Sequoia Coast cheerio

bartok was deflated when his attempts to antagonize were almost instantly shot down by this new imposing company and something smacking of discouragement shaded his features. he may have made a slight miscalculation on the volatility of the temper on this one.

the wolf's throaty response was quickly followed up with a question you would find behind a sneer, one that required the raven to actually make an effort to participate, but he nonetheless continued to keep step (flight) with kovacs, puzzling over what his end-game was in this – so far unpropitious – encounter.

in a pinch and after scanning over the wolf looking for something, anything, to use as ammunition for his feedback, the wisenheimer made a hmmmm noise, "dog has maaaany much scars," he descried, as though it were not readily available information to the public. "be more likable with b-e-a-uuuuuty marks!" he surged upwards with a flourish and twirled in the air with an affectation of theatrics, and if he were able to draw sparkles and stars and pissbows out of thin air, he would have thrown them lavishly.

there was no way the wolf could possibly ever envision bartok as a death-ringer ever again, and bartok had absolutely no idea the window of illustrious opportunity he had just literally somersaulted past and the brickwall he favored in its place.