03-17-2020, 09:12 PM
The results that ensued the mask vigil left Leroy both appeased and soured. For one, most of the unmasked individuals involved had kept their sash throughout the entire night, earning their masks and cementing themselves as true blooded Tanglers. The mask was a pivotal aspect of the tribe's culture, and seeing such a copious number of his comrades rejoice in their victories ultimately enlivened the general. On the other hand, the high percentage of triumphant participants beckoned the canine to realize just how majorly he fucked up. Since so many masks had been earned that night, future vigils would be incredibly mismatched and difficult for newer partakers.
Oh well.
Best to live in the moment and not bellyache about the future. For all he knew, drastic change could come at any given moment.
The wolfhound's mask wasn't glorious, which was somehow a colossal contrast in regards to the rest of the tribe. His comrades were as reckless as racecars, but somehow they had the fashion senses of wealthy Italian models. The mask he wore was a simple ski mask, or balaclava, one comprised of somewhat fuzzy black wool. It felt comfortable on his odd-shaped mug, for it could stretch quite a fair bit; the mouth hole in particular had been expanded to a hefty degree so that his maw could fit through, which made sense considering that this mask had been created for human use.
The general had already been present upon Beck and Aurum's arrivals, though he slunk away from the slowly materializing mass of attendees. No, he'd introduce himself at a later time. He had actually prepared a speech for this specific occasion, though his memory could only recall the first two lines. Winging it was one of his natural talents, however, and he'd put it to good use when he had to. But, for now, he acquainted himself with a certain bourbon and began to get his drink on.
Oh well.
Best to live in the moment and not bellyache about the future. For all he knew, drastic change could come at any given moment.
The wolfhound's mask wasn't glorious, which was somehow a colossal contrast in regards to the rest of the tribe. His comrades were as reckless as racecars, but somehow they had the fashion senses of wealthy Italian models. The mask he wore was a simple ski mask, or balaclava, one comprised of somewhat fuzzy black wool. It felt comfortable on his odd-shaped mug, for it could stretch quite a fair bit; the mouth hole in particular had been expanded to a hefty degree so that his maw could fit through, which made sense considering that this mask had been created for human use.
The general had already been present upon Beck and Aurum's arrivals, though he slunk away from the slowly materializing mass of attendees. No, he'd introduce himself at a later time. He had actually prepared a speech for this specific occasion, though his memory could only recall the first two lines. Winging it was one of his natural talents, however, and he'd put it to good use when he had to. But, for now, he acquainted himself with a certain bourbon and began to get his drink on.