[ choso encapsulates the vibe of Wet Dog so well; all the mass and fluff of his usual silhouette hangs off his considerable frame now, hair come undone at some point since they last saw each other (this morning, only hours ago if that) to splay down his back, clothing stuck to skin. the only signs of the earlier blood surge lingers still in the beds under his nails, in the crease of his nose, the spaces between his teeth; whatever has happened, it has been washed away in some kind of cleansing flood.
choso splats forth, barefoot and awkward in the way of someone who has never had to consider the art of wringing out before now. ]
no subject
choso splats forth, barefoot and awkward in the way of someone who has never had to consider the art of wringing out before now. ]
Stop wandering, you were just in surgery!