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02-08-2015, 11:11 AM
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Oh, you're just a target in the sky
With all this fever in my mind
I could aim for your kerosene eyes
He glides across sand and dunes, his muscles rippling and perfect, constricting, undulating in the darkness; synchronized and splendid--silent. He breathes a rattler’s breath, and before him scents throb hotly in his vision, for sight and smell and taste have been destroyed, pulverized, only to be rebuilt again into something far more efficient, and exciting. The world is a changed thing to him now, a new sort of playground that is open to his gambol—but no, he is on a mission tonight. Tonight, he looks for scents that he feels against the tongue that slithers from his maw, tentative and calculating, for even in this broken, altered, perfect body of his—his mind remains intact, his memories persistent, his fury a serpent’s wrath now; just as volatile, three times as venomous.
It is faint when he catches it, but he latches on swiftly, pulled by the trail of a whore’s feathers. He feels the warmth pulsing in the sand, the aftermath of sunlight; he also feels the drain of a chilled desert’s night upon his back and how it claws at the energy radiating in his muscles. He learns, once and for all, that cold is his enemy. His skepticism of his unicorn brethren and their peculiar preference for northern climes has always, always been right. He must not linger here, in the desert cold.
Fortunately, the hunt does not last long.
There she is, the harlot of ruin—nestled stupidly amongst the brambles of a shriveled tree, puffed and fluffed and tender, ready for night. He does not see the ugliness of a soft face, the curious fascination of soft breasts; he sees her heat, pulsing and simple, fragrant with bones and blood and meat. Primal urges grip him, both serpentine and equine: a passion for her destruction, a hunger for her flesh, a need for revenge against her transgressions.
He did not have a dragon, before.
He does not have wings, now.
It does not matter--for now, he will have her beating, bloody heart in his mouth.
How dare she.
Powerful muscles bunch and bulge, and he laughs in his greatness, and it escapes from him as a hiss. Perhaps that is her only warning.
He strikes.
"This is how I talk"
It is faint when he catches it, but he latches on swiftly, pulled by the trail of a whore’s feathers. He feels the warmth pulsing in the sand, the aftermath of sunlight; he also feels the drain of a chilled desert’s night upon his back and how it claws at the energy radiating in his muscles. He learns, once and for all, that cold is his enemy. His skepticism of his unicorn brethren and their peculiar preference for northern climes has always, always been right. He must not linger here, in the desert cold.
Fortunately, the hunt does not last long.
There she is, the harlot of ruin—nestled stupidly amongst the brambles of a shriveled tree, puffed and fluffed and tender, ready for night. He does not see the ugliness of a soft face, the curious fascination of soft breasts; he sees her heat, pulsing and simple, fragrant with bones and blood and meat. Primal urges grip him, both serpentine and equine: a passion for her destruction, a hunger for her flesh, a need for revenge against her transgressions.
He did not have a dragon, before.
He does not have wings, now.
It does not matter--for now, he will have her beating, bloody heart in his mouth.
How dare she.
Powerful muscles bunch and bulge, and he laughs in his greatness, and it escapes from him as a hiss. Perhaps that is her only warning.
He strikes.
"This is how I talk"
Oh, you're just a target in the sky
--Please tag REGINALD in every reply!
--All force is allowed to be used against this character!
