a tired throne - open; washed ashore/joining

[METEOR]

Quasar trotted on the beach, his paws kicking up clouds of sand and leaving a messy trail in his wake. Despite the chilly breeze rolling off the ocean, the sparkledoggo pranced without a care for the winter cold. His eyesore of a fluffy coat kept the chill off, even if it did fuck up his stealth and drew far too many irritating comments—especially from outsiders.

He stopped in front of the wheezing hybrid, his blue eyes narrowed. Even if the stranger looked in a bad way—and had a cough that sounded like shit—the apprentice remained on guard. Even so, he desired to help. Most strangers to Palm Glades never raised a paw to hurt any one, so Quasar had started to think of himself as, perhaps, a touch paranoid.

“Yo, Fishbait, you look like an orca pod chewed you up and spat you out on our shore.” His nose crinkled. “And you smell like it, too.”

Each of the canine’s three tails flicked behind him. Red. Then purple. And, lastly, green. He stood in front of the stranger, clearly blocking his way, and didn’t intend on budging. After all, the stranger’s health hovered right around “shitty but miraculously conscious,” and the dude probably shouldn’t be moving around too much anyway. The sparkledoggo sighed as he finished appraising the other’s beat up body.

”Name’s Quasar. I live here, obviously, with the rest of my group. We’re the Palm Glades, if you weren’t aware, and you’ll probably want to stick around. Even if it’s just so Vaas can look over your health. Since, like I already said, you look like fishbait, Fishbait.”

[sub][W]isker[/sub]