08-19-2018, 11:47 PM
Miamihorror knows exceedingly little of the sea. He's spent most of his life on the outskirts of the city, prowling through the woods, drifting across the plains. The beach is new and different and he can't tell what to think. In truth, he hardly thinks at all. The tide is high and the water runs up to his ankles; the wolf sloshes along steadily, paws pressing into the wet sand between the railroad tracks with each step. He knows exceedingly little of the Typhoon, too, but that's never stopped him. He'd joined the Ascendants because he was bored, and he's joining wherever this is for similar reasons. The former hadn't anything wrong with it, they were all just... too tame. Miamihorror isn't a pacifist — he knows damn well that there's no way he'd ever be able to live with that ideology for long. These island-dwellers he's heard are different, more violent, more like him. Then again, he doesn't intend to stay here long either. His thoughts move at the same pace as his footfalls and no further, carrying from one place to another in restless boredom.
Land has been slowly nearing and soon large gray paws come to touch dry ground, the fur still slick and soaking wet. He smells of seaspray and cigarettes — God, what he wouldn't give for a smoke right about now — and he's growing hungry. It's a feeling that rumbles somewhere deep down and itches, crawls just beneath his skin. The canine runs his tongue across his lips and then his teeth, never ceasing in his stride forth. His copper gaze flickers across the concrete slabs as he walks — there's something written across the walls, but it's just a jumble of letters. There's what looks to be an empty doorway, too, filled with odd bells and something else he cannot make out. Miami wonders vaguely what it's all supposed to mean, but he doesn't care enough to find out. The wolf is much more concerned about the lustful pit in his stomach, the need to hunt something, and wanders through the gate and into the lush jungle with jaws hung ajar and another lick of his lips.
Land has been slowly nearing and soon large gray paws come to touch dry ground, the fur still slick and soaking wet. He smells of seaspray and cigarettes — God, what he wouldn't give for a smoke right about now — and he's growing hungry. It's a feeling that rumbles somewhere deep down and itches, crawls just beneath his skin. The canine runs his tongue across his lips and then his teeth, never ceasing in his stride forth. His copper gaze flickers across the concrete slabs as he walks — there's something written across the walls, but it's just a jumble of letters. There's what looks to be an empty doorway, too, filled with odd bells and something else he cannot make out. Miami wonders vaguely what it's all supposed to mean, but he doesn't care enough to find out. The wolf is much more concerned about the lustful pit in his stomach, the need to hunt something, and wanders through the gate and into the lush jungle with jaws hung ajar and another lick of his lips.
TIME TO MEET THE DEVIL