The Fox and the HoundshytanSeptember 14 2010, 04:43:00 UTC
For months now, Norrington had been the skittish fox, darting away at the first sight of hunting dog on his tail. Mercer hunted across the ocean, finally picking up the fox's scent in a bar in Tortuga of all places. It was not long after that he had returned to his master to receive the praise the hunter always gives to his loyal hound.
Ensnared in the hunter's roots, Norrington's plight was greatly enjoyed by the smug hound that had lead him to his capture, until things started to change. Norrington became less of a fox and more of a dog, a faithful retriever that lay with his head in the master's lap and had attention lavished upon him. He was even allowed to sleep in the master's bed, curled up under the fine silky sheets, guarding over his master more closely than the old hound was ever allowed to.
The faithful, long-serving hound did not like second place. Dagger in hand, he struck out at the master's favourite pet, ambushing him one cold winter's eve. But the master was always one step ahead, and that was why Beckett was the master and Mercer was the hound. The blood of a dog spilt over the frosty snow, and the hound realised his fatal mistake.
Only one dog returned home with the master that night, a greatful retriever that warmed the master's bed and licked at the wounds of the evening, gentle green eyes reassuring the master that he had made the right decision. Brown as they were, the hound's eyes had been far greener.
Ensnared in the hunter's roots, Norrington's plight was greatly enjoyed by the smug hound that had lead him to his capture, until things started to change. Norrington became less of a fox and more of a dog, a faithful retriever that lay with his head in the master's lap and had attention lavished upon him. He was even allowed to sleep in the master's bed, curled up under the fine silky sheets, guarding over his master more closely than the old hound was ever allowed to.
The faithful, long-serving hound did not like second place. Dagger in hand, he struck out at the master's favourite pet, ambushing him one cold winter's eve. But the master was always one step ahead, and that was why Beckett was the master and Mercer was the hound. The blood of a dog spilt over the frosty snow, and the hound realised his fatal mistake.
Only one dog returned home with the master that night, a greatful retriever that warmed the master's bed and licked at the wounds of the evening, gentle green eyes reassuring the master that he had made the right decision. Brown as they were, the hound's eyes had been far greener.
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