Outcross's Story

Outcross decides to wander around and sniff out the patrons, now that the half has presumably distanced itself a safe measure. He encounters the usual fare; drunkards going for their daily fix of cognac or harder stuff while wearing all sorts of queer constumes -- like the one guy with the sandals who thinks pink actually looks good with blue. Yuck.

Outcross 's ears perk up at the expression "wild dog", and he shouts over the bar, "I resent that! It is wild hog, not wild dog! Dogs fight smart!"

Outcross snorts, and retorts, "Smart would not be having to foot the bill for thousands of dollars of alcohol."

Outcross tilts his head in the direction and observes dryly, "You can probably identify the culprits by the strong sent of booze soaked through their clothes and the glass shards hanging on them like tinsel."

Outcross notes his character is only guilty of unsolicited licking.

Outcross is licking his butt right now.

He had been resting beneath a table for the past several hours, grunting in pain, although the noise was muffled by his muzzle pushed deep into his paws. What was happening, he wasn't sure. Maybe it was too much tequila the night before? Dogs, especially cute ones like Outcross, weren't really meant to imbibe so much in one sitting. None at all, really. An evolutionary shortcoming. Even bears couldn't tolerate much -- he had seen his fair share go wild after hitting up an abandoned hive full of fermented honey. What humans manufactured to fling their mind into that region of blurry darkness was so potent that there really was no comparison with what nature produced. Yet, somehow, he was an addict. Ciders, ales, stouts, ports, meads, whiskey ... he wanted it all! Yet, one night, he had more than he should have. Enough to make his tab at Gambit's skyrocket and his brain turn dim. Then, so inebriated he could hardly feel his tail wagging excitedly behind him, he encountered that stranger. A stranger and what felt like a strange dream. More of a nightmare, he reflected. When he woke, he felt sore and confused. That was nine months earlier, in dog years. Now his belly was swollen and he felt peculiar. Every few seconds, his lower regions pulsed with agony. Things were shifting inside him.

"Oh Gods!" Outcross pondered in his heart, "was that person a xenomorph? Is an alien going to leap out of my belly?!"

The contractions grew ever tighter, and he dragged himself from under the table to the psychosomatic warmth of the artificial fire. He didn't care who was watching as he licked his sensitive part. He just wanted some comfort. Gesturing to his bowl, he shouted toward the bartender, "Another fifth of bourbon! I can't handle this pain anymore! I need to be knocked out cold!"

Quickpaw Hurojo awakes after having been asleep for several years. Around the area was only void. It was empty. Dark. Cold. "Where... where have the spirits placed me?" He started patting his body all over; ensuring that he was corporeal. "Not dead; that's a plus." Though there was no time to lose. If he was corporeal, that likely means that he could return to the world he knew, and hopefully return to his king. He began running, hoping to find an exit to this ethereal obscurity.

Sibael Rhodwyn looked around, finally staring one of the strangers in the face, "I don't remember you. Any of you, to be frank."