12-23-2010, 07:42 PM
OOC: Word count 354. HAI! XD
IC:
Tiny lacerations had slit open on her nose. Little streams of crimson ran down like thin, salty snot. Saraqael licked them away dexterously, tongue passing over her fore-face like a pink windshield wiper. The pain was forgivable because it had been worth it to feel and smell it all but she had learned that wolf skulls were not nice things. They had points and edges that were better familiarized carefully with the eyes, less with sensitive organs. Just as she considered herself fulfilled, surprisingly so for the voraciousness with which she had begun, a voice pounded the silence, deep and demanding like thunder.
Set in a dark mask, both of her orbs rounded with surprise. The Optime's ears fell back and her body, already ridiculously small, caved in on itself. She dropped the skull. The smoky pieces collided with the closely white ground in a jangling clatter, the lower jaw falling off, sending a few teeth skidding. Her little chest rapidly expanded and contracted with frantic breaths. Anxiety-induced adrenaline was flooding her nervous system relentlessly – it demanded flight. But she had been asked a question. This was what she had come here for – to find those whose smell was like her own, at least in part. Saraqael had not expected anything as terrifying as this. It took effort to force the hyperventilation to stop, her lungs easing into a normal breathing pattern in spite of fear.
The heavily scarred, one-eyed woman loomed over the pallid youth. She dared not rise from the place where she knelt. Instead Saraqael regained herself, no small feat for the petrified coyote, and dipped her head in respectful acknowledgement. Finally, her bi-colored muzzle parted in speech, meek and low. “I have never seen a wolf skull before. I like new things.” Lame, but honest. It was an appropriate start. A better beginning was with her name: “I am Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I am seeking a home.” Her tiny hands found purchase on her satchel straps which crossed and tied at her belly and over her almost non-existent breasts. She clenched them, the rough fabric comforting her with its well-known texture.
IC:
Tiny lacerations had slit open on her nose. Little streams of crimson ran down like thin, salty snot. Saraqael licked them away dexterously, tongue passing over her fore-face like a pink windshield wiper. The pain was forgivable because it had been worth it to feel and smell it all but she had learned that wolf skulls were not nice things. They had points and edges that were better familiarized carefully with the eyes, less with sensitive organs. Just as she considered herself fulfilled, surprisingly so for the voraciousness with which she had begun, a voice pounded the silence, deep and demanding like thunder.
Set in a dark mask, both of her orbs rounded with surprise. The Optime's ears fell back and her body, already ridiculously small, caved in on itself. She dropped the skull. The smoky pieces collided with the closely white ground in a jangling clatter, the lower jaw falling off, sending a few teeth skidding. Her little chest rapidly expanded and contracted with frantic breaths. Anxiety-induced adrenaline was flooding her nervous system relentlessly – it demanded flight. But she had been asked a question. This was what she had come here for – to find those whose smell was like her own, at least in part. Saraqael had not expected anything as terrifying as this. It took effort to force the hyperventilation to stop, her lungs easing into a normal breathing pattern in spite of fear.
The heavily scarred, one-eyed woman loomed over the pallid youth. She dared not rise from the place where she knelt. Instead Saraqael regained herself, no small feat for the petrified coyote, and dipped her head in respectful acknowledgement. Finally, her bi-colored muzzle parted in speech, meek and low. “I have never seen a wolf skull before. I like new things.” Lame, but honest. It was an appropriate start. A better beginning was with her name: “I am Saraqael Destroying Angel Kanga. I am seeking a home.” Her tiny hands found purchase on her satchel straps which crossed and tied at her belly and over her almost non-existent breasts. She clenched them, the rough fabric comforting her with its well-known texture.