Solanis
08-02-2018, 10:06 PM
the Rift
Hairless skin ripples wildly as the taut, trained network of muscles beneath flex and bind excitedly. The hard, ebon crown upon his brow lifts with measure, glinting wickedly in the moody rainforest light and alien-like nostrils, barely slits at the tip of the hunter’s brawny muzzle suck the delightful flavour of your presence. A tongue, perhaps, flickers momentarily into view, caressing translucent the whiskers that are bristled forward like a fan. There is something disturbing, or fearsome, about his appearance, though undoubtedly he is the perfect-looking predator.
The beaked bear’s deep rumbling, guttural growl is not deterred by this enemy and his beady, black eyes are lost beneath the flare of the feathers forming his owlish facial disk. It is a warning, intensified.
The Harpax’s expression narrows coldly upon his prey, the horses, for he is unconcerned by the lesser creature whose nest he is invading. Razor-sharp claws grind the soft, fertile soil they rest upon, and his haunches behind, clench visibly, unclothed—then, without further warning, he is sailing forward like a streak, a blur of movement through the air. Cruel, serrated teeth flash, ugly and yellow, suggesting that even a graze might inflict severe infection, and sticky strings of saliva stream backwards from his jaws, wetting the shoulder coming after.
The Beaked Bear interjects him, hustling forward with far less finesse before lifting to a bigger, upright position. The long, thick pelt he wears tosses to the tune of his unbridled anger, defending his trembling skin like armour as the Harpax sets furiously upon him. Those teeth, however, jagged, vicious knives, cut through the dancing layers with ease; clumps of ink-black quickly carpeting the ground.
There is a pained yowl, though which creature throws it you cannot yet say.
Above the hair splatters of blood become visible.
Through the tangled bodies, steaming breath and movement, the skin of the hunter is turning crimson. The beaked bear, easily larger, is fighting to the death, defending his nest with breathtaking determination. The savagery continues for a long while, neither creature, it seems, willing to surrender to the other—that is, until the apex predator slumps down beneath the victor, his jugular at last sliced clean through. The one you seek, however, is no less wounded and though he struggles a few feet clear of the killed Harpax, he too falls at last.
Should you choose to approach him, you will notice the fierceness now clouded from his eyes; instead, they are riddled with pain and suffering. His left fore hangs from the shoulder by a thread, severed by the cunning claws of his opponent. Blood gushes gruesomely and the, now, helpless, hopeless creature twitches in agony.
The beaked bear’s deep rumbling, guttural growl is not deterred by this enemy and his beady, black eyes are lost beneath the flare of the feathers forming his owlish facial disk. It is a warning, intensified.
The Harpax’s expression narrows coldly upon his prey, the horses, for he is unconcerned by the lesser creature whose nest he is invading. Razor-sharp claws grind the soft, fertile soil they rest upon, and his haunches behind, clench visibly, unclothed—then, without further warning, he is sailing forward like a streak, a blur of movement through the air. Cruel, serrated teeth flash, ugly and yellow, suggesting that even a graze might inflict severe infection, and sticky strings of saliva stream backwards from his jaws, wetting the shoulder coming after.
The Beaked Bear interjects him, hustling forward with far less finesse before lifting to a bigger, upright position. The long, thick pelt he wears tosses to the tune of his unbridled anger, defending his trembling skin like armour as the Harpax sets furiously upon him. Those teeth, however, jagged, vicious knives, cut through the dancing layers with ease; clumps of ink-black quickly carpeting the ground.
There is a pained yowl, though which creature throws it you cannot yet say.
Above the hair splatters of blood become visible.
Through the tangled bodies, steaming breath and movement, the skin of the hunter is turning crimson. The beaked bear, easily larger, is fighting to the death, defending his nest with breathtaking determination. The savagery continues for a long while, neither creature, it seems, willing to surrender to the other—that is, until the apex predator slumps down beneath the victor, his jugular at last sliced clean through. The one you seek, however, is no less wounded and though he struggles a few feet clear of the killed Harpax, he too falls at last.
Should you choose to approach him, you will notice the fierceness now clouded from his eyes; instead, they are riddled with pain and suffering. His left fore hangs from the shoulder by a thread, severed by the cunning claws of his opponent. Blood gushes gruesomely and the, now, helpless, hopeless creature twitches in agony.
@Rixen @Kiada
It appears that you are safe, the Harpax has been slain. The Beaked Bear, however, lays suffering. What action will you take next?
