One thing that Noss wasn't expecting that day was flying liquor. Nope, not even if Strel got piss-drunk, he would expect only flying furniture and needles. That day he was about, playing the impromptu border patrol if not only to familiarize himself further with the territory--which would take, oh, another two or three rounds before he was sure he wouldn't ever get lost--when said bottle crashed about three yards away from the grey warrior, shattering and causing Noss to shield his face with his arms by reflex and crouch low. Well, wouldn't anyone do that if such a thing had happened to them? Opening his eyes and looking in the direction of the projectile, he quirked a brow and, of course, decided to investigate. It would be poor judgement at the highest to just ignore such a thing, even if the direction had been coming from inside the territory to begin with. He doubted that he was quiet as he approached who he suspected as the culprit, but really, it kinda surprised him. Rarely had Noss seen smaller dog-type luperci, and this one appeared a full two feet shorter than him standing, if not more by inches alone. He didn't appear to have any coyote or wolf blood in him at all by appearance--which was rare in itself--and yet he appeared to be a full-fledged adult, just a year or so under Noss in age, if not less. "Oi," he said gruffly, standing over the small dog, "you ever hear that throwing bottles is dangerous?" In all honesty, Noss wasn't in a particularly bad mood, he just always sounded rough and moody by nature. Warrior walks. "Warrior talks." Warrior thinks. |
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