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Why anyone would keep a mask with a splintering crack down its forehead, a souvenir from a failed battle as a prized trophy was a mystery to him. No victory for the Pitt could be gleaned from his general's mask, despite what its damaged state might suggest. The scrawny feline wobbled on tiptoes to lift the mask from its barbaric pedestal, bandaged paws curling around its tarnished rims. He could only remember the raid through a red haze -- the only assurance he hadn't imagined the ambush was the bloodied stain on the horns of his mask. Truthfully, he hadn't been paying much attention to the scuffle between Crow and Jervis until he rammed the sharpened horns through the fox's gut in an effort to silence his infernal yapping. Maybe if he returned the accessory, Crow would thank him. Maybe even forgive him. Shrugging his shoulders, Beck moved to safely tuck the mask within his apparition to return to the tabby after he escorted Sam and Kiira home.
August's uneasy question remained suspended and unanswered in the night air, even as Beck visibly flinched and whipped his head to stare over his shoulder. Why wasn't the terrier attacking? His scarred brow furrowed in confusion, but nonetheless, warily distanced himself from the slave with Crow's mask clutched to his chest by one paw. The childish half of him was compelled to scold the hound; calling out for an unseen lurker was suicide in any horror flick. Oblivious to the concept that the unspoken rules of his favorite genre weren't rudimentary knowledge, Beck offered August an expression of disappointment before the Pitt ardent himself barrelled into his side.
A pained wheeze escaped him as the ground seemingly slammed against his side out of nowhere but he only hugged the mask tighter, desperate to prevent his attacker from taking it. Claws scored his exposed side, the gashes slicing deep enough to reveal a glimpse of jutting ribs. He kicked out of panicked instinct, aiming to drive his foot into Jervis' lower gut. Whether his frantic kick found its target or not, the little ghost would slip through the fox's grasp, rolling away from his reach and scrambling to stand. Hastily pocketing the rescued mask, Beck bristled and snarled at the now-disfigured vulpine. "You look like shit," he couldn't help but cackle upon seeing what exactly Crow accomplished on his secret excursion to the Pitt weeks ago. Not the wisest decision, but since when did he ever have a filter between his brain and his mouth?
August's uneasy question remained suspended and unanswered in the night air, even as Beck visibly flinched and whipped his head to stare over his shoulder. Why wasn't the terrier attacking? His scarred brow furrowed in confusion, but nonetheless, warily distanced himself from the slave with Crow's mask clutched to his chest by one paw. The childish half of him was compelled to scold the hound; calling out for an unseen lurker was suicide in any horror flick. Oblivious to the concept that the unspoken rules of his favorite genre weren't rudimentary knowledge, Beck offered August an expression of disappointment before the Pitt ardent himself barrelled into his side.
A pained wheeze escaped him as the ground seemingly slammed against his side out of nowhere but he only hugged the mask tighter, desperate to prevent his attacker from taking it. Claws scored his exposed side, the gashes slicing deep enough to reveal a glimpse of jutting ribs. He kicked out of panicked instinct, aiming to drive his foot into Jervis' lower gut. Whether his frantic kick found its target or not, the little ghost would slip through the fox's grasp, rolling away from his reach and scrambling to stand. Hastily pocketing the rescued mask, Beck bristled and snarled at the now-disfigured vulpine. "You look like shit," he couldn't help but cackle upon seeing what exactly Crow accomplished on his secret excursion to the Pitt weeks ago. Not the wisest decision, but since when did he ever have a filter between his brain and his mouth?