02-06-2023, 03:24 AM
Olalla G. Semenov
Male— Ardent— The Pitt— Bio.— Plot
It would do him some good to level and interact with his Pittians, whatever rank they may attain. Olalla had already been out and on his way toward the white serval and Jormungand before his eyes caught the moving bodies of Pixie and Kold; pace slowing now as he stopped hesitantly. Was it truly worth it at this point to go out of his house? He was sick after all, and had poured damn near his heart and soul out to Kold a week or two before; admitting murder to each other.
Olalla sighed, breath hot against the usual humid air as he pushed forward, sniffling lightly as he went; making note to suck it up and at least talk to the new medic that popped up on the borders and possibly renovate the medic's end of the plaza. If needed. He grumbled to himself, partially announcing his arrival - as one usually does. The beast was not an enormous fan of this white Serval, having only met them a handful of times before. They were quiet - he could respect that. But they were observant too, and if there was one thing that Olalla had learned in his younger years of people watching, it was that silence and observation were never a good mix. Especially here in The Pitt.
What the Serval was capable of, Olalla did not know, nor did he wish to find out. But there was one simple truth among the vast river of words against the red sandy paper, bound in a leather of lies. There was a quarrel between the groups, a quarrel that The Pitt had done well to stay neutral to. But, Olalla knew they couldn't remain neutral for much longer; it would go against everything they believed in, everything they were. The whole reason for living. They needed allies, but more importantly they needed enemies. Perhaps this thing could help with that. With no words to speak, no lies or truths would be said. Olalla would have to take note of that.
The beast cleared his throat, brows raising as the infamous jaguar spewed idiocy he oh so enjoyed listening to. "Jormungand, this... creature has been here for quite some time. " Olalla mused with quick chime of laughter, hoarse and rusty like a can of old nails that had been long forgotten in a wet shed. "But Pixie is correct, we can't just keep referring to... them - as whatever we're referring them to. They need a name." Golden eyes peered at the white serval, squinting slightly as white against the bright sands burned his irises. Damned these light coats. "Crunchy," Olalla said simply. "How do we feel about Crunchy?"
Olalla sighed, breath hot against the usual humid air as he pushed forward, sniffling lightly as he went; making note to suck it up and at least talk to the new medic that popped up on the borders and possibly renovate the medic's end of the plaza. If needed. He grumbled to himself, partially announcing his arrival - as one usually does. The beast was not an enormous fan of this white Serval, having only met them a handful of times before. They were quiet - he could respect that. But they were observant too, and if there was one thing that Olalla had learned in his younger years of people watching, it was that silence and observation were never a good mix. Especially here in The Pitt.
What the Serval was capable of, Olalla did not know, nor did he wish to find out. But there was one simple truth among the vast river of words against the red sandy paper, bound in a leather of lies. There was a quarrel between the groups, a quarrel that The Pitt had done well to stay neutral to. But, Olalla knew they couldn't remain neutral for much longer; it would go against everything they believed in, everything they were. The whole reason for living. They needed allies, but more importantly they needed enemies. Perhaps this thing could help with that. With no words to speak, no lies or truths would be said. Olalla would have to take note of that.
The beast cleared his throat, brows raising as the infamous jaguar spewed idiocy he oh so enjoyed listening to. "Jormungand, this... creature has been here for quite some time. " Olalla mused with quick chime of laughter, hoarse and rusty like a can of old nails that had been long forgotten in a wet shed. "But Pixie is correct, we can't just keep referring to... them - as whatever we're referring them to. They need a name." Golden eyes peered at the white serval, squinting slightly as white against the bright sands burned his irises. Damned these light coats. "Crunchy," Olalla said simply. "How do we feel about Crunchy?"
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I demand only this...that you join with me in building a new Rome, a Rome that offers justice, peace and land to all its citizens, not just the privileged few. Support me in this task, and old divisions will be forgotten. Oppose me, and Rome will not forgive you a second time!
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