[ HE WILL TEAR YOUR CITY DOWN ] joining

[MYERS]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:65%;font-family:verdana;"]He's used to being the tallest in the room - his stature for a wolf was well past average. Looking up at Poetking was a little intimidating for someone who was so used to looking down on his surroundings. Michael remains silent, the slight flick of his ears the only sign of acknowledgement he offered at the lion's words; he flexes his paws, feels the mud between his claws as something of a grounding mechanism. Strangers are not his friends.

Poetking, he calls himself. It's too many syllables, he thinks, too many sounds that tangle in his throat, enough to make him choke. He doesn't like to be heard, and making listless attempts at saying simple words - a failure that'll prompt more ridicule, he thinks - isn't worth his time. A female approaches, and as he listens to the gentle click of her voice he decides he isn't going to try with her, either. She calls him a boy. A child. His jaw tightens as he cuts a glance in Delilah's direction.

Michael looks back to Poetking, awaiting his response. There isn't much else he can do but play bystander, anyway.