03-29-2022, 09:11 PM
At an unmentioned point during years gone by, a fellow named Irving Montrose took up residence on the Coalition of the Condemned's central island. Sitting along the mountain village's frigid outskirts was the homestead in which he occupied, lined by thick stone walls, shutting out both the cold and the Coalition's common folk. Idle conversation and good fellowship were inessential concepts to Mr. Montrose, and apart from showing his face when the situation absolutely called for it, he led a solitary life.
The few who knew of the timber wolf referred to him only with his surname. 'Montrose', from his perspective, carried far more depth than 'Irving' ever could. And along with reading, researching, and the occasional grand scheming, depth mattered a fair bit to Montrose. Each and every situation, setting, and person presented their own unique variables; they required careful consideration before being acted upon. It was a thorough - and oftentimes lengthy - process, but this fashion of thinking has served him well thus far.
Anyways. Today's circumstances were a bit different. It would seem that depth, in a literal sense, was his undoing. During his once-a-week supply run, taking the exact same path which he always did, the snow beneath his paws inexplicably gave way. It was only a smattering of moments ago where the wolf stood on relatively solid ground. Now, he found himself in a rather deep sinkhole.
Comparatively speaking, it wasn't all too deep. If Montrose stood just four feet taller, he would have little trouble escaping its earthly clutches. But the walls of soil encircling him proved too immense for the canine's physical form, and in such an enclosed environment, there were little variables to consider. Thus, in a rare turn of events, Montrose acted on impulse.
"Assist me! Anybody!" he howled from below. Although he would much rather make his own escape and avoid face-to-face interaction, the only way out would come through external aid. And as he realised this, Montrose writhed. "Down here! In this gods'-damned sinkhole!"
The few who knew of the timber wolf referred to him only with his surname. 'Montrose', from his perspective, carried far more depth than 'Irving' ever could. And along with reading, researching, and the occasional grand scheming, depth mattered a fair bit to Montrose. Each and every situation, setting, and person presented their own unique variables; they required careful consideration before being acted upon. It was a thorough - and oftentimes lengthy - process, but this fashion of thinking has served him well thus far.
Anyways. Today's circumstances were a bit different. It would seem that depth, in a literal sense, was his undoing. During his once-a-week supply run, taking the exact same path which he always did, the snow beneath his paws inexplicably gave way. It was only a smattering of moments ago where the wolf stood on relatively solid ground. Now, he found himself in a rather deep sinkhole.
Comparatively speaking, it wasn't all too deep. If Montrose stood just four feet taller, he would have little trouble escaping its earthly clutches. But the walls of soil encircling him proved too immense for the canine's physical form, and in such an enclosed environment, there were little variables to consider. Thus, in a rare turn of events, Montrose acted on impulse.
"Assist me! Anybody!" he howled from below. Although he would much rather make his own escape and avoid face-to-face interaction, the only way out would come through external aid. And as he realised this, Montrose writhed. "Down here! In this gods'-damned sinkhole!"
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Here, dig me a grave. Toss in the lives you couldn't be bothered to save.
Here, as evil now gropes. It's caught us off guard with its hands reaching for our throats.
irving montrose
[/td][/tr][/table]Here, as evil now gropes. It's caught us off guard with its hands reaching for our throats.
irving montrose
