A WOLF WILL NEVER BE A PET ♰ JOINING

[south]

[align=center][div style="width:500px;text-align:justify; line-height: 110%;"]His gaze trained back to rest upon his approacher, who soon multiplied to four. The first was a younger man, and Santos couldn't help but let his gaze linger perhaps too long. He looked like Ryder. Blonde hair, blue eyes, the same build even- Santos' face softed slightly. This was not Ryder though. Ryder was scarred and bruised, tattooed and rough, an anger in his eyes and a defensive nature in the way he held himself. This was not Ryder. Ryder was dead.

He blinked, eyes flitting back towards the rocks. The universes tricks were haunting. The man dipped his head in greeting, trying hard to shake the thought of the phantom from his mind. "Santos," He returned, forcing the images of the corpse from his mind. He needed to start over. It had been years. His new beginning could not be stained with his past.

Just as he spoke, a young woman joined them, and though her youth showed upon her skin, her eyes were aged and experienced. He too, shared that same mental age difference. Nowadays, it seemed everyone did. One could not endure this world without wearing their weariness somewhere. The only soul he had seen without it was his ghost- Santos found only emptiness in those blue eyes.

Her words encouraged his gaze to travel to her own bat, which elicited a phantom of a smirk upon the corners of his mouth. "Yours too," He nodded, grazing his eyes upon the weapon. Despite his well-handling ability of the rifle in his pack, he much preferred the use of his bat if available. At least he understood she was a true fighter, not just another kid with a gun.

Another joined them, this time someone older than he. The man was silent, and Santos simply dipped his head slightly to acknowledge his presence. Upon doing so, he felt the familiar sensation of his pet snake slither from his backpack and towards his shoulder. She gently moved across and draped herself atop his shoulder, resting her head near his collarbone as she looked about, as if sensing introductions were ongoing. "This is Kyros," He lifted his hand to pet the white and black dappled snake.

A final member approached as well, introducing themselves as Catalyst- at least, Santos assumed that's what they meant. He had met a handful of others, loners especially, who introduced themselves with uncommon names. Hell, he had even met someone who called themselves Badger- Santos frankly didn't care.

Upon getting a good luck at them as a whole, they- to be blunt- looked like hell. Bruised and limping and bandaged, Santos couldn't tell if that was comforting in the sense of tough nature, or disturbing in the sense of vulnerability. Either way, the man had little room to speak considering his plenty scars and bruises, old and new. "Mierda," He murmured, "Were you all just attacked or is this an everyday occurrence?" Might as well see if this was something he should be bracing himself for.

[LINK]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 1.35; padding: 4px;"]( i’m on mobile so sorry for any dumb mistakes! )

Accustomed as he was to that vacant exhaustion, he wasn’t quite so used to it being focused on him— Santos looked at him as though he was a ghost [and perhaps, to him, he was]. Something in that hard countenance softened, defences lowering just enough for Link to see vulnerability — and then it was gone, dashed upon the rocks Santos glanced to. He swallowed, throat clicking, dismissing the confusion as easily as he’d dismiss any pointless, passing thought. If there was one thing he’d learned in his short stay in this town, it was that the people had more stories than it was worth considering, and wasting too much time dwelling on what each and every glare meant would only grey you prematurely. It didn’t quite shake the concern, but it stamped enough of it out for it not to show. These people didn’t need to see him sweat — his panic was carefully compartmentalised, expression on the warm side of neutral. He stayed silent while the others spoke, turning briefly to shrug at Mike by way of greeting. The worm— he loathed that word already, but that was what Mike was, somehow less than human for a crime Link knew nothing about— was a curious fellow. He didn’t understand why humiliation seemed to be a preferred punishment over jail time here, but perhaps the rule-breaking was never so bad that it warranted cells. Perhaps it’d simply be hypocritical of Cat, leading a band of murderers and thieves, to imprison somebody as if he had the moral conduct of a judge.

