a tired throne - open; washed ashore/joining

“Yo, Dadorito, glad you’re here. Yeah, I’d help move him, but this mofo is massive. Might be faster—and cause the mofo less pain—if one of us sprints to Vaas and brings the medicus  to the beach. And some muscle to move him, maybe.” As he talked, Quasar assisted with the waterskin slipping out of the hybrid’s paws, big bulky blobs caked in sand and blood, abrasive and sticky. His two favorite things. The sparkledoggo’s nose crinkled. “Yeah. Like Medusa said, found him a hot minute before you. The dude was standing, looking better from a distance. No, don’t mean pretty like Medusa said.”

Quasar looked over his shoulder at Medusa, green tail rhythmically flicking and breaking his sightline. “Hope you’re joking. Doubt this mofo needs to add burns to his injuries list.” Nah, the primus had jested, but the kid needed a distraction from all this serious shit.

“Fuck. This would be one occasion I’d kill for wings or that fancy fart magic. Air elementals. Whatever.” He gave up on the water skin, left it between the stranger’s paws, and grimaced. He titled his head to the right, popped his neck, to the left, popped that side. “Aight, Dadorito, say the word and I’ll run off to the boardwalk. Let’s not squabble ‘bout it. I’m the species here most adapted at distance running, so I’ll bust my ass for the stranger.”

[sub][W]isker[/sub]