LOG: Fight scene takes place one block over on East Outskirts of Dawson, one block away from Old Landing's Farmhouse.
| Southern Acreage + Old Landing's Farmstead {Dawson} A small field no more than an half an acre in length with a corpse of trees to the far right of the property serves as acreage to this old, once abandon farmstead . A small, however modest, cabin stands directly in front of ones view as they tromp there way through a small graveled path that leads up to the home. There is not one gate nor fence that surrounds the yard here, leaving open grounds for a variety of different animals. However, numerous of the tracks here have been make from canines and humans. As one looks to a side of the yard they notice a smaller, less tromped path that leads to a small stone and wood formation, possibly a barn of some sort. The front of the small cabin does not have a porch, but the back as one that gives a more private look to the home. A small porch, without an extended roof, is seen instead. The porch extends past the windows on either side of the cabin. A few stairs lead up to the porch, they are worn from excessive use. A lone rocking chair is seen here, with a few chewing bones and a ball set against the stairs. In the windows, one notices the flickering of lanterns within, giving a welcoming look to the home. Kierun yelps like a puppy as the malamute pushes him over all too easly as she easly out weighs him. Finding himself suddenly looking up at the action from the ground he wonders if that Spitz dog is still here. BlueHeel looks at Rowan, "Not interesting in wrestling around?" he pads over to her, favoring the other paws, but still a slight limp to him. "I would be out there too, but.. Kie likes to wrestle." he smiles as he sits down again. "I know we've met somewhere before, but can't place it at this moment. Grinning, Aushi seems to hop off of Kierun, landing clumsily on her paws off to the side. Aushi takes note of Rowan's absence, but it is soon ignored as she waits for the next move of Kierun amidst the play-wrestle. Aushi brings her shoulders back, revealing her to seem in a pose that is used to pounce onto, yet she stays. "Maybe. Not too great at wrestling," Rowan answers, her words slightly clipped as she glances toward BlueHeel. A faint frown crosses her face; a slight shake sends bits of dried mud flying. "His name is Kie?" she asks, ears tipping back ever-so-slightly. "And.. I'm not quite sure if we've met." Figaro pads through the field heading towards the cabin, tail twitching. It was starting to get cold due to the setting sun(I hope) and she wanted in! In the cabin indeed. Where it was warm--and there were certainly dogs as well. Her sharp ears prick forward, whiskers quivering as she meets up with the horde of dogs. Stopping, she looks back and forth, a smirk on her face. Kierun blinks as he hears his name causing his ears to perk. Slowly trying to get back up to his paws he eyes the malamute wearly as if expecting her to try another knock down. Grinning slightly he silently dares Aushi to try it again as he braces and watches her closly so she hopfully can not get him by surprise. BlueHeel flicks his tail some, "I'm not sure, but I'm sure I've seen you somewhere... were you at that fire about .. along time ago?" He tries to place this dog. He looks at Kie and Aushi, and giggles, "get her Kie." he replies to rowan's question, "actually it's Kierun." he flicks his tail more... and then he spies the cat. He knows this one, but chooses to just watch her at this moment. Smirking, Aushi stays in place, not intending to leap at Kierun for another attack. Wagging her tail, she remains in the position, displaying her tight shoulder muscles. Rather, she stays still. No regard is given to the entering cat.. yet. Aushi's head seems to tilt slightly to a side, as she waits for a bound from Kierun. Rowan rolls her shoulders in a mild shrug, ears tilting back and forth and shedding bits of mud as they go. "Th'fire? I don't think so. Heard about it, though." She falls silent for a few seconds, until she hears the husky's name. Another frown takes its place over her face. "Kierun?" Well, now she has a name for a face. And a reason for why that face knew her when she didn't. "/Kierun/ Kierun?" The feline isn't noticed. Yet. Figaro yawns, stretching out into an elongated form. She didn't like being ignored, even if she was being attacked by numerous dogs of