Interest lit up his face as his attention returned to Santos, lingering on the snake. "It’s beautiful. He? She?" Snake gender was something of a mystery to Link — snakes in general, actually. He was from a cold enough country that they weren’t especially common; most people liked their pets with a little more fur, capable of withstanding biting blizzards and playing with them out in the snow. Still, he could understand the allure of a snake: Kyros was beautiful, dappled and painted like an old movie. "— this seems to be an every day thing," Link elaborated — but as far as he was aware, attacks were also increasingly common. He didn’t know much, but he’d heard snippets of conversation about war. Of all the times for him to pick to join, he... could have done better. He hoped that Santos’ bat wasn’t just for show. On another note, though— "Mierda? You’re Spanish?" The name was sort of a giveaway.

[south]

[align=center][div style="width:500px;text-align:justify; line-height: 110%;"]Santos turned back to Link, noticing his interest. His expression warmed slightly, as if proud of Kyros. There had been too many times Kyros was deemed a pest or a fear and Santos had to tuck her away for her safety. Snakes perhaps weren't as warm and cuddly as other animals, but Santos had traveled with her for three years now after nursing her back to health- their bond was close. Whether or not he would like to admit it, taking care of her kept himself on track and made him at least feel like he was serving some sort of purpose, no matter how small.

"She," He replied with a nod, offering his hand to her, which she gladly accepted to wrap around. Link's reply concerned Santos mildly, as he glanced around at the others, trying to decide their wear. "Should I be expecting something to come?" His brows furrowed slightly. If he was joining, he was joining- but he at least wanted to brace himself for any attacks. He was not one to turn and flee from one, after all. He turned his focus back to Link, though his gaze was wavering- careful not to focus on him too long in effort to not let his mind wander back to the phantom. "Sí," He spoke, half ironically. [i]"My mother grew up in Cádiz." No need to mention, though, that she died before she taught him any Spanish.

[south]

[align=center][div style="width:500px;text-align:justify; line-height: 110%;"]There was a terrifying, beautiful power in the sea. It was a harmony of death and destruction // life and creation. Giver and taker of life, it bent to no man's will. Provider of joy, provider of terror. In this, Santos had found a home as a youth. The man stood alone on the coast, eyes closed as he tilted his crown to bask in the sun's golden spillage. The wind brushed his dark curls from his brows, as if greeting the familiar face. He felt like a young boy again. His shoulders sunk in ease, lashes parting to gaze upon the sunlight-brushed ocean. He had missed this- his solace.

The striking blue waves made him forget his red-stained memories. The warmth of the sun made him forget cold, stiff skin. The crashing of tides drowned out the sobbing, the gunshots, the shouting. In this scene, Santos had returned to the sanctity of his home. In this fantasy, the protagonist got his happy ending. But this was no cinematic, feel-good film. This was the story of a marked boy, doomed from creation, death and undoing imprinted upon him instead.

Golden irises flickered to the rocky side, sensing an all too familiar presence. His dearly loved ghost. The blonde phantom stood rigid // stood silent. Red stained eyes peered at Santos blankly, providing him only that presence. The two mirrored one another; posture stilled, gazes empty. No words were exchanged between the two, neither mental nor verbal. There was nothing to be said.

The sound of movement swayed the man's attention, head snapping towards the source. A figure approached in the distance, climbing the incline that had previously kept them both from sight of one another. Santos stood silent a moment, grip tightening upon the wire-clad bat hanging from his backpack. He was not naive to the reputation of the Badlands. Perhaps it was not wise of Santos to delve into a life of aggression and violence again, and perhaps that was why his beloved phantom had grown so cold towards him. But Santos could not shed the ways of himself so easily.

”I’m looking to join.” He spoke, looking back to the rocks // his dearly loved ghost had vanished.


