.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
09-20-2012, 02:21 PM
R I C C I A R D O
The Sandman. The fading sun that was now lowering back into the heavens displayed the typical features of an afternoon. But on this particular Orangemoon day, something was different. Ricciardo felt something wasn't quite right, and even with the breeze sending chills down his sorrel back and through his thin silks, he could sense it. The scent of many rose close to him, the presence of some familiars, but mainly strangers. Animosity was high in the air. Poised, he began to pick his young daggers off the hardening terra firma, and paying little attention to the scenery that was his homeland, he quickened the pace to where he saw many, many creatures. The feeling of hatred struck the atmosphere like the lightning of a storm, and it sent another type of chill through his sturdy mass. The Sandman stepped forward and faced the oncomers, whose scent he recognised as being foreign to him. They were trespassers, and he was going to serve his King and his herd. This was war. Ricciardo was part of it. With a mighty bellow, the anger flared up within his flame-kissed silhouette and he hissed, "Dare cross our borders? So many numbers, yet so few skill..." All other emotions aside, Ricciardo was now embracing the stance of a warrior. Bring it on... |
