Set
He soars high above their heads, a dark speck in the clear, blue sky of spring. His outstretched wings carry him in a slow, looping circle, lost amongst the half dozen or so other vultures who weave their lazy paths with his own. An easy way to keep track of the shadow Queen’s kingdom, from these heights it is easy enough to tap into each consciousness. Sometimes the distance muffles the sound. Twisting his bald head, he banks south sharply, the sharp curve of his beak leading him around and down the inside edge of his thermal. A palomino with the lion in her belly, the death-stench youngling; a lithe snake with a bad attitude and the awkwardly-horned Pangean heir. He does not stay in their heads – too draining, too confusing – only brushes along their minds and interactions enough to touch the surface, raise those little, telling hairs. No qualms, no boundaries – not anymore.
How the black-hearted children flock to the desolate sandstone, the parched throne of the shadowmare. War, destruction, darkness, it calls to their lost souls (or hollow, empty caverns) like a piper’s flute. The dirty red rock and its sparse vegetation loom closer and he yawns, his eyes closing. They open on a wild grin and his vulture’s body melts.
The sow bug is small, for a bug, but its little potato-body does the trick. He plummets the final thousands of yards with wild hooping and hollering, unheard by even those immediately below because, well, he’s a tiny bug. A bug who will always thrill in the gut-clenching feeling of free-fall. His magic burns like fire in his veins when he strikes the earth, sending up a tiny puff of rust-colored dirt. Antennae twitching, he sets his little legs to motion, the rain-soaked soil firm under him as he scuttles uphill. On his way down, he had felt a curious consciousness, half-creature but not quite like the others. Different. He tops the rise cheetah-sprint fast, careful to keep his zoomie-bug body out of sight as he makes his way down the nearest slope in expedition.
Slowing when he is closer, he creeps around the edge of a small boulder that rests just below Dreamscar, peeking uphill at him. Woodlouse-Set rears back in horror at the sight of the hippogriff-horse picking his nose, legs and antenna waving wildly. Of all the macabre habits. Thoroughly disgusted, he turns away from the sight, ignoring the crack in the heavens signaling the end of the break in the rains. The wolf-mare downhill and the churlish mind-reader just out of sight garner his attention instead. Until Dreamscar performs his little trick, stalking past him in a stinking wake of love me. Even in the safety of his gray-armored body, Woodlouse-Set can feel the breath crushed from his lungs, the pierced matter. It draws no sympathy from him but his miniature body bristles at the eviscerated waste that follows, carelessly flipped end over end. It comes to rest with a soft thud not far from Woodlouse-Set.
He won’t be able to duplicate it many times, not from the confines of his rather small body, but he has enough to do the trick. The small brown, still-warm body twitches and rolls over, getting to its feet. Its questing nose seeks out the nearest patch of brown grass, dragging torn entrails and fresh blood. Set wriggles, trying to see all of their reactions, his bunny-tailed animations casually browsing the dusty earth, seemingly unfazed by recent events and company.
How the black-hearted children flock to the desolate sandstone, the parched throne of the shadowmare. War, destruction, darkness, it calls to their lost souls (or hollow, empty caverns) like a piper’s flute. The dirty red rock and its sparse vegetation loom closer and he yawns, his eyes closing. They open on a wild grin and his vulture’s body melts.
The sow bug is small, for a bug, but its little potato-body does the trick. He plummets the final thousands of yards with wild hooping and hollering, unheard by even those immediately below because, well, he’s a tiny bug. A bug who will always thrill in the gut-clenching feeling of free-fall. His magic burns like fire in his veins when he strikes the earth, sending up a tiny puff of rust-colored dirt. Antennae twitching, he sets his little legs to motion, the rain-soaked soil firm under him as he scuttles uphill. On his way down, he had felt a curious consciousness, half-creature but not quite like the others. Different. He tops the rise cheetah-sprint fast, careful to keep his zoomie-bug body out of sight as he makes his way down the nearest slope in expedition.
Slowing when he is closer, he creeps around the edge of a small boulder that rests just below Dreamscar, peeking uphill at him. Woodlouse-Set rears back in horror at the sight of the hippogriff-horse picking his nose, legs and antenna waving wildly. Of all the macabre habits. Thoroughly disgusted, he turns away from the sight, ignoring the crack in the heavens signaling the end of the break in the rains. The wolf-mare downhill and the churlish mind-reader just out of sight garner his attention instead. Until Dreamscar performs his little trick, stalking past him in a stinking wake of love me. Even in the safety of his gray-armored body, Woodlouse-Set can feel the breath crushed from his lungs, the pierced matter. It draws no sympathy from him but his miniature body bristles at the eviscerated waste that follows, carelessly flipped end over end. It comes to rest with a soft thud not far from Woodlouse-Set.
He won’t be able to duplicate it many times, not from the confines of his rather small body, but he has enough to do the trick. The small brown, still-warm body twitches and rolls over, getting to its feet. Its questing nose seeks out the nearest patch of brown grass, dragging torn entrails and fresh blood. Set wriggles, trying to see all of their reactions, his bunny-tailed animations casually browsing the dusty earth, seemingly unfazed by recent events and company.
ooc - sorry, not sorry. you guys shouldn't have such fascinating characters. also, MG!!!! -squee-