{ [i]note: figure can be a npc or anyone can claim to be mentioned figure :^)

[CREED]

[align=center][div style="borderwidth=0px; width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8.8pt; color:#COLORHERE"]IF I COULD FEEL NOTHING

tw for mentions of injuries, violence, death

doing things that weren't wise seemed to be a reoccurring thing no matter where you go. creed should have been back in her home resting, she had just gotten the shit beaten out of her and was shot only a few days ago. there was multiple others in the badlands that could scan the territory, but creed was creed and she didn't like sitting around doing nothing for very long. she rested the night they got back and the day after, that was good enough in her book.

the sea was a new experience for her when she had first arrived to the badlands. she had been around lakes and rivers before, but nothing like this. she had grown into finding a comfort by the sound of the waves crashing, so for a moment she let herself stand there and take it all in, the wind blowing her short white hair. arrow would have loved it here, he always talked about wanting to see the ocean since they were kids. she wanted to give that to him. she thought she was going to give it to him, but here she was. brotherless and bruised.

creed's chest tightened at the thought of him getting shot found its way into her head. tears threatened to fall out of her eyes but she took a deep breath and shook her head, turning her back from the ocean and returning to her walk. as she made her way over the incline, her eyes caught onto a new face in the distance. her lips pursed before she walked over to him, stopping a few feet away.

"nice bat." she complimented, using the bat in her own hands to point at his. "you're in the badlands territory, name and business?"

[LINK]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-size: 8pt; line-height: 1.35; padding: 4px;"]Link had never worn wariness well, had always thought there was a marked difference between caution and suspicion. Treading lightly shared traits with treading fearfully, true, but even predators moved with care. It wasn't that Link was a predator — far from it, more lemming than lion — but he had never considered himself scared. He didn't fear the abstract, nor did he fear the tangible. People were capable of terrible things, but that didn't mean he had to mistrust every face he encountered, even if they were scarred, tattooed and wielding a bat. The Badlands had promised to attract danger, oddities and dangerous oddities alike; if he hadn't been prepared to look potential killers in the eye and trust them not to take him as a victim, he wouldn't have attempted to the day he arrived— wouldn't have arrived at all. As with many here, though, Santos didn't seem angry to Link. Tired, maybe, and broken, damaged by things Link couldn't see, but not so unhinged that he felt vulnerable without a weapon. Maybe one day that would change. For now, he sought to see the best in people. His sister had always found it admirable.

He opened his mouth to speak — Santos beat him to it and he smiled, bashful but understanding. His eyes lingered, briefly, on the other man's face, before flitting to his tense shoulders, his bat, and away to Creed as she mounted the incline to join them. "He wants to join," he elaborated, thumbing at the thin fabric of his jacket. With the man's name a mystery, however, Link could offer little else to Creed, so he turned back to Santos. Taller and broader than him, dark hair where his was pale and eyes warm where his were like the winter sea. Bruised, too, as though he'd been in a fight. Link wasn't sure if it was for him to know."I'm Link," he eventually added into the quiet, hoping it'd encourage an introduction in turn.

[MICHAEL.]

[align=center]

[div style="borderwidth; width: 400px; padding: 1px; text-align: justify; color: #4B3E2D; line-height: 14px; font-size: 11pt; font-family:timesnewroman"]"speech" 'thought' text
tw: mentions alcohol, blood, profanity, violence, religion

Mike being in the general vicinity of Creed didn't seem like a good idea, his very existence was a reminder to her of everything she'd lost, and most of being Mike's fault, though she hadn't heard the whole story. Hadn't heard the part that Mike left out of his confession, the choice he was forced to make, shoot a child, shoot a parent... hadn't mentioned that Will had asked to be killed, and preferred it to what the Insurrection had in store for him.

He hadn't mentioned the attempt to save Creed and her family, hadn't said anything about the guilt he felt on a daily basis, he had just confessed to his sins, not his attempts to correct them. Creed only knew the bad part of the picture, and she had every right to hate him, even the other side of the story wouldn't change that, so why should he try to correct the narrative?

Remaining silent, he stopped a pace or two behind Link, crossing his arms over his chest and remaining silent, there didn't seem to be any reason for him to speak. Why should he?

[CATALYST]

[align=center][table]