When enemies are at your door, I'll carry you way from war
”OUTTA THE WAY!!!” comes a loud, desperate cry as Kaisel sprints down the docks. His backpack jostles back and forth behind him, zippers singing haste to a beat set by his boots and the percussion of wood planks. His pants and sweatshirt have seen better days, smeared with mud as if he’d faceplanted into it at this exact speed and came to a skidding halt before popping back up again and continuing as if nothing happened. That isn't what went down, as first he'd been mucking about with wagons and knights (well, one knight), and then he'd been accosted by what a new mess.
That's what he currently has held out in his hands, the new mess.
In his mad pursuit of accessible water, he surely jostles against Thalassa, as he has done to a few folks leading up to here who weren't able to duck out of the way. He only mutters a quick, "sorry!" in passing as he hits his knees near her and suddenly dunks the muddy object he'd been holding out in his hands the whole race here. "You're gonna be okay, don't worry don'tworry don'tworrydon'tworry," he tells the thing he's actively drowning, or at least doing a poor job baptising.
The crease of concentration and shadowed lines of concern gradually ease up into solid bewilderment. With the best impersonation of a raccoon trying to wash cotton candy, Kaisel's hands lift from the wayer, empty. The assumed dog, so coated in mud no fur could be found but he judged it as such based on general shape, friendliness, and movement, seems to have just been memory mud playing at fido. It's now become part of the muddy soup that is the current waterline here.
That's what he currently has held out in his hands, the new mess.
In his mad pursuit of accessible water, he surely jostles against Thalassa, as he has done to a few folks leading up to here who weren't able to duck out of the way. He only mutters a quick, "sorry!" in passing as he hits his knees near her and suddenly dunks the muddy object he'd been holding out in his hands the whole race here. "You're gonna be okay, don't worry don'tworry don'tworrydon'tworry," he tells the thing he's actively drowning, or at least doing a poor job baptising.
The crease of concentration and shadowed lines of concern gradually ease up into solid bewilderment. With the best impersonation of a raccoon trying to wash cotton candy, Kaisel's hands lift from the wayer, empty. The assumed dog, so coated in mud no fur could be found but he judged it as such based on general shape, friendliness, and movement, seems to have just been memory mud playing at fido. It's now become part of the muddy soup that is the current waterline here.
Kaisel
If you need help, I'll shut down the city lights
Wearing a watery blue, faded and stretched-out sparkling hair tie on his left wrist
