sweating bullets | TAKEOVER

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9.5pt; line-height: 1.4;letter-spacing:.1px"]Oh, a takeover? Now that was interesting. He had come to this place expecting it all to be hot chocolate and lazy days, and to have that change before his eyes has the lion perking up in a way he hadn't before. Cold eyes seem brighter, a harsh, icy blue, but there's nothing pleasant in the expression. He pads up slowly, silently, with an almost curious tilt to his head. Like his scale-covered, judgmental counterpart, Winterwolf's first instinct is to search for him in the crowd. There's a kindred spirit there, another person who's been dragged through hell for a war they should have questioned sooner. Unlike the other, Winter is actually successful in his search, standing at the dragon's side with a low, grumbling hum. There's an uncomfortable mumbling throughout the hall, though at least one other person speaks up. A continued dialogue about slurs, but generally speaking, he finds that resorting to that is useless, or even detrimental. Clear head, clear language. Doesn't mean he can't have a little fun with it, though.

The American lion blinks, turns to look at Butch with a clear disgust in the curl of his mouth, just for a moment. Still unimpressed, but — disappointed, perhaps. Disgusted. He has no clear urge to act, no moral obligation to stand up for someone weaker than himself. But part of him wants to, just to prove that he's capable of it. Everyone expected people to roll over. Everyone was rolling over. Snowbound may be pacifistic, but Winterwolf certainly wasn't. Then again, it's not like he was the hero they wanted. Needed. "Sure sounds like he could take a little deflating," the lion mutters, though the words mean nothing when set against the boredom he seems to radiate.