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for the pain and the sorrow caused by my mistakes
won't repent to a mortal whom is all to blame It had been quite some time since Crowley's last visit to the Threshold. The brindle had always found little interest in the arduous task of recruiting, but he knew well that it needed to be done. The Basin was growing to a healthy number, but there was still plenty of room within it's mountainous cradle for more. The Plague, too, was scrounging for numbers, but not just anyone could get into the secret group. One would have to be judged from afar before the thought of bringing it up even crossed his, or any of his brother's, minds. Talbot seemed to be leading him along today, the curious pup sticking his nose into the ground for a moment, before his attention was suddenly taken away by the fluttering of a grasshopper. Thankfully, the pup knew better than to go very far, and was always coaxed back to the side of his bonded whenever Crowley gave a sharp snort or spoke his name. But as the young Hellhound continued his adventure through the Threshold, he stopped abruptly in his tracks, small ears picking up the sound of rubbing. Crowley, too, had caught on to the sound, and it took little time for the stallion to pinpoint the location of it. Taking the lead now, Crowley soon found his golden eyes looking upon the form of a painted draft, satisfied when he noticed the ebony horn settled in the middle of his forehead. The stranger seemed in no hurry to get anywhere, and wore an almost bored expression on his face. The brindle's own nearly mirrored it as he drew to a halt, standing only a few yards from the Gypsy. "Welcome, brother," he spoke up, accent curling ever so slightly. At his side, Talbot stood, looking up at the painted unicorn with mild curiosity, but he remained still and quiet. "What brings you to this quaint little land of Helovia? Perhaps your forelock simply didn't give you the choice to see otherwise." "blather blather blather" |
The Weaver's Workshop
HP: 45