varying sizes. Her whiskers quiver as she says with a smile. "Ah, the proud father, the hair and brainless dog, and numerous other unmentionable canines." She says with a small smirk. Hearing his name once more he looks over at the Spitz questionly. "You called?" he offers jokenly to her as he tail wags. Still expecting a trick from the malamute he can not help but notice her fine muscle tone as he spies upon her out of the corner of his eyes. Too many important animals (dogs) to bother with a lesser animal (cat) he ignores Figaro even if he does have the cats scent in his nose. BlueHeel ponders more, looking around some at the cat's comment, "did you hear something, must have been a flea." He then turns back to Rowan, "I know I've seen you, oh well, I"m BlueHeel, glad to meet you." He intros himself again. Turning to Kie, "Get her, pounce her, kie." He gives encouragement to his packmate Yipping, Aushi calls out to Kierun, "Forgetting the issue at hand?" The remark was made as a joke, and nothing else. A jerk of her head to the side is offered, following her statement to the male. As little regard is given to the feline, Aushi follows the same principle, merely ignoring the cat to deal with the wrestling at the moment. "Possibly a flea," Rowan picks up on that line of thought, pointedly scanning over the feline as she glances from BlueHeel to the wrestling and back. "Well met, BlueHeel." Introductions over, she turns again to watch the wrestling go on. Call? Her? Nah. The hair along the cat's back rises straight up. No! This can't be! She is being ignored! Her ears pin flat against her head. "Ah, and these must be the mites on the flea's back, harrying to the flea's whims and wishes." Kierun shrugs slightly using a gesture he has picked up from being around humans in reply to the Spitz. Smiling some as she seems to be getting along with the pack alpha male he turns his attention to the malamute. "At hand? Do you mean perhaps at paw?" he asks teasenly padding closer to the large female. Giving Aushi a quick lick accross her muzzle he quickly dashes off. "Till next we meet beauty." BlueHeel looks at the fleaing Kie, and giggles some, then turns back to say something to Rowan. "I think I still hear..." he drops off as he sees a dog pass by on the street outside of his yard. "Would you excuse me, ,I think I just saw someone that shouldn't be here. " He dashes out of the yard. East Outskirts-Klondike Road {Dawson} This street runs out of the town, tracks can be seen running along it out into the empty snow. The road runs deeper into the town, to the east, and intersects with First Avenue. A few odd buildings line either side, and the bustle here is low, being on the outskirts of the town. The snow covered street is fairly undisturbed on most sides, drifts lining some parts of buildings untouched by anyone. Occasionally you spot a stray animal passing by, keeping mostly to the sides of the buildings, out of plain view. Figaro has arrived. Rowan has arrived. Lip-Lip has arrived. Napoleon has arrived. BlueHeel pads along the street, sniffing, trying to find where that dog went. He's sure it was one of the gang that seems to want to cause him troubles. he also needs to find out if that little whelp is part of the gang or not. His tail curls up on his back as he searches. Figaro trails a little distance behind Blueheel, crooked tail twitching as it reaches sky-high. With a sway of her catty hips, the cat bounds up onto a garbage can, large ears flicking down to watch Blueheel. "Little lost?" She calls, as she does not see anyone here...anyway. Little whelp? What little whelp? Surely one couldn't be speaking of the little -angel- called Napoleon. And, speaking of the young dog, here he comes, moving at a slight slinkish posture down the streets, eyes following the imprinted lines of sleds which have come and gone. Ahh freedom...and he still lavishes in uncharted glory at his victory over the hated blue dog and his twerpish spawn which he calls daughter. Ears perk forward and a wry smirk creeps over his muzzle as his mind travels back in time, recollecting the events which he and Nairuq took part of. They made a great team!... even if Nair didn't actually help out in his battle with the pup, nor did Napoleon himself lend any aid to the other while he was dealing with Blue. Nevertheless, they -were- together, and he -did- help throw threats and insults..and that seems reason enough