. As good as the guy was, the Samoyed’s righteous can-do attitude belonged not in a band of beatniks and bohemians.
Fortunately for the Tanglers, Morgan was not in charge anymore.
Unfortunately for the Pittians, Morgan was not in charge anymore.
Crow, as a successor, was a tremendous verdict. The alabastrine feline consummately embodied the spirit of his people; helter-skelter, harum-scarum, and topsy-turvy. In complete honesty, the immediate decision to launch an incursion on the Pitt stupefied the experienced male - but what a welcome surprise it was. He’d paid the desert-dingalings a visit only once prior to this event, as a successful breakout attempt for a comrade, but he used what little knowledge he had to aid his tribe’s cause. He’d informed Crow of the eremetic underground tunnel system which ran below the desert’s surface, the insight which would be precariously utilized in the very near future.
The exorbitant mask barely rested on his broad features, and the sticky paint awkwardly held onto his coat’s gray shags, scarcely resembling a pattern whatsoever. However the discomforts, he was ready. Leroy paid extra close mind to the numerous shakedowns Crow brazenly provided the gang, each maneuver and exercise flawlessly memorized for the upcoming skirmish. The guardsman took it upon himself to be of little importance, today; whereas a number of his peers contributed to the territory’s ruination, Leroy would go about as a bodyguard, making absolutely sure his busy, much smaller counterparts weren’t harmed in any manner of sorts.
His visage contorted in reaction to his aversaries’ foul smell, ere he shifted his gaze expectantly to Crow. If all went well, that stench wouldn’t remain in his sniffer for more than an hour, give or take a few minutes. "Waitin’ on you, boss", he’d utter, patiently anticipating the imminent action.