.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
<style>.connormain { width: 350px; font-family: 'Open Sans Condensed', sans-serif; font-size: 28px; color: #F6F6F6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 1px; line-height: 80%; padding: 5px; 0px 0px 0px; } .connorsubh { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 8px; color: #D0D0D0; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 0px; } .connorposta { width: 320px; font-family: cambria; font-size: 12px; color: #020202; text-align: justify; line-height: 110%; padding: 20px; background-color: #f6f6f6; } .connortagz { width: 350px; font-family: 'Roboto', sans-serif; font-size: 7px; color: #f6f6f6; text-align: center; text-transform: uppercase; letter-spacing: 2px; padding: 8px; line-height: 110%; border-top: 1px solid #fff; border-bottom: 1px solid #fff; } .connorbold b { color: #8E0000; } </style>
Oh, you're just a target in the sky
With all this fever in my mind
I could aim for your kerosene eyes
Her blood is foul; it is only victory that makes it sweet upon his tongue. He begins to crave that sweetness, and he is enraged that she pulls herself from him, screeching in his ears much loudly that she would have screeched into the flesh of a horse.
Wings beat; feathers dance around them. He does not notice how wood splinters beneath him as he lunges once more for the harpy flesh. Something rolls from the nest, becoming lost in sand; he does not notice. He is fixated by a bloody breast and a wing that he had had only a moment to savor, by claws that scour the air before him, catching his throat and maw. An angered hiss erupts from snake-breath, and he reaches for that breast and shoulder again now; fangs dance across her skin and feathers, pricking her hide, locking in against sweet bone and marrow.
The cold grips his scales; he feels his muscles tighten, and though the rage of domination keeps his blood pumping, he knows he runs out of time. And so he yanks his head to the right, throwing the useless, squirming body of the avian bitch; he turns away from the tree in pursuit of her form, how she flops about staining the cold sand with the blood that flows freely from her. She may try to fight him now, even though the battle is won—she is grounded—and he is hungry.
He devours.
---
It is just as painful as it was before as his body breaks itself and remakes itself in the chill of the desert night. Now there is no exuberant rage to temper the heat of pain—and so his shouts of agony are true and wrenching, and he cannot move for some seconds when he comes back to himself, his body sweating ice and his eyes no longer seeing the pulsing of heat around him.
He rolls to his feet—for he has hooves now. He shakes his mane from his eyes—for his mane has returned. He rises to his feet, aware of a certain roughness to his movements—something far removed from the graceful, elegant power of scales upon sand. He will have to fix this.
He sees the remains of the harpy—nothing but blood-spatters on the ground. He feels his stomach full of meat, warm and uncomfortable, glowing with is victory. He snorts, softly, leaving the mess behind him—approaching the ruined tree that lies broken in the sand.
He sees one of her eggs.
He takes it.
He does not know what compels him to snatch this young one--perhaps further vengeance drives his movements. The egg is collected; the harpy is dead; his revenge is satisfied; and finally he quits the cold night.
NPC--No need to reply again! Thank you for your help!
"This is how I talk"
Wings beat; feathers dance around them. He does not notice how wood splinters beneath him as he lunges once more for the harpy flesh. Something rolls from the nest, becoming lost in sand; he does not notice. He is fixated by a bloody breast and a wing that he had had only a moment to savor, by claws that scour the air before him, catching his throat and maw. An angered hiss erupts from snake-breath, and he reaches for that breast and shoulder again now; fangs dance across her skin and feathers, pricking her hide, locking in against sweet bone and marrow.
The cold grips his scales; he feels his muscles tighten, and though the rage of domination keeps his blood pumping, he knows he runs out of time. And so he yanks his head to the right, throwing the useless, squirming body of the avian bitch; he turns away from the tree in pursuit of her form, how she flops about staining the cold sand with the blood that flows freely from her. She may try to fight him now, even though the battle is won—she is grounded—and he is hungry.
He devours.
---
It is just as painful as it was before as his body breaks itself and remakes itself in the chill of the desert night. Now there is no exuberant rage to temper the heat of pain—and so his shouts of agony are true and wrenching, and he cannot move for some seconds when he comes back to himself, his body sweating ice and his eyes no longer seeing the pulsing of heat around him.
He rolls to his feet—for he has hooves now. He shakes his mane from his eyes—for his mane has returned. He rises to his feet, aware of a certain roughness to his movements—something far removed from the graceful, elegant power of scales upon sand. He will have to fix this.
He sees the remains of the harpy—nothing but blood-spatters on the ground. He feels his stomach full of meat, warm and uncomfortable, glowing with is victory. He snorts, softly, leaving the mess behind him—approaching the ruined tree that lies broken in the sand.
He sees one of her eggs.
He takes it.
He does not know what compels him to snatch this young one--perhaps further vengeance drives his movements. The egg is collected; the harpy is dead; his revenge is satisfied; and finally he quits the cold night.
NPC--No need to reply again! Thank you for your help!
"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!
