got high from a holy vein ¤ joiner

[teef]

  -- Violence was the nature of The Mad Dog. He wouldn't deny it, hells no. It was in his blood, just as much as there was reasoning naturally. Not that he listened to the reasoning. Years had come and gone and he was all the crueler for it. His enemies knew his name, and they were scared, to scared to go against him. He was a cruel leader - those who followed him knew his wrath when they stepped out of bounds. Everyone who knew him, knew he was one sick son of a bitch, but they also knew that there was a softer side to the bastard. Said soft side was reserved and buried under hard layers of skin and fury he would not let be shown.

The last time he'd shown such a softness, it had cost him someone. He didn't know who they were, he couldn't see their face, or hear their voice but he knew it was someone he'd loved. They were a misty figure going back to the first years he could remember after a great black period. He knew he had memory issues - he couldn't remember this person and if someone were to proclaim that mystery person, they would be met with furious denial.

Shaking his head now as he padded along the beach, paws pressing into the sands. No, the last time he'd taken anyone under his wing had been an orphan. What happened to the child since then and now ... he couldn't remember and The Mad Dog didn't let it bother him. Things happened for a reason, and if the kid died, then fate had decreed the child as fodder for the life around it. The press of grains between his toes was not one that he missed. He'd grown up on the coasts of Ulster, eating sand for food instead of true and proper nutrition, growing up on rage and bent muscle.

He'd been a strong child and a strong adult. He'd led a military force - and he'd died for it. He'd awoken in this body many, many years ago and he was sure that gray hairs should appear on his muzzle. He was getting on in his years, he was sure of it. He didn't appear old, he carried himself as he had when he'd been far younger. Head turning now out to watch the sea, he paused at the trail of a scent ahead. Snorting, he looked out to the sea, wondering if he'd be attacked for continuing onward.

He'd be happy to fight those who lived here, he had no respect for them just because they lived on the coast. Respect came from loyalty and loyalty came from knowing your comrades and yourself. Today was a different day, his bones were aching and stiff, and the wind carried little violence. If challenged, the spearman would take it. Standing at the border, he would wait until a patrol came along, a long red spear standing beside him, its one blade dug into the sand and the other a proud point to the sky. He may as well rest here for some time, learn more of the surroundings in his sparse interest. Oddly enough, the beaches reminded him of a home from a time long forgotten.

SHOW ME YOUR BEAUTIFUL ANGER
-- speaks in #03254C -- the mad dog