Post by steampunkepsilon on Aug 6, 2011 23:06:50 GMT -5
[This is humorous to me because i just got home. I've been in oregon at a youth conference since monday! xDDDD]
The boar was close, yes, indeed. He could smell the faintest traces of animal saliva left behind on grazed-over grass stubble, inhaling and snaking his way through the thickened underbrush as quietly as possible. His scales no longer held the deep blue-black and white-striped pattern they normally would, but instead of bland, mottled gray-green mulch of color. Camoflouge was always useful somehow, whether you expected it to be or not.
Slipping carefully over a set of trees felled in some windstorm perhaps a month ago, he grimaced, feeling the tender skin of his torn wing tug. It wasn't healing particularly fast, but it would heal eventually and he wouldn't try to rush it. For now ground beasts were plenty food for him... and as of now, he smelled his prey growing very close. Nose weaving through bushes and tree trunks as his body followed, he finally came upon what he sought -- acluster of wild boar, fat and ready for picking. They were grazing, facing away in a peaceful patch of dappled sunlight-streaked grass...
So very calm and quiet, until of course Setcher launched himself from the bush and snapped out his wings to capture a good three or four of the screaming pigs and blast them all with a spark of electricity, like an arrow through the spine. They dropped one by one, save for the last who in its death throes managed to kick him in the wing. It wasn't a pleasant feeling and he let out a strangled wail, then suffocated it with a snarl and ended the last boar. Two males, a female, a youngling, and a freshly sore and bleeding wing. He winced again, shifting the limb, and contained another pained growl before he quickly folding his wings both shut and tended to his meal. He nearly swallowed the smaller one whole, picking up the other three and carrying on in his mouth, the other two slung over his back. he couldn't fly back to his cavern, of course. It would do him no good to try. He started off again, keeping his wings in close in order to avoid the same incident taking place twice. Braving open land, he slipped out of the dangerous tight space of the tree and crept along the shadowed treeline of the far cliff shoreline, able to see some dragons and their riders out and about, as well as the villagers goign abotu daily business. he didn't wander too far in the open for fear of being sighted or quarreled with over a meal, but kept an eye in that direciton, watching idly.
The boar was close, yes, indeed. He could smell the faintest traces of animal saliva left behind on grazed-over grass stubble, inhaling and snaking his way through the thickened underbrush as quietly as possible. His scales no longer held the deep blue-black and white-striped pattern they normally would, but instead of bland, mottled gray-green mulch of color. Camoflouge was always useful somehow, whether you expected it to be or not.
Slipping carefully over a set of trees felled in some windstorm perhaps a month ago, he grimaced, feeling the tender skin of his torn wing tug. It wasn't healing particularly fast, but it would heal eventually and he wouldn't try to rush it. For now ground beasts were plenty food for him... and as of now, he smelled his prey growing very close. Nose weaving through bushes and tree trunks as his body followed, he finally came upon what he sought -- acluster of wild boar, fat and ready for picking. They were grazing, facing away in a peaceful patch of dappled sunlight-streaked grass...
So very calm and quiet, until of course Setcher launched himself from the bush and snapped out his wings to capture a good three or four of the screaming pigs and blast them all with a spark of electricity, like an arrow through the spine. They dropped one by one, save for the last who in its death throes managed to kick him in the wing. It wasn't a pleasant feeling and he let out a strangled wail, then suffocated it with a snarl and ended the last boar. Two males, a female, a youngling, and a freshly sore and bleeding wing. He winced again, shifting the limb, and contained another pained growl before he quickly folding his wings both shut and tended to his meal. He nearly swallowed the smaller one whole, picking up the other three and carrying on in his mouth, the other two slung over his back. he couldn't fly back to his cavern, of course. It would do him no good to try. He started off again, keeping his wings in close in order to avoid the same incident taking place twice. Braving open land, he slipped out of the dangerous tight space of the tree and crept along the shadowed treeline of the far cliff shoreline, able to see some dragons and their riders out and about, as well as the villagers goign abotu daily business. he didn't wander too far in the open for fear of being sighted or quarreled with over a meal, but kept an eye in that direciton, watching idly.
