08-22-2019, 03:41 AM
Tears. Salty, soppy, surly streams of sadness, soaking someone's stupid cheeks every time they slid down someone's stupid face. Luckily for Leroy, he never found the time to become acquainted with teardrops. Maybe it was just him, but he looked down on the act of crying. It was nothing but a display of weakness. On the pyramid of strength, the criers sat at the very bottom, alongside children and the elderly. Hence, it was a damn shame that the bog was chock-full of criers. Even the individual who perched at the peak of the tribe's hierarchy, Crow, was a lowly serial sobber. From land sharks to dealing with homicidal lions, the elder Roux was always found on the receiving end of crying's plight. Weak. That sort of behavior did not fit an entity in power. Yet, the cur couldn't get on the general's ass about his tendencies to weep, for everybody else that shared his breathing space was just as guilty as the commander-in-chief.
Everybody but him.
Only one instance in which the hound shed a tear could be clearly recalled. At the site of Arrow's demise. Draped over her ill, lifeless husk. He cried.
That occurrence was easily excusable. When a longtime friend passes on, you automatically receive a pass. That is a rule.
Only few a Tangler could be bunched into the same category as he. The tear-less. Red was one of them; that guy probably lacked tear ducts anyways. Same went for Abe, who was more of a fucking fish than anything else.
He happens upon the spectacle purely on accident. If he hadn't made the scene, then perhaps he would have tossed Wormwood into the dry eye club as well.
Cumbersome treads brought the hound forward, his sepulchral glare peering upon the weeping lion from abaft the raptor. Worn across Leroy's ugly mug was a soured expression of both confusion and concern. To cry was to signify frailty, yet he never really thought of Wormwood as fragile. Either the oversized feline was either being perturbed by as burdensome as the emotional weight felt on Arrow's death day, or Wormwood was simply another crybaby. Teeth gently press against his black lips. The mongrel's wish list had a lot of fucked up stuff on it, but worsening the ordeal at hand wasn't anywhere to be found on it. Once more, he starts to move. Drifting past the bipedal reptile, Leroy doesn't stop his prowl until a few paces away from the lion's midsection. "Wha's on yer mind?" he asks softly in his gruff tone, parking his bony rump on the ground behind him. When fellow Tanglers thought of potential therapists, the idea of Leroy likely didn't come to mind. And the proxy understood why. However, perhaps the lamenting male would take extra comfort in communicating with the second-in-command.
Everybody but him.
Only one instance in which the hound shed a tear could be clearly recalled. At the site of Arrow's demise. Draped over her ill, lifeless husk. He cried.
That occurrence was easily excusable. When a longtime friend passes on, you automatically receive a pass. That is a rule.
Only few a Tangler could be bunched into the same category as he. The tear-less. Red was one of them; that guy probably lacked tear ducts anyways. Same went for Abe, who was more of a fucking fish than anything else.
He happens upon the spectacle purely on accident. If he hadn't made the scene, then perhaps he would have tossed Wormwood into the dry eye club as well.
Cumbersome treads brought the hound forward, his sepulchral glare peering upon the weeping lion from abaft the raptor. Worn across Leroy's ugly mug was a soured expression of both confusion and concern. To cry was to signify frailty, yet he never really thought of Wormwood as fragile. Either the oversized feline was either being perturbed by as burdensome as the emotional weight felt on Arrow's death day, or Wormwood was simply another crybaby. Teeth gently press against his black lips. The mongrel's wish list had a lot of fucked up stuff on it, but worsening the ordeal at hand wasn't anywhere to be found on it. Once more, he starts to move. Drifting past the bipedal reptile, Leroy doesn't stop his prowl until a few paces away from the lion's midsection. "Wha's on yer mind?" he asks softly in his gruff tone, parking his bony rump on the ground behind him. When fellow Tanglers thought of potential therapists, the idea of Leroy likely didn't come to mind. And the proxy understood why. However, perhaps the lamenting male would take extra comfort in communicating with the second-in-command.