09-02-2019, 12:34 AM
Wormwood's desperate calls yet reverberated inside the hound's breaking mind. Bouncing around Leroy's skull as if it were a hollow vessel, the loudmouthed quotation bedeviled every waking moment of his.
"Leroy! Leroy, I need you to come with me to the junkyard as soon as possible. Crow and Selby... they're not okay. Someone is dead, somebody close to them, and Crow is completely zoned out, and I thought you could help, and just... please come, alright?"
The male's condition wasn't fitted for a trek to the scrapyard at the time. He'd risen at the then-lion's summons, only to collapse moments later. Fatigue corroded away at his mind, rendering Leroy into an eternally-tired heap of shag, limp muscle, and bone. An urge fought the exhaustion, however. An urge so great, it dispatched waves of energy into Leroy's system. Without warning, the enervated proxy was brimmed with life, and inspiration. Pastel mattered not. His disease mattered not. All that mattered was him telling the pussycat to shut his big, fat, loose-lipped maw for once in his perfect life. Unfortunately for the irked cur, Wormwood had disappeared moments after requesting the proxy's presence. In the fashion of a movie camera, he had once again departed to the centre of the action.
The fate of Pastel Roux was nothing less than a tragedy. Based on Wormwood's muddled wording, the canine could infer that the deceased individual was the general's adopted daughter. Hell, he accepted it as fact before even acquiring Crow's confirmation. Her demise saddened not the hound. She hadn't shown her face around these parts in a few months' time, hence the soft-hued feline's passing left him unfazed.
It was Crow that concerned him.
The alabaster tom's deadpan glare pierced right through Leroy's roughneck motif and struck a chord within the wolfhound's failing heart. Generally emotional over trivial topics, Crow was about as dry as a raisin during the days ensuing Pastel's cessation. And it scared Leroy. Death drastically changed Tanglewood's leader for what was hopefully the time being - but with his own termination just around the corner, Leroy feared yet another change awaited Crow, this one more dire than the last.
Space is what the mourning yearn for. They'll say "you don't need to go". They don't mean it. Being by themselves is what they truly want. Assuming that time is what heals all wounds, and acknowledging the fact that time is best passed while alone, the proxy would evade the Roux family household for the next while. Instead, he would spend his own time getting the fresh air he so fiercely needed.
Wobbling along the worn road, he spots a scene a fair stretch away. Selby, discombobulated by the looks of it. And Wormwood, apparently supporting the Sawbones.
He closes in on the fray, and discovers that the hellhound's aid came in the form of a sermon. At this, his heavy brows began to furrow, his dehydrated lips falling adjacent to reveal snarling dentition. Quickening his pace, the mongrel hollers a vexed "Hey!".
Coming to a halt, his fiery glare stares past a jet black nose towards the much smaller beast's ugly mug. "Look, Wormwood," the second-in-command starts coolly, careful with his words, "I appreciate ya helpin' Selby here, but yain't in no fucking position t' lecture him - even if ya only meant well by it."
Eyes flicker to the healer, making notice of the tattered vegetation trailing him. The younger Roux wasn't all there by the looks of it, taking his threadbare appearance into account. The sharp tang of blood lingered around his person. The thick, crimson fluid painted his forelimbs and area around his maw. A smaller cut had made a home out of the healer's snout, as well. Wormwood had done the right thing by hoisting the smaller feline out of harm's way.
His tone bearing traces of callousness this time around, Leroy returns his focus to the hellhound.
"We all wanna say th' shit that first come ta mind when somethin's wrong, but usually we only say what's best."
"But you just have t' say everything, dont'cha Wormwood."
"Leroy! Leroy, I need you to come with me to the junkyard as soon as possible. Crow and Selby... they're not okay. Someone is dead, somebody close to them, and Crow is completely zoned out, and I thought you could help, and just... please come, alright?"
The male's condition wasn't fitted for a trek to the scrapyard at the time. He'd risen at the then-lion's summons, only to collapse moments later. Fatigue corroded away at his mind, rendering Leroy into an eternally-tired heap of shag, limp muscle, and bone. An urge fought the exhaustion, however. An urge so great, it dispatched waves of energy into Leroy's system. Without warning, the enervated proxy was brimmed with life, and inspiration. Pastel mattered not. His disease mattered not. All that mattered was him telling the pussycat to shut his big, fat, loose-lipped maw for once in his perfect life. Unfortunately for the irked cur, Wormwood had disappeared moments after requesting the proxy's presence. In the fashion of a movie camera, he had once again departed to the centre of the action.
The fate of Pastel Roux was nothing less than a tragedy. Based on Wormwood's muddled wording, the canine could infer that the deceased individual was the general's adopted daughter. Hell, he accepted it as fact before even acquiring Crow's confirmation. Her demise saddened not the hound. She hadn't shown her face around these parts in a few months' time, hence the soft-hued feline's passing left him unfazed.
It was Crow that concerned him.
The alabaster tom's deadpan glare pierced right through Leroy's roughneck motif and struck a chord within the wolfhound's failing heart. Generally emotional over trivial topics, Crow was about as dry as a raisin during the days ensuing Pastel's cessation. And it scared Leroy. Death drastically changed Tanglewood's leader for what was hopefully the time being - but with his own termination just around the corner, Leroy feared yet another change awaited Crow, this one more dire than the last.
Space is what the mourning yearn for. They'll say "you don't need to go". They don't mean it. Being by themselves is what they truly want. Assuming that time is what heals all wounds, and acknowledging the fact that time is best passed while alone, the proxy would evade the Roux family household for the next while. Instead, he would spend his own time getting the fresh air he so fiercely needed.
Wobbling along the worn road, he spots a scene a fair stretch away. Selby, discombobulated by the looks of it. And Wormwood, apparently supporting the Sawbones.
He closes in on the fray, and discovers that the hellhound's aid came in the form of a sermon. At this, his heavy brows began to furrow, his dehydrated lips falling adjacent to reveal snarling dentition. Quickening his pace, the mongrel hollers a vexed "Hey!".
Coming to a halt, his fiery glare stares past a jet black nose towards the much smaller beast's ugly mug. "Look, Wormwood," the second-in-command starts coolly, careful with his words, "I appreciate ya helpin' Selby here, but yain't in no fucking position t' lecture him - even if ya only meant well by it."
Eyes flicker to the healer, making notice of the tattered vegetation trailing him. The younger Roux wasn't all there by the looks of it, taking his threadbare appearance into account. The sharp tang of blood lingered around his person. The thick, crimson fluid painted his forelimbs and area around his maw. A smaller cut had made a home out of the healer's snout, as well. Wormwood had done the right thing by hoisting the smaller feline out of harm's way.
His tone bearing traces of callousness this time around, Leroy returns his focus to the hellhound.
"We all wanna say th' shit that first come ta mind when somethin's wrong, but usually we only say what's best."
"But you just have t' say everything, dont'cha Wormwood."