ISLE OF DOGS - open, joining

    She didn't know how fortunate she was to still have ties to relatives. Creatures stolen away from their family, or in Beck's case the opposite, would give anything just to say one final goodbye. While centuries of memories had overwhelmed the remnants of whoever he could say were his parents, bitter regret weighed down his grimy apparition at the mere thought of a mother or father. But why? Hell if he knew. He was just a meaningless ghost clinging onto a childhood that never happened. Yet he had busied himself with a clan, a group already forming bonds to create a makeshift family, and it keep the pain and worries away -- for the most part. The poltergeist still preferred isolation over every feigned interaction with the living, and half the time he lost himself within the swamp only because he couldn't have a normal, cheery conversation.

    And yet here she was, having a conversation with herself and a disembodied speaker. Not the strangest scenario he had witnessed over his eternal existence. Glancing up at the direction of Arceus from his work carving mindless doodles into cypress roots, Beck sheathed pearly little claws and quite effortlessly tracked the direwolf down. A frilly-looking thing, but a thing nonetheless. "Finally, someone smart 'nough to stay on that side of the line." the boy sneered from the brambles, posture just as horrid as her apprehensive form, if not worse. Backhand wiping the vibrant blue toxins leaking from a missing cheek, the wiry mess of a feline warily kept his distance. Beck promptly flopped back onto bony haunches and nosily inquired with a owlish tilt of his skull, "Who ya talkin' to?"

[align=center]»――▸