Sequoia Coast but life is long my love is gone away

bartok was naught but a dot in the sky as he sailed high above the sound, integrated imperceptibly in the firmament that spanned endless and blue before them. he had not followed caiaphas this time, but scoped her below his trajectory in what he would only dignify as a rash of searags, ones that bartok would be most delighted to wash the seaboard with.

he dove, tucking his wings to his sides and blasting through the turmoil of confused wingflaps, his pecker (u pervert) grabbing all manner of greasy, disgusting feather as he wrought utter grief upon them. second most favorite thing.