for him to think the two of them make a great couple. So engrossed in these thoughts, the young one fails to notice the other creatures which inhabit this barren road. When a child basks in glory..he basks deeply. Rowan is stalking along behind the BlueHeel-Figaro procession, though much farther behind, considering that there's a feline up there. As she treads up the road, she sidles closer and closer to the street's edge and the building-casted shadows, tail swishing idly at a level with her hocks as she finds a suitable spot and sinks to her haunches, head lowered, ears back, and tail now wrapped up around forepaws as she watches the goings-on of the street. Cur arrives from the west. Cur has arrived. Cur wals in, ears alert, nose sniffing, just being the nosey bastard he is. When one does not have an owner, one, incidentally, doesn't get to indulge this beautific thing oft-times referred to as hygiene. And when one fails to indulge this beautific thing oft-times referred to as hygiene, one, incidentally, tends to carry several rather volatile substances upon one's person -- meaning, in the simpler linguistics of simpler times that ownerless creatures may tend to smell rather strongly. Thus, several of these minute particles wrest themselves free of one of the more or less fetid coats of one such creature, and make their graceful way up the searching blue-furred mutt's nasal passage +prior+ to the sudden appearance of a big, chunky scarred head around a rather run-down building a little further up the road than everybody else. -That-, ladies and gentlemen, is not Lip-Lip. It is, however, rather ugly and quite surprised to see Blueheel -- and the chubby bottom lip plops down accordingly. "Blayhale! Ai, /shate/, wot thar ya doe-yin' haeah? -- " Right before he remembers we're supposed to be doing, like, y'know, *aggressive* 'haeah', and his eyeballs start bulging out fiercely. "Blaaaarhghhg! Get ote!" Cur raises an eyebrow a little surprised by the agressive dog.. but stays where he is, sitting and hoping to be entertained. BlueHeel comes to a stop before the dog appears. "Gah, don't you know where the water is?" He asks, then looks at this.. dog? "So it must have been you I saw walking directionless. I tell ya, I'm finding you boys all over town, makes me wonder about how you manage to survive. He settles down, flicking his tail some. Of course he heard the cat, but he chose to ignore the feline as he found his prey. "So, uh, where's the rest of your gang?" He idly nibbles at his paw as he talks. Rowan has left. Figaro curls her paws tucking them neatly beneath her and wrinkling her nose in utter disgust. "Man! You know, there are /other/ places for stink like that, try, a garbage can." The cat says, gesturing to the can she was curled up on. Her eyes glare back down at all three dogs. "I should've known such filth came from a dog." She mutters, licking her paws. Cur snorts muttering something about cats not being clean, just covered in cat spit. Chinook joins you from the north. Chinook has arrived. Chinook has left. "D'reckshinless? Loik Hale..." the chubby ganger apparently takes offence to that; his eyeballs bulge even more fiercely. He probably would have offered some explanation as to the whereabouts of the rest of the pack if Blueheel hadn't insulted him as such -- wicked creature, that, really. Grr. Or 'blaarghhgh', alternatively. However, all is not lost, because while the dog is busy fuming and expanding his optics, a second head pops out behind him. Or rather, the entirety of another beast, sudden and with neither warning nor attack; and that is Lip-Lip, swift on a long legged stride, the ravaged canvas of his monstrously wounded self displayed, for a moment, several yards are covered before the mix swings around with almost slovenly grace to face the blue dog, a hideous grin playing like some sort of grisly light across his thickly scarred muzzle. Dark eyes fixed upon the face of the other, the metallic rasp of his voice, stemming from his mangled throat explodes forth from his jaws. And he looks so happy to see y'all. "We're all here, child." BlueHeel puts his paw down very slowly, his grin stays on the muzzle, "Ahh, someone that I can talk to, and talks back in such a more reasonable manner. I see you are moving your furry self around this town." he wonders if Lip's henchman made it back to him last night with a swollen lip or not. "So I hear you are activly