 |
WARNING This thread contains: strong language, drug usage, strong violence, or strong sexual content. Reader discretion is advised. |
.tlabirds .ooc {font-style:italic; color:#000000;font-size:12px;font-family:Verdana, Georgia, sans-serif;}
.tlabirds .ooc p {padding:5px 20px 10px 22px; margin:0px; text-indent:25px;}
.tlabirds .wc {text-transform: uppercase; font-weight:bold; font-style:normal;}
.tlabirds b {font-weight:bold; color:#ccb586; letter-spacing:1px; }
.tlabirds p {text-indent:25px;padding:5px 20px 10px 22px;margin:0px;}
.tlabirds {width:400px;border:1px solid #090909;background-image:url(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v26/K ... lantli.png);background-position:top center;background-repeat:no-repeat;padding-top:158px;background-color:#a78f73;text-align:justify;margin:10px;font-family:georgia, serif;font-size:11px;line-height:12px;color:#090909;}
</style>
For Bastion Hallow. Set in Drifter's Bay, west of the Pictou River (north of where Salsola will/might be. Gonna be vague as far as pack identification until we know what is down with SL. Also, marking it Mature for gore reference in this post, and possible later posts.
The deer called out a horrifying sound as the veins in its neck were severed by golden hands, spraying the earth with slick crimson. Tlantli stained her hands a shining brass as she watched the final minutes of the animal's life. Cold red eyes calculated the time in her mind. Not long, seconds perhaps, and then it was over. Death had always been such a fickle concept; it came to some on the swift hooves of a pale horse, and haunted others for years before finally walking away with the prize of their eternal soul. Tlantli's fascination with death was not unusual, at least not to her, and why should it have been? A grunt preceded her movement, rear finding the ground as she gutted the svelte corpse. Viscera spilled out, steaming in the cold morning air, heating the world for some hidden animalcule that had its own strange lifetime. She knew what she was looking for. The liver was found easily, a makeshift bucket brought forward as she harvested it for her sable-furred cousin-sister. Eris was not, by blood, a Kimaris, yet Tlantli felt closer to the dark hybrid than she had to her siblings. Perhaps it was the woman's beliefs; Miqui and Imacai had no religion, not like Tlantli did, but Eris had been exposed to the same things as the golden female. The liver would be, in some ways, a gift. Blood was gathered to keep it hydrated.
Butchering the animal was difficult with the rough pocketknife brought with her in her satchel, but she proceeded regardless. Muscle was cut away with the dull and rusted blade, set aside on a sheet of dark fabric while she tackled new pieces. The hunt had never really been her forte, she took no joy from stalking weaker animals for her own violent purposes, but she didn't advocate peace to all of Momoztli's creatures. She was a fighter — that was simple truth in her life — but there was no glory in killing animals.
A sweep of her arm across her forehead left a stain of mottled orange as she stood, gathering her equipment in the crude satchel and wrapping the meat gathered in her makeshift sledge to be dragged behind her. She was, after all, still quite a small thing.