I'm afraid of your disease

he's such a qt i almost feel bad for threadcrashing you

as the puppy entertained himself with the gummed-to-death fin from a seal, too distracted by his plaything to pick up on the pair of eyes that watched him from the cusp of a shored, hollowed tree bough, bartok reflected on the state of his moral integrity (at this point, it sagged and hiccuped like an intoxicated wino) as he seriously considered picking on the guileless, wet-eared likes of a pup. the impressionability of kevlyn's developing brain was such an attractive trait, and the most perfect ingredient for his most favorite food for thought – cult indoctrination.

......kidding.

the raven could never channel his inner-jim jones into anything useful, and the woeful scarcity of koolaid in the teekon wilds lent itself to something of an inconvenience for a bird with such prophetic designs for preschoolers.

not to mention, it appeared as though the puppy was teething and if his speculation was correct, the swollen gums of the carnivore throbbed with the urgency to bite effing. everything. so short of dropping a puffer fish at the puppy's galumphing tootsies he could not think of anything that could be crammed within the pent parameters of totally-harmless and wow-that-was-a-dick-move.

there was only one other option, and bartok was bored enough to actually contemplate flinging himself into the bounding main as a forfeit of his life to whatever sexpot cracked the whip around these parts. ariel or something. anyway, boredom drowned him more efficiently than any sea-nix could, so over to the energetic puppy he tentatively waddled, keeping his scruples near to his heart as the puppy thrashed with his flipper in a playfully disastrous manner. "what doing." the unctuous cretin asked suddenly and attentively, cocking his head at the gross looking object that kevlyn fell all over.