03-30-2020, 03:03 PM
[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]Tanglewood was long in the past.
If there had been a tether, it had been Snarl. But even now, with the vague threat of Leroy's indifference and the more acute presence of Ocelot demanding his full attention, Snarl's insistence could not lure him back to the marshland. It was over. Kazuhira considered himself fine, this way; there was little else to hold him down in Tanglewood but his ineffective title. He'd shed it like any other name - the groups in his past, rogues and mercenaries, had existed in a similar flux. He never stayed in one place for long, and it was fine time for those who remained in Tanglewood to learn of his lingering infidelity.
This island, in all its strangeness - the continent was far more temperate on the mainland - felt similar to an old home. Beaches on the southern hemisphere were just as warm, and the jungles as dense and green. The small township that the Typhoon called home reminded him of stilted beach houses, wooden barracks fashioned from abandoned complexes he'd repurposed for those he served in the past. It was easier to acclimate when he had a vision in his past to compare it to, though this time, there was no looming threat of violence that kept him awake and constantly at work. It was the island resort that his earliest base never was. A vacation - yes, that was it. A break from the drone. And, hell, Kazuhira didn't feel like he was exaggerating when he said he needed one.
The sandy paths that gave way to lush, leaf-covered dirt seemed to hold a number of empty homes. The bay was a wide stretch of land, and from what he could see, a majority of Typhoon tenants kept their business close to the seaside hub, the jungle at their backs and the sun-dappled ocean shining in their windows. Miller wasn't interested in much, nor did he have any specific needs in mind while choosing a residence, but ordering a few tavernfolk to carry his luggage was starting to grate on his nerves. He didn't think he needed to remind them that his goods weren't to be dropped, thrown about or shaken too vigorously, but the merchants holding his belongings were hardly larger - or stronger - than himself, and he reasoned there would be some damage when he finally got everything indoors.
"I'm not paying you to break my stuff," the cheetah quips over his shoulder as a merchant struggled to drag one of his boxes along the worn path to an empty house, "Can't you be a little more careful?"
If there had been a tether, it had been Snarl. But even now, with the vague threat of Leroy's indifference and the more acute presence of Ocelot demanding his full attention, Snarl's insistence could not lure him back to the marshland. It was over. Kazuhira considered himself fine, this way; there was little else to hold him down in Tanglewood but his ineffective title. He'd shed it like any other name - the groups in his past, rogues and mercenaries, had existed in a similar flux. He never stayed in one place for long, and it was fine time for those who remained in Tanglewood to learn of his lingering infidelity.
This island, in all its strangeness - the continent was far more temperate on the mainland - felt similar to an old home. Beaches on the southern hemisphere were just as warm, and the jungles as dense and green. The small township that the Typhoon called home reminded him of stilted beach houses, wooden barracks fashioned from abandoned complexes he'd repurposed for those he served in the past. It was easier to acclimate when he had a vision in his past to compare it to, though this time, there was no looming threat of violence that kept him awake and constantly at work. It was the island resort that his earliest base never was. A vacation - yes, that was it. A break from the drone. And, hell, Kazuhira didn't feel like he was exaggerating when he said he needed one.
The sandy paths that gave way to lush, leaf-covered dirt seemed to hold a number of empty homes. The bay was a wide stretch of land, and from what he could see, a majority of Typhoon tenants kept their business close to the seaside hub, the jungle at their backs and the sun-dappled ocean shining in their windows. Miller wasn't interested in much, nor did he have any specific needs in mind while choosing a residence, but ordering a few tavernfolk to carry his luggage was starting to grate on his nerves. He didn't think he needed to remind them that his goods weren't to be dropped, thrown about or shaken too vigorously, but the merchants holding his belongings were hardly larger - or stronger - than himself, and he reasoned there would be some damage when he finally got everything indoors.
"I'm not paying you to break my stuff," the cheetah quips over his shoulder as a merchant struggled to drag one of his boxes along the worn path to an empty house, "Can't you be a little more careful?"
[align=center][div style="font-size:12pt;font-family:verdana;color:#4c5461;letter-spacing:-2pt;"][i][b]—-— I GET [color=#4c5461]MEAN WHEN I'M
NERVOUS, LIKE A BAD DOG
NERVOUS, LIKE A BAD DOG