recruiting more under..er.. henchmen. But of course I doin't know if this new one will work out. He seems too uh.. bright." he grins and looks at the new comer, then back to lip Cur erfs and doesnt really feel like watching the snow turn red and gets ready to leave.... but there is an empty ache in his belly and he doesnt have qualms over eating a dog he doesnt know.. Figaro glares down at Cur, giving him a dirty look. "Cat spit is good for the fur! It enriches the proteins within..." She says, trailing off. Now this could be interesting. Sitting upright on the garbage can, the cat lets her tail trail to the ground. "Aaaaaaand in this corner, the remarkable father, Blueheel! Aaaand in ring number two, we have a stinky dog and a scar covered dog. Ooooh." She forecasts. Phoenix has arrived. Fat stinky dog has good reasons for hating people, usually, and Figgy-cat just gave him an excellent one. Evil things, cats. "Oi! *Oi*! Yay, oop thar! Kape yar stoopit ergly li'l face shet 'r else Oi'll shet et fer y'arll! Oi en't 'stanky' ah-noop and y'arll... yeh!" Yeh! "-Yeh-! Cat spat en' evarthang!" Cur receives a vigorous nodding at, sending great ropes of slick spittle flying before he gets with the mean-ganger program again... or tries to. "But chy'all... y'all dawg... y'mus..." So hard to find good help nowadays. Lip-Lip might have agreed with Blueheel, if he was a nicer dog, or a less spiteful one, or simply didn't dislike the fellow so much. But as he is a very mean, spiteful, dislikesome creature, he shall not, and his little compatriot is spared barely a glance out of one of those not-nearly dead dark eyes. "He's old," comes the noncommittal reply on that count, quiet, breathy and cracked into a thousand wickedly sharp little pieces. The rest? With a wider smile and genial demeanour. "And I'm sad to hear your daughter came home with a few flashier colors here and there the other night. I hope he's all right now?" Cur's eyes shut both by reflex and repugnance at the splattering of spittle on his coat.....oh well. The roof wolf curls her tail around her back legs as she pauses, travelling Dawson by way of rooftops. Resting on a small ledge, the wolfdog Phoenix happens to be at the East Outskirts off of Klondike road. Resting on one of the oddly shaped buildings, this gray/white one looks around curiosuly. Hmmm... BlueHeel takes great effort not to let the verble attack show. "Well, She came back much better than yours did. I'm sure he's having a great time trying to eat." He must agree with that cat about the smelly one. "You seem to be talking in more of a gravely voice there, that wouldn't be due to White would it." he gives his own attack back. he starts readying himself, though as he knows this one could spring at any moment. He hopes the talking can draw the attention of another dog for backup. Cur, nosey by nature if not that great atsticking that nose in at the right place at the right time, only knows Lip-Lip is ugly and that this White Fang dog is a mean sonofabitch. So, he decides not to take sides... just yet. Figaro rolls her eyes. "Like /you'/ spit is doin' any better!" She mimics, eyeing the dribble of spit flying from the dog's jaws. She shrugs her shoulder and curls her tail around her haunches. Nothing for them to grab. Supid, pitiful creatures. "I'll talk how I want, and walk how I want. Ohhh...that scarry one just tossed a major insult to that poor father...one must wonder, what will happen next?" Una has arrived. Figaro has disconnected. Cur twitches his tailtip in the snow... "A few scratches never stopped from one such as he from eating," comes the vaguely wry reply on Lip-Lip's part -- and as for White Fang... well, in keeping with the insanely genial geniality of the moment, though little can suppress the liquid ripple of ragged ruff across the mix's broad shoulders. But it stills, and then all is quiet, almost ominously, and with an almost merry smile -- as sick as it may seem, are his next words carolled out Darth Vaderily. His dark eyes, of course, fixed on the face of Blueheel and crackling cheerily with the spontaneous glory of Hell. "better scratched by him than my boy, wouldn't you think?" Phoenix has disconnected. Una has disconnected. BlueHeel laughs some, "and you seem to be scratched by him quite often." he knows most of those scars are from WF. "All of this makes a young pup grow stronger with the proper guidence. And having them think