[ AW ] Myths and Legends

Digby was feeling restless today, just a chump in the slumps. His mind is back to the battle that he didn't have the chance to partake in, the Maiden's Braid. It killed him. The soldier had been deathly ill, bedridden in his den, and left to hear the updates from other soldiers who cared enough to pay the Informant a visit.

"Let's give it up for ol' Digby Dancey." The Jacobite would sarcastically murmur to himself in his recovery, "The man, the myth, the legend. Fighting his own little battle whilst the others fight a battle that actually matters!"

It was a devastating loss for the Jacobian Army, some soldiers never returned, taken as prisoners to the Royalists and left to sit in the dungeons. Only the Gods knew how they were being treated, and it sickened Digby to never have had the chance to even try to rescue them.

But today, at least he's healthy. So healthy that he manages to draw himself to the quaint bar that he frequented so often. Drinking was one of the many ways Digby attempted to let off some steam. He orders his favorite drink before placing a hefty coin on the sticky counter. Digby takes in a long drink, feeling the warm liquid trickle down his throat with ease, expanding the muscle and his confidence. He knows when to set his paws down and deny another round, because Digby isn't an intolerable drunkard.

Liquid courage flourishes and energizes the Lowlander, who saunters out of the bar with a gallant grin. He's no longer thinking about his comrades who sit and rot in the Imperial dungeons. His attention shifts solely to himself, and he glances at his reflection in clear puddles that line the quiet streets tonight.

Digby's shout is full of boastful pride, blissfully ignoring the bypassers who can hear him, "Yeahhhh, alright! Give it up for the one and only Digby Dancey!"

his grin was always halfway a smile—

Baptista has no good reason to be in Edinburgh; the only thing that brings him here is restless paws and the desperation of a man whose freedom does not have much longer to live. He’s had enough drinks to put aside his reasoning for such wandering—and to temporarily forget about the exact nature of the chains that will shackle him soon enough. Tonight, he is just another stranger on the streets, looking for his next fix (as if the alcohol isn’t enough).

A proclamation down the street catches his attention as he wanders, drawing him away from the alley he’d been peering down and towards the source of the sound. The dusty wolf with rust highlights seems to be talking to the ground—no, his reflection, he realizes after a moment of squinting—and Baptista simply cannot help his desire to insert himself. He prowls idly closer until he’s lingering maybe ten feet behind the stranger, his shoulder leaning up against the brick wall of some shop that’s long-since closed for the night.

"Is that the Digby Dancey?" he drawls smoothly, the edges of his lips kicking up into a small grin. "How much for a show?" Baptista seems entirely genuine, despite the fact that he hasn’t the first clue who this wolf actually is; he’d seen an opportunity, and as he is wont to do, the Scowcroft had grasped it with both paws. He hopes that Digby Dancey doesn’t disappoint.

—and halfway a threat

code // art

@Digby

There's that voice he's looking for-- a fan!. Wait, a fan of what? It's his fault, isn't it? Digby whips around in the direction from which the tone clamors from, glancing right at a pale pelted man propped between the wall of a shop.

Digby exhales a small scoff, one that comes from a place of joy and flattery. His ear tips grow hot, giving a sheepish little shrug of his shoulders. It felt like the trees stretched their branches to cast the moonlight perfectly on Digby, who stands in the spotlight but ultimately has no idea what his performance would consist of. He's sweating, stammering and shaky. He's hyped himself up for this moment, only to offer nothing.

"Shows are free, my good friend!" Digby says after a good minute of awkward staring, leaping to stand taller, "Tell me, sir, uh, what do you want to even want to see? I can run real fast, jump over ten fallen logs, er.."

Brown eyes squint, suddenly having a great idea fall into place, "You want to see a magic trick? I can disappear super fast!"

Before the attendee can even respond, Digby turns on his small paw pads, attempting to dart behind a smaller bundle of rubbage. This moment could have been his grand getaway, except the wolf is drunk and horribly uncoordinated. Digby wasn't getting very far, and it was painfully obvious to every onlooker of this odd spectacle unfolding before them.
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@Baptista