May 28, 2017, 10:01 AM
(This post was last modified: September 23, 2018, 07:24 PM by Coelacanth.)
Takes place on the very grey dawn of May 26, 2017.
Home.
Greedily, the skeletal little specter drank in the growing scent of brine, soaring high above the stink of unwashed flesh and infection and matted fur. An uncertain purl stirred in her tuneless throat as she slunk from the shadow of the plateau and seemed to stretch out, black button nose twitching furiously. Each paw was held in high-arched reserve for a few precious seconds before she placed it — the desire to run was strong here, and for a good fifteen minutes or so she couldn’t figure out why. Pelted by a torrential downpour of rain, tufted ears slicked back against her skull to form a tapered arrow whose point bisected her nape, she froze. The water that slid in rivulets down her spindly legs and beaded upon the eldritch quills of her oilslick pelage was a rusty brown in hue, and aside from the faint, rhythmic swell of her scalloped rib cage and the twitch of her nares, it was the only thing that moved. Her cerulean seablue eyes were fixed and staring.
Memory, when it came, flooded her senses.
Teeth, nipping at her heels —
The teeth were at her heels again, burying into her flesh again, lifting her, shaking her, and she dropped low as though the Silencer’s hellfire was curling in fresh coils to burn her all over again before breaking abruptly eastward, tail clamped against her emaciated abdomen. Home was near, and she would survive.
Greedily, the skeletal little specter drank in the growing scent of brine, soaring high above the stink of unwashed flesh and infection and matted fur. An uncertain purl stirred in her tuneless throat as she slunk from the shadow of the plateau and seemed to stretch out, black button nose twitching furiously. Each paw was held in high-arched reserve for a few precious seconds before she placed it — the desire to run was strong here, and for a good fifteen minutes or so she couldn’t figure out why. Pelted by a torrential downpour of rain, tufted ears slicked back against her skull to form a tapered arrow whose point bisected her nape, she froze. The water that slid in rivulets down her spindly legs and beaded upon the eldritch quills of her oilslick pelage was a rusty brown in hue, and aside from the faint, rhythmic swell of her scalloped rib cage and the twitch of her nares, it was the only thing that moved. Her cerulean seablue eyes were fixed and staring.
Memory, when it came, flooded her senses.
“You cannot go to Olive now.”
“We do not want this pathetic excuse of a creature.”
“We do not want this pathetic excuse of a creature.”
Teeth, nipping at her heels —
— teeth, scoring the hide of the mist-shrouded druid’s love —
— teeth, burying into tender flesh.
“Tell me your name, and I will spare you.”
The teeth were at her heels again, burying into her flesh again, lifting her, shaking her, and she dropped low as though the Silencer’s hellfire was curling in fresh coils to burn her all over again before breaking abruptly eastward, tail clamped against her emaciated abdomen. Home was near, and she would survive.
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