Drought or Flood. Flood or Drought.
Why the ******** wasn't there ever a middle ground in this hell hole?
Bacarudo was in a particularly poor mood today as his stout, sturdy frame carried him across Africa from one end to the other. The afternoon was darker than usual thanks to the ominous black clouds that blanketed the sky. Fat drops of cool rain beating down upon the landscape in some futile effort to mold the land to the whim of some God or other. Every step sloshed as the ground began to well up around the brutish lion. Swelling until it could hold no more and the overflow began to stretch upon the flats with no valleys for the storm water to collect in.
Torrential downpour caused even Baca's dense fur to collapse compactly against the hard muscle of his body. Streams cascading off the peaks of fur that formed on his undersides where the mud continued to thicken, forming a suffocating coat of armor upon his thick limbs. The antisocial rogue wasn't accustomed to being drenched and found himself gritting his teeth against the panic that threatened to overwhelm him.
Stupid really to think that a little harsh weather would have a badass like Bacarudo fighting to keep his head above water--figuratively speaking of course.
Well.. at least now.
Ha ha ha! Wow.. you look like a rat when you're all wet! Go back under again! I wanna see you make more bubbles! He could remember his mother giggling as her firm grasp shoved him beneath the surface of the river as if her cub were little more than a ragdoll completely at his mother's mercy. It was a shame she didn't have any.
Ugh. Between this weather and those rusted old memories Bacarudo's mood was blacker than the sky overhead. Shaking overgrown bangs from his eyes.
Somehow--without his noticing--an inviting forest had sprung on the horizon though even through the rain flaring nostrils were able to make out the scent of pride lands, heavy at the border as they often were. Oh well, pride or not, they would have to tolerate the nomad at least until this hellish storm had passed.
Truthfully the earthy brown figure, made all the darker by filth and dampness, couldn't have gotten out of the weather soon enough. Too bad he couldn't have escaped his memories of his psychotic mother as easily.
That's the trouble with memories..
