[ one would think absolute muteness was a gift, but it was all the more terrifying as he watched from every corner of his eyes the reactions up ahead born from losing bigby. it’s one nightmare after another— falco’s never going to forget the feeling of bone between his teeth, blood on his tongue or what it felt like for something human shaped slide down his throat as simply as a forkful of pasta would. there was a reason why shifters never remembered their first time, and it had unfortunately not been falco’s first. he wants to throw him back up far before the second that ugly weight hit his stomach but only found deeply rooted nausea to provide any amount on consolation. he wants to disappear and close his eyes but the silence kept them open— more energy generated, that way. more despair to keep its claws on his reins.
fern was a fantastic side banquet blossoming into a delicacy from afar, and it had almost been an ironic cue, that judging from falco’s recognition, he was next to dance with. the more he screamed and exposed his ire, the more the silence made the puppet of a bird salivate and puff its feathers up with delighted anticipation— it’s everything it’s always wanted. it fits perfectly in trench. the sleepers are where it belongs.
there’s . . . a pest hooking onto the jagged edges of its beak, though! a little sparrow thinking that a peck or territorial shrieking would leave any lasting impressions on an eagle (these sparrows are quite different and the ghost parasite is full of itself), but it wastes no time in getting the invader off of its ride. before illarion puts a scratch in the jaw titan’s snazzy new paint job. it ducks its head low to the ground before using giant momentum to fling him far, far into a recently abandoned barn.
finally, the avian monster bellows it’s own displeasure at how long it’s taking for dinner to be served, the glutton that it was. weren’t they coming—? to give it that delicious self-loathing and hate?
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fern was a fantastic side banquet blossoming into a delicacy from afar, and it had almost been an ironic cue, that judging from falco’s recognition, he was next to dance with. the more he screamed and exposed his ire, the more the silence made the puppet of a bird salivate and puff its feathers up with delighted anticipation— it’s everything it’s always wanted. it fits perfectly in trench. the sleepers are where it belongs.
there’s . . . a pest hooking onto the jagged edges of its beak, though! a little sparrow thinking that a peck or territorial shrieking would leave any lasting impressions on an eagle (these sparrows are quite different and the ghost parasite is full of itself), but it wastes no time in getting the invader off of its ride. before illarion puts a scratch in the jaw titan’s snazzy new paint job. it ducks its head low to the ground before using giant momentum to fling him far, far into a recently abandoned barn.
finally, the avian monster bellows it’s own displeasure at how long it’s taking for dinner to be served, the glutton that it was. weren’t they coming—? to give it that delicious self-loathing and hate?
(wait for it—) ]