[PQ] Thank God I'm a Country Boy

DEVRUM When feasible, one should always eat the rude. The fields swayed untouched, and Devrum, holding a scythe and a pick axe knew he had his work cut out for him. A grin brimmed through his thick bushy beard, growing wild and astray as the beast the lay dormant in him at the moment. The pick axe was discarded onto the ground. His shirt removed to reveal his thick mildly-defined torso with sketches of hair splayed throughout the many scars, punctures and variety other physical signs that wrote the story of his survival. A large branding mark seen just above his left hip. All signs of a former life in which Devrum never fully escaped. Even still the urges and cravings were apparent, but Vervain had done well to keep the former convict occupied. There was a home to build, and a land to shape for the prospects of growing some form of fruit or vegetables. His shirt discarded to be used as a sweat rag later, Devrum took short deliberate strides with his stocky, bowl-legs and began to slice the tall grass and weeds that had sprouted, unkept for who knew how long. While he never was one to ask for help, should another pair of hands arrive, or even another after that...he would not deny them their right to work. Off in the distance he heard the faint approach of barking in the distance that rapidly began approaching. He had noticed too late when the hound that had woken him up upon his arrival here, had currently sat by his shirt and pick axe. "Oy...don't even think about it..." Devrum warned the hound when he noticed it slowly, teasingly lower its mouth toward his shirt. "I'm warming you dog...that ain't the toy you'll be wanting to steal..." The hound stopped only briefly, before calling his bluff and lowering its mouth closer. " 'ay! What'd I just say?!" Devrum growled, aiming his scythe at the mutt, even though he held no intension of using it. The hound gently took his shirt in its mouth. "You got some balls on you dog...you're fucking with me ain't ya?" The hound, now fully gripping his shirt sat still and huffed a bark. "You're going to give me that shirt like a good boy ain't ya..." The hound, was a rather bulbous, wrinkly mass of a dog. Short, stout legs...the bulldog, with deadpan eyes watched Devrum approach, remaining still...buying its time until he was close enough, than its short stubby legs wound up and attempted to sprint through his legs. Even as Devrum gripped the dog and slowly began lifting it to hold to his eyes the bulldog snorted as its chunky legs sprinted in the air. "You could just give up now and spare both of us this embarrassment..." The bulldog kept pace for a little more before just suddenly stopping, the shirt dropped onto the ground as it stared blankly, unblinking into Devrum's eyes. "There's a good dog..." Devrum huffed...dogs always a tender part of his heart. "You can't go on doing that understand? If we're going to make this work...you need to not be a prick." The bulldog barked and began to play-chomp onto Devrum's hands. That sealed the deal...Vai had sent Dev to work on the fields and he'd be coming home with a slobbering mutt. Placing the dog back down he'd tie his shirt around hits thick neck like a cape. "You stay...gonna be needing that shirt." The bulldog obediently flopped on its belly, onto the ground as it watched Devrum slice along the fields. {Alright so there\'s room for two more should anyone care to help the bear man shape the fields to get some food growing up in this piece.} 1. Ronin 2.

Ronin had seen the whole damned thing. And while he'd never tell a soul (he wasn't stupid and he valued his life and the family he was about to start) he couldn't deny that it was a pleasure to see the former convict going about his business with such a carefree nature about him. He'd even earned himself a four-legged mascot, by the look of it. "Hey," he'd call to Dev, the bark in his voice an old echo of the orders he'd used to shout as a Storm Guard captain. But it was a long time since Ronin had been a guard outside the bear man's cell. A long time since he'd had to hand whisky in a flask through the bars, or share jokes and news in the graveyard shift. "Mind if I lend a hand? I could use the exercise, honestly." Ronin was already dropping the satchel he'd been carrying (he'd been out to forage for materials and food and to look for Safrin again) but this had stolen his attention. The former captain stripped to the waist and took up the pickaxe, the sun catching on the starburst of a scar on his neck. It was silvered and old compared to the mass of pink scarring yet to fade from the Spire Demon's bite. At least he'd not been scarred in the face, though. Yet. RONIN JUST WATCH ME