for themselfs is so much better than only taking directions." he smirks at the henchmen. "That way when they get in a verble encounter, they can hold up their own end." he turns his smirk to Lip. He knows that Lip picks the dumbest ones out there so he can lord over them. Cur loses interest and decides to see what other tidbits he can gather from town tonight.. Cur heads to the north. Cur has left. Sometimes, dear boy, /sometimes/. Now, wouldn't it be fascinating of Blueheel actually met somebody different... but, -oh- well. Lip-Lip's answer is not long returning, and frigidly does it come. "Actually..." a long indrawn breath, cold air scraping against the steel of his battered throat only to be expelled with a faint hiss, "getting scratched by White Fang doesn't do very much for positive character development. As you -should- have noticed. As it is, hot air at an excess isn't particularly positive either -- *well-articulated* hot air, well. I shan't pass judgement on myself." A tiny self-deprecating laugh snarls, distant thunder from the barrel-like chest of the mix, as his companion lapses into silence and proceeds to bulge his eyeballs at Blueheel in the background. The mix sobers up swiftly, however, and the smile vanishes as if into the vacuum of deep space. And whimsically does he ponder. "You, however. What should I think of a dog who cares neither to protect his women nor his children? Be sides astonishingly like myself... of course." Whisper dear, and his henchdog. Then Nai, Nap and Blueheel's Angel. One sardonic dark eye is drawn back up toward the blue mutt's person. "You don't -want- to be me, do you?" BlueHeel cocks his head. "Hmm, well, let's see here, Whisper's still with me, and doing much better, and well, I did fend off that other dog." he nibbles his paw, his tone he's speakin gin that one he uses to talk to his pups. "And Angel is doing fine." He remembers one of the first times meeting this dog, "and I don't eat pups, therefore I can't be like you. And well, no one could be you, and thank goodness for that." He smirks to the dog. A hollow, empty, dark shell is Lip-Lip's face as he watches Blueheel speak, smirk, do what your average good little doggie leader would do. Lippy the philosopher. Who would have thought? Few, perhaps, but his henchdog will not comment. Nor will any of the others, if there /do/ happen to be others, hidden behind the shack. And then when the blue mutt is done, the scarred dog takes a single, almost swaying step forward, long tail sweeping past his hindquarters once -- and his head lowers a little, to bring it closer to the mutt's own, though not nearly within biting distance. Eyes, dark as ever, pits full of shadows and not nearly hidden malice sparkle dimly with what might even be an edge of mirth. Oh, yes. Seeing similarities between himself and Blueheel... now, there's something strange. A thin razor-sharp line of bared tooth spans the wrecked expanse of his muzzle. "You leave people to their chances, and I approve of that," comes the serpentine hiss, and then, observing with the undercurrent of incredulous laughter and a little brighter the flame of malice in the dark gaze, "you're -flattering- me. Aww." BlueHeel cocks his head some, "No, i don't just leave them, I let them learn, then help out." If he takes the comments as flattery, then that's the way they are, but he's not offering it to flattery this dog. "I don't think we are that much alike, you are very evil, whereas I'm not." He grins, okay, so it's not a great comeback. He flicks his tail more, as his ears move forward. "Plus I hang around more... clean and smart friends, rather than lording over them." "Sure, sure, Blue dear," laughter laps up against the corners of the words, mirth at its most peculiar. "'Get inside, *now*' -- 'drop it!' -- 'stay out of this', none of that's lording -anything- over *anybody*. I understand." Sarcasm at its best, lyrical of quality and pouring out in great venemous torrents beneath an exterior as obscenely cheerful as the scarred dog can manage. Demon, work thy magic. And, as for how stinky and dirty his little friends are, Lip-Lip has something to say about that too, and takes a single long, almost swaggering step forward to put some amount of emphasis on it even as his dark gaze locks itself to the face of the other. "What you're -implying- isn't very nice. How could I possibly be that evil while I indulge in... /charities/, out