THE SWISH OF A DEVIL'S FORKED TAIL. . .

"You're a long way from headquarters, grunt," A deep voice calls out from the dark. The fiery red glint of a creature's eyes is the first thing to emerge from those inky depths. One might even believe it was the Houndoom that had spoken as it saunters out towards the woman, its forked tail flicking back and forth.

Before long, however, the actual man behind the voice emerges as well: none other than ADMIN FOX. Donning his usual black cloak and porcelain white mask, he stops just a meter ahead of the woman as his Houndoom encircles her with a smirk. A sniff here... a sniff there... a hungry glance at a living shadow that lurks nearby. Demons ate more than just man-flesh, after all.

"What is your purpose out here, tonight?"

---

calla mccoy

[attr="class","calla"]

[attr="class","calla b"]

[attr="class","calla i"]did no one ever tell him foxes and hounds seldom get along? well, except for that disney movie... anyway, moving on!

"is that so bad?" she offers casually. there's an unmoving air to her, a stillness that almost feels unnatural. she blinks, once, and continues her stare. in the shadows of a forest, in the creeping darkness, it's merely the eyes of a wolf that remain.

the ghost at her side snickers, even as his hound begins a dance. she knows this movement, enjoys it even, but there's a fault to the roles: the hunter never wants to be prey. she's more than equipped, sure, but how frowned upon is it to stab an admin's dog?

"call off your mutt. maybe i'll tell you," the flippant remark dances between them, settling nicely into shadows. and perhaps just to further her point, she flashes teeth. of course, it's followed by a glinting blade unsheathed from her thigh but that's neither here nor there.

Remiel Calcifet

THE SWISH OF A DEVIL'S FORKED TAIL. . .

The lack of movement on her part (or much expression, really) cannot hide the telltale gleam of something predatory in the woman's eyes. The admin knew her name and rank, of course. He'd even read the bare minimum she'd given the organization on her background, as well. But calla mccoy was untested; unverified. Admin Fox preferred to personally approve anyone working under the scope of his hierarchal umbrella.

Such a tense, lingering pause between her request and his response is enough to spawn deep anxiety and worry in anyone sane enough to care about their personal well-being. Even with a particularly nasty Houndoom encircling her, however, carrying a low and hungry growl in its throat, the woman appears entirely unflinching and unperturbed. And, eventually, the masked man utters the command. "Hier."

Blowing a puff of smoke out from its nostrils, the devil hound breaks its circular route and saunters back to its master's side. Once there, it sits on its hind legs and patiently awaits the next command, staring down the red-haired woman and sparing a few glances at that living shadow from before whenever it appears. The admin, in the meantime, notes the glinting blade on her thigh with an obscured smile.

He could go for a dance, he thinks. Then again, this errand was still being run under the pretense of business, not pleasure. At least for now.

So he looks up at her again.

"Well?"

---

calla mccoy

[attr="class","calla"]

[attr="class","calla b"]

[attr="class","calla i"]the hound backs away. called off, perhaps for the better. she was one minor inconvenience away from making puppy chow...

the ghost snickers, the only sound that resonates on her side of the field. her knife is ushered back into its holder without a word. there's no threat here. not for her, anyway.

"hunting," she murmurs, then. her eyes don't turn to him, however. instead, she focuses on the dog he keeps on a tight leash. funny enough, she likes this hound. it stares at her, unwavering, and she returns the favor. perhaps there's even a hint of something other than violence in her eye. better yet, maybe it's just the lighting.

and when her eyes finally do return to the masked fox, the circles almost seem to move.

"i didn't ask for a babysitter."

Remiel Calcifet

THE SWISH OF A DEVIL'S FORKED TAIL. . .

The fox scoffs, stepping forward to close the gap between himself and the untamed grunt. His black cloak trails behind him with a dark flourish, carried by the forest breeze that sweeps through with a gust of leaves in its wake. Stopping just a foot ahead of the red-head, he slightly tilts his face sideways, as if examining the woman for tells for a moment before speaking. "You're in no position to ask for anything. Not yet, anyway."

His Houndoom patrols the perimeter as they talk, keeping his snout to the ground and the brisk night air. Regarding his canine for a moment, the fox poses a question: "Ever wonder why Houndoom lack any visible ears?"

---

calla mccoy

THE SWISH OF A DEVIL'S FORKED TAIL. . .

The flat smile on his face might actually match the one on his mask for once. For all her sharpness and attempts at intimidation, calla mccoy could do nothing to dissuade him of the fact that she was hungry. Exactly for what remained to be seen. Though the slight imprint of a blade against her thigh gave him a clue to at least one thing he had that she might want to revel in: namely, his blood.

The fox knew what dangerous game he'd been playing at when he'd drawn closer. Frankly, a part of him wished she would try it.

"Well, the creatures that preceded what we now know as Houndoom were once said to be vicious, untamable man-killers," He responds, his tone neither rushed nor nervous in the face of her impatience. Dark, obscured eyes continue to watch the swish of his canine's tail nearby. Though they shift to look at her as he continues. "While their prey evolved to better themselves with intelligence and survive, however, those hounds of old remained stagnant. And, as resources became scarce, they became pitiful, raw-boned scavengers..."

He calls his Houndoom over with a short whistle, and it heeds the command promptly. A gloved hand reaches down to scratch it below its chin. There's a low rumble in its throat as it enjoys the gesture, its eyes dropping to a half-lid while the cloaked man continues. "Eventually, the species it once considered 'prey' became the very catalyst for their own evolution. Though it certainly did not come without a cost..."

The scratching stops and, instead, that gloved hand holds the Houndoom's chin up, the fox exhibiting his canine's head (and lack of ears) as though it were a creation of his own. "The cost of survival: genetic fashioning to become a better tool for a superior species."

---

calla mccoy