12-07-2019, 03:00 AM
Prior to stepping foot in home turf once again, the canine put a substantial amount of forethought into what he might potentially experience once in recognizable territory. Interacting with individuals who believed him to be long dead would be beyond surreal for both him and the unfortunate individual that came across his mortal ass, hence it was crucial that he was mentally prepared for whatever offbeat encounters awaiting him. It was incredibly crucial that he was ready, for he was a ticking time bomb while in this form, primed to detonate at any given moment and create a commotion. Even for those who couldn't care less about him, the male's abrupt return could act as the foundation for an unsettling scene - at the end of the day, it wasn't commonplace for an individual to casually return after a month-long absence, especially when said individual had been assuredly dead at the beginning of their absence.
And causing a scene was probably the lowest item on his wishlist at the current moment.
Thus he sat on the earth, his newfound rump pressed rigidly against the soggy topsoil, patiently hoping for fate to take its place.
The whole waiting process would have been one-hundred percent issue-free, too, if fate wasn't such a fucking slowpoke. Ofttimes, the hound had no problem whatsoever with sticking around in expectation, but when the stakes were high as all hell (as they were right now), simply lingering around put him on edge. So, right now, Leroy was on edge. Really on edge. It got to the point where every passing second dumped another metaphorical boatload of tension on top of the mongrel's spine. This completely decimated his 'prepared' state of mind, leaving him defenseless against whatever, or whoever, came his way.
Upon catching glimpse of Wormwood's golden coat, Leroy felt his heart skip a beat. He attempted to muster up the plans of action he had concocted beforehand, only to fail, for his sense of anticipation had already been thrown out of the window. A knot soon developed within his throat, which even furthered the level of stress tallying up inside his brain.
Wormwood is approaching, an uncanny glare shimmering from his single baby blue.
In a spur-of-the-moment move, the canine's mind concocts three potential routes. Fight, flight, or freeze. To fight is to combat the inane bulk of stress building up in his system, and desperately attempt to communicate with the lion. To flight (which wasn't grammatically correct, but he had more important things to worry about than grammar) is to run away, to dart towards the looming forest over yonder, just to spare him from any more strain. And lastly, to freeze is to freeze - to stop everything.
By now, the overgrown feline parked himself a good metre or three away, staring Leroy dead in the eyes. Now was the optimal time to choose a strategy.
"Leroy...?"
Leroy froze.
It wasn't long before an abundance of other felines, each smaller than Wormwood, made appearances of their own. Firstly, there was an adolescent, a character the wolfhound had never laid his eyes on before. He refrained from saying much, only breaking his silence to ask about Leroy - which the male did not answer, on account of him being frozen. Soon afterwards came Crowley, a figure that he faintly recognized. Luckily for the frozen cur, the sunglasses-clad cat took care of the kid's question. And ultimately, out stumbled Crow Roux, whose person rang of foul alcohol. The alabaster feline never had a fine taste in booze, so when the rancid stench met his wet snout, it was enough to break the canine free from his frozen bonds. The ability to speak returned to his mouth, and he was just about to utilize it to tell everyone just how much he missed them. However, Crow had decided that it was his turn to speak, and made use of his turn by drunkenly abhor Leroy's presence - referring to him as a himbo in the process.
When Crow appeared to be finished with his bewailing, the mongrel finally decided to speak.
"I'm back," he murmurs feasibly.
"Wormwood," he says the lion's name monotonously, nodding towards the male whilst he spoke. He readies himself to repeat this notion with those present that he knew. "Crowley."
"Crow."
"It appears, gentlemen," he says mildly, chocolate hues dancing betwixt the three figures before him, "that I am here."
It was a demanding task, but he managed to subside the urge to run to Crow and embrace him in a loving hold. That could be arranged later, far away from the eyes of the public.
And causing a scene was probably the lowest item on his wishlist at the current moment.
Thus he sat on the earth, his newfound rump pressed rigidly against the soggy topsoil, patiently hoping for fate to take its place.
The whole waiting process would have been one-hundred percent issue-free, too, if fate wasn't such a fucking slowpoke. Ofttimes, the hound had no problem whatsoever with sticking around in expectation, but when the stakes were high as all hell (as they were right now), simply lingering around put him on edge. So, right now, Leroy was on edge. Really on edge. It got to the point where every passing second dumped another metaphorical boatload of tension on top of the mongrel's spine. This completely decimated his 'prepared' state of mind, leaving him defenseless against whatever, or whoever, came his way.
Upon catching glimpse of Wormwood's golden coat, Leroy felt his heart skip a beat. He attempted to muster up the plans of action he had concocted beforehand, only to fail, for his sense of anticipation had already been thrown out of the window. A knot soon developed within his throat, which even furthered the level of stress tallying up inside his brain.
Wormwood is approaching, an uncanny glare shimmering from his single baby blue.
In a spur-of-the-moment move, the canine's mind concocts three potential routes. Fight, flight, or freeze. To fight is to combat the inane bulk of stress building up in his system, and desperately attempt to communicate with the lion. To flight (which wasn't grammatically correct, but he had more important things to worry about than grammar) is to run away, to dart towards the looming forest over yonder, just to spare him from any more strain. And lastly, to freeze is to freeze - to stop everything.
By now, the overgrown feline parked himself a good metre or three away, staring Leroy dead in the eyes. Now was the optimal time to choose a strategy.
"Leroy...?"
Leroy froze.
It wasn't long before an abundance of other felines, each smaller than Wormwood, made appearances of their own. Firstly, there was an adolescent, a character the wolfhound had never laid his eyes on before. He refrained from saying much, only breaking his silence to ask about Leroy - which the male did not answer, on account of him being frozen. Soon afterwards came Crowley, a figure that he faintly recognized. Luckily for the frozen cur, the sunglasses-clad cat took care of the kid's question. And ultimately, out stumbled Crow Roux, whose person rang of foul alcohol. The alabaster feline never had a fine taste in booze, so when the rancid stench met his wet snout, it was enough to break the canine free from his frozen bonds. The ability to speak returned to his mouth, and he was just about to utilize it to tell everyone just how much he missed them. However, Crow had decided that it was his turn to speak, and made use of his turn by drunkenly abhor Leroy's presence - referring to him as a himbo in the process.
When Crow appeared to be finished with his bewailing, the mongrel finally decided to speak.
"I'm back," he murmurs feasibly.
"Wormwood," he says the lion's name monotonously, nodding towards the male whilst he spoke. He readies himself to repeat this notion with those present that he knew. "Crowley."
"Crow."
"It appears, gentlemen," he says mildly, chocolate hues dancing betwixt the three figures before him, "that I am here."
It was a demanding task, but he managed to subside the urge to run to Crow and embrace him in a loving hold. That could be arranged later, far away from the eyes of the public.