In the midst of all the chaos that is the Wayward Children Pound, there sat a small group of select Waywards, linked only by one thing: a strange fellow by the alias of Azzy the Great. Their supposed "owner".

Cradling a small child in his arms who resembled a French flag in coloration, the most outrageous of them all was clad completely in black, though he wasn't a dreary personality. A mane of shock-red hair dressed his white-furred head, and his plain beauty seemed to be striking, at the very least. No matter how one tried to ignore it, he became prettier every time you looked back--as though you were seeing something different, each instance.

However, saddled down with a squirming child, he seemed... a little ruffled. Luckily, he did have a friend with him--besides the young fluffball in his arms, there was one other, there: an older male; a blond canine with gentle auburn eyes and a tendency to do what was nice, above what was probably right. He seemed to be completely willing to take the child in his arms, playing some kind of infantile game with him while his father took a short break.

Escaping for a moment or two, he got to his feet and lited around a corner, sighing as he let the wall support him.