of the bottom of my big pink heart, such as this?" Nobody ever said bad guys had to be sane, you know. BlueHeel blinks, "charities? That's an interesting word for them." he doesn't know what else to call, but he hears the sarcasm. "I don't think I've told my pups that, per say." He flicks his tail some, he realizes that LIp is close enough to attack, which obviously was his point the whole time. But he's smart enough to realize that. "I don't /imply/ anything. I just state the facts. What you take them to be is up to you." he keeps his smirk, but prepares for what might happen. If Lip-Lip was the type, he would have rolled his eyes at Blueheel's little display. Well, in actual fact he -is- the type when he's feeling evilbratty as opposed to just evil, and he actually is feeling a tad evilbratty today, but the thing is you can't exactly keep watching your short -- kinda -- little blue foe while rolling your eyeballs around in their sockets. So he doesn't. Instead, he twists his scarred muzzle into something exceedingly exasperated. "Whisper. Chinook, and Darian, old boy, not your pups. I haven't even met your pups." A short span of silence here, the exasperated smile sort of thing fading... and then, suddenly the big mix's head lashes out, fangs bared and jaws open to snap at the mutt's face. /At/, which is to say not to actually sink his teeth into anything. Boo! Then there comes that morbid, rasping hiss again, this time from that huge grotesque smile full of sharp teeth. "I, however, would *love* to meet your kids." BlueHeel takes every effort of his will not to flinch, but he moves right after that. "Ugh, how do you live with breath that bad." He slowly moves to the side of Lip as he talks, "I'm sure you would, but for some reason they dont' want to meet you at this time. I am sure that they will meet you .. well, if Whitie lets you live that long." he tries to again provoke, though he doesn't know why he bothers. "I guess we know why you don't have any pups around." The mix's smile vanishes in an instant -- in the time it would take a human finger to traverse the span of an atom, or, for the matter of related metaphors, the Yukon winter's cold to slay a newborn puplet left unprotected. In the wake of that, is a fully revealed set of chompers, a serrated blade enlargened a thousandfold and a deafening metallic snarl. It is a pair of those blades that shall descend from the great above toward Blueheel's shoulder, close to the base of his throat in the opposite direction which the mutt had moved while avoiding the mix's so-called bad breath perhaps, /perhaps/ leaving it a little undefended. It is into that area that lightning streak of naked fangs shall attempt to sink themselves into, and strategizing is, indeed, a beautiful thing. Either that or the unpredictability borne of diminished sanity. Lip-Lip-chan mad now. BlueHeel falls back at the attack, his neck avoiding the bite, but feels the teeth graze his shoulder. back pawing to get out fo the way. "my you are unpredictabl." He brings his paw up and bats at the muzzle to keep it from doing more damage to him. The tear on his shoulder hurting some, but he's not showing the pain yet. "Yes," comes the agreement in that classical uberhiss again; the mix takes one single half-step back with a forepaw and renders himself out of Blueheel's paw-reach. His ears are still plastered down against his skull, ragged fur riding storm-tossed across his broad shoulders, eyes blazing coal-like from the pits in his skull. He doesn't, however, make any further attempt to attack the poor fellow, though the lip that coasts his scarred muzzle and the taint of pink on the fang left permanently revealed by the split lip ordains, clearly, that he is aware that he drew blood regardless of whether Blueheel cares to reveal his 'pain' or not. He savors in it for a moment, and then, gracefully does he slowly slip out of this guise of an enraged infernal canine, leaving the beast many are well acquainted with. Infinitely dark, infinitely hateful... and, despite eyes on the verge of boiling over as usual, infinitely bored enough to leave the mutt. He shall not leave Angel fatherless tonight. With the studied grace of an aristocrat, does he turn, careless about leaving his mutilated self a tad unprotected and away doth he slip into the growing darkness. The fat dog, eyes bulging impressively, follows two long, unusually silent strides later. |