01-16-2020, 09:16 PM
In order to keep his stomach full, Leroy scrounged up just about anything digestible that could fit on a plate. The variety of what the canine ate used to be much broader, but immediately upon possessing this form, he discovered that his new taste buds were attuned to finer foods. Fresh prey appealed not to him, nor did expired rations. Such was the cuisine of peasants, and he was no peasant. Rather than the aforementioned gut-churning foodstuffs, the general found himself indulging in tinned anchovies, canned mackerel (of the smoked variation), and conserved tuna. A lot of fish, one may add, and far more than he'd ever consumed to this point. Why fish specifically over the other canned goods his pantry possessed? Hell, Leroy couldn't tell you. Maybe it had to do with the velvety texture of the meat, or perhaps the rich flavour. Their highness in riboflavin and omega-3 acids did wonders for his health as well, and- oh god, he was turning into a toff, wasn't he? Since when did he ever care this much about food?
Whatever. At least the fish he ate wasn't swimming in Tanglewood's repugnant waterways. The rivers, streams, and brooks were all contaminated by the radiation that ran rampant in the crater and its surrounding areas. If the tribe's land flora and fauna exhibited cases of grisly mutations in the past, then chances are the same went for the shit living neath the waves. The wolfhound's insides went fell weak at the very thought of sinking his teeth into a fish freshly caught within the territory. He succumbed to cancer once before, and frankly, he did not plan to do so again.
"I swear," he mouths, coming up to the individual who fished upon the docks, "Miller shouldn'ta given ya that task." Though he had yet to personally meet this male, Leroy was told a list of tasks provided by Miller and the corresponding names that would carry them out. As far as he recalled, spearfishing was supposed to be handled by someone named after an American city. Houston or Dallas or whatever. "Good job on catchin' that fish," he half-earnestly lauds, looking over the shepherd's catch, "dunno if it's edible, though, knowin' the area and it's tendency to majorly fuck up the wildlife." It was quite the sizable fucker, too, which made it a shame on the case of it not being eatable. Leroy wasn't an expert on the matter, though, so the chance of it not possessing radioactive properties still existed.
Whatever. At least the fish he ate wasn't swimming in Tanglewood's repugnant waterways. The rivers, streams, and brooks were all contaminated by the radiation that ran rampant in the crater and its surrounding areas. If the tribe's land flora and fauna exhibited cases of grisly mutations in the past, then chances are the same went for the shit living neath the waves. The wolfhound's insides went fell weak at the very thought of sinking his teeth into a fish freshly caught within the territory. He succumbed to cancer once before, and frankly, he did not plan to do so again.
"I swear," he mouths, coming up to the individual who fished upon the docks, "Miller shouldn'ta given ya that task." Though he had yet to personally meet this male, Leroy was told a list of tasks provided by Miller and the corresponding names that would carry them out. As far as he recalled, spearfishing was supposed to be handled by someone named after an American city. Houston or Dallas or whatever. "Good job on catchin' that fish," he half-earnestly lauds, looking over the shepherd's catch, "dunno if it's edible, though, knowin' the area and it's tendency to majorly fuck up the wildlife." It was quite the sizable fucker, too, which made it a shame on the case of it not being eatable. Leroy wasn't an expert on the matter, though, so the chance of it not possessing radioactive properties still existed.