[ SAY YOU WON'T LET GO | O. JOINING ]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]> COURIER SIX | ACCESS FILE: TAGS | ACCESS FILE: missing.link
. . . LOADING THOUGHTS . . . GENERATING DIALOGUE | ACCESS? [confirm]

Most people don't wake up every morning with the goal of figuring out who they are. Perhaps they search for aspects: their purpose in life, what they love, what about themselves they can improve. But most — he's assuming here, but most — people don't wake up and wonder after their own name. Or their home. Or why they own what they own, why they are where they are, or where they will go. When he woke up, he had asked around. Do you know me? What happened? He'd gotten some note about a delivery, a radio that mostly crackled at him, and the same answer every time: I don't know. Each time he hears it, it's a nail to his chest.

Eventually, he picks up and carries on.

The first important thing he learns about himself is the depth of his own endurance. It takes hours of travel for him to tire even the slightest, to the point that he slows to a walk instead of a trot. The ground is hot underneath his paws, but it hardly seems to bother him. There's enough wind to rustle thick fur and keep his face cool, and the second fact he learns about himself is that right now that's all he could ever ask for. So the dog walks, and walks. He follows faint tracks, then fresher ones, then carves his own trail through an area so startling familiar that his mind and heart both ache, but in the end, it's nothing. Just another stretch of the road. The most unsettling part is the emptiness of his thoughts. With nothing to reflect on, the brain is a beautifully blank thing, nothing more than a machine that continues to spin without any input. His seems to concern itself mostly with scenery for now.

As he continues walking, the land underneath hard paws dips, mud reaching almost over the tops of white paws with some steps. The Courier's expression doesn't turn to distaste, but the German Shepherd pauses anyway, as if trying to gauge his own opinion of the territory before him. Wet, shadowed. "Terrible," he finally decides with something of a scoff, and there's fact number three for today: he's not a fan of marshes.

It's a start.

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( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) tracking

'terrible,' the canine spoke, which peaked malphas' interest. the medic was just finishing a meal when he heard the dog, and he turned around, looking at the dog with wide, crimson eyes. streaks of blood were painted across his face and his neutral, uncaring expression warped into one of sick pleasure. "i know, right? this place is a shithole," he grinned, his yellow teeth temporarily stained red. he licked his teeth and continued.

"anyways. what the hell are you doing- cause as much as this place is a shithole, it's still like, my shithole, and if you're here to intrude then get the fuck out." he stopped smiling as he spoke. fucking dogs, he thought. walking in like they owned the place.

IVAN ZIMAVICH BRAGINSKY ✧ russian bear dog — proxy — tags[/color]

”Malphas.” There was a distaste in his tone.... and look at that, one of the few times Zimavich didn’t approach by growling at the joiner. He came up beside his clanmate and aimed to tug on their ear with his teeth. ”Not call Tanglewood.... shithole. Hot. But home...” The bear dog had done that as a light warning. The nurse would be fine.
”Beck’s shithole....” he says with a light chuckle.

”Joiner....” he turns to the newcomer now, puffing out his chest and staring at them with gleaming purple eyes. ”Name?”

© madi

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: helvetica; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 1.4;"]Terrible was quite possibly the more mild term flinging around Courier's head at the moment. Overall, he could count as unimpressed, with fleeting pieces of irritation, confusion, and concern flitting around in his head like dragonflies. He tries to catch the ones that strike him as memory, but they slip away from his mind too quickly. The first one he manages to catch when he lays eyes on Malphas is once again terrible, but more with the connotations of "disgusting", not "frightening". For a reason he can't quite grasp, much less explain, the canine finds himself pretty far from terrified, at least as someone who was just greeted by a demon-eyed cat with blood on their mouth. Poor hygiene, poor attitude. Yeah, unimpressed puts it rather plainly, though he does find some sense of curiosity deep in there. Somewhere. "The hell're you talking about?" he demands, rising up to his full height and leaning backwards, light on his paws. Even as a small canine, he dwarfs Malphas.

And he, in turn, is dwarfed by Zimavich. He watches the ear tug with an expression that's suddenly blank, golden-brown eyes distant and glassy. For a moment, it felt as if his circuits were trying to reconnect, just a bit. Nothing comes out of it and for the first time, the frustration is almost enough to drive Courier to tears. The dog's teeth clench and grind, then he exhales shakily. Pointed ears, almost pinned back in his moment of anger, relax back to their natural state. His attention flicks from somewhere around the bear dog's chest to his eyes, which requires a strange tip of his head that he's not fond of. "Who's Beck?" What did he mean joiner? And name — name — his throat dries up and constricts around the admission that he doesn't have one, so the canine murmurs, "Courier," and tries not to sound too hesitant.

"My name's Courier."