Log; Ongoing
When; Dec. 01 (evening)
Rating; PG-13 (violence, language)
Characters; open
Summary; and The Host arrives in the city square, refer to this for guidelines
Log;
Almost four hundred pounds of cyborg puppeteer was flung haphazardly into the brick wall, through the brick wall. She bounced along, meat and metal, every part of her throbbing with a maddening pain no other puppeteer could bear to fathom. Her fur was matted, marked by sweat and blood. Something felt dislocated. Her right foreleg was numbing. Despite the assurances of the advanced, top-of-the-line musculature melding that prevented most primitive projectile weapons from puncturing her vitals, she still could be mangled, like now. She wasn't sure how long she could last. Maybe she deserved this, could have foreseen this; she was stupid and headstrong enough to fight the beast bare hoofed. She should have brought a blade, a small projectile weapon, spent her free time trying to construct a basic harmful laser, something. Instead she had launched herself at the thing, over the gaping maw, between the two withered, leathery necks, trying to tear into its wrinkled back flesh with her clawed hooves. There was her enhanced strength, and then there was the creature's reflexes, how what was once its back leg was held like an Earth scorpion's. That was careless.
Unfertilized gametes still leaked out of the hole in her belly. It had tried to impregnate her, pumping her gut full of the slime while the other one that would assuredly turn her into a vessel of infection was held off with both sets of teeth. The other two prongs had been trying to tear her open. She got away then and had been running ever since. There was fear, and then there was the basic Fear that had gripped her people ever so tightly. Never had she been so scared for her (second) life.
It caught her. She fought back, but it was a futile attempt: It was insanely strong. Unbelievably strong. No creature could be that strong.
The sickening scent of ill puppeteer musk came closer. She could almost feel its horrid, humid breaths as it homed in with a slow, agonizing sureness; it knew where she was. Her remaining two legs uselessly swung against the crumbles and tile; she could not crouch away, her legs weren't built for it. A cornered herd beast, Guardian threw both heads back and gave a cry of alarm, an ancient noise of pained, panicked trumpets that carried a message that she begged was universal.
An oily voice. Low notes slithered through the air in her native tongue: "Yes... Sing for the humans you love to despise. They shall come to the beautiful sight of me crushing your proud Guardian bones. Let your demise mark my departure from your wretched, terrified race.
"Die in terror, disposable little Warrior."
The great shape could be seen crawling. Those teeth could be heard, clacking with an ill glee anticipating her battered body. Maybe it flickered gold. Golden tentacles. Many golden tentacles reaching for her, promising a second death.
Rating; PG-13 (violence, language)
Characters; open
Summary; and The Host arrives in the city square, refer to this for guidelines
Log;
Almost four hundred pounds of cyborg puppeteer was flung haphazardly into the brick wall, through the brick wall. She bounced along, meat and metal, every part of her throbbing with a maddening pain no other puppeteer could bear to fathom. Her fur was matted, marked by sweat and blood. Something felt dislocated. Her right foreleg was numbing. Despite the assurances of the advanced, top-of-the-line musculature melding that prevented most primitive projectile weapons from puncturing her vitals, she still could be mangled, like now. She wasn't sure how long she could last. Maybe she deserved this, could have foreseen this; she was stupid and headstrong enough to fight the beast bare hoofed. She should have brought a blade, a small projectile weapon, spent her free time trying to construct a basic harmful laser, something. Instead she had launched herself at the thing, over the gaping maw, between the two withered, leathery necks, trying to tear into its wrinkled back flesh with her clawed hooves. There was her enhanced strength, and then there was the creature's reflexes, how what was once its back leg was held like an Earth scorpion's. That was careless.
Unfertilized gametes still leaked out of the hole in her belly. It had tried to impregnate her, pumping her gut full of the slime while the other one that would assuredly turn her into a vessel of infection was held off with both sets of teeth. The other two prongs had been trying to tear her open. She got away then and had been running ever since. There was fear, and then there was the basic Fear that had gripped her people ever so tightly. Never had she been so scared for her (second) life.
It caught her. She fought back, but it was a futile attempt: It was insanely strong. Unbelievably strong. No creature could be that strong.
The sickening scent of ill puppeteer musk came closer. She could almost feel its horrid, humid breaths as it homed in with a slow, agonizing sureness; it knew where she was. Her remaining two legs uselessly swung against the crumbles and tile; she could not crouch away, her legs weren't built for it. A cornered herd beast, Guardian threw both heads back and gave a cry of alarm, an ancient noise of pained, panicked trumpets that carried a message that she begged was universal.
An oily voice. Low notes slithered through the air in her native tongue: "Yes... Sing for the humans you love to despise. They shall come to the beautiful sight of me crushing your proud Guardian bones. Let your demise mark my departure from your wretched, terrified race.
"Die in terror, disposable little Warrior."
The great shape could be seen crawling. Those teeth could be heard, clacking with an ill glee anticipating her battered body. Maybe it flickered gold. Golden tentacles. Many golden tentacles reaching for her, promising a second death.