RE: The All-XX Battle: Narcissism Extravaganza
08-28-2012, 02:15 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-28-2012, 02:18 PM by Hellfish.)
Paint-dirt-plant-paint-paint-meat sniff, dirt burn smoke paint red red red red paint. Sniff, red.
Shwvir warbled, an alien sound in contrast to the bland singsong being pumped out of the lobby speakers. She was clinging to the ceiling of a weird white place and she didn’t like it. Nothing tasted right. It smelled like bad chemicals and sick. Her edge-wings had begun to shrink away from the dead air and she flapped them irritably, dislodging a shower of paint flakes that tasted like rat poison. The shivak spat, eyeing her long grey tongue. Little white flakes clung to it like chemical snow. Sick.
She dislodged in a freefall, snapping open her wings only a few meters from the floor. It was a big place but not big enough for her to fly too far, her being about a horse-size plus wings and this place being for a man-size, no wings. A few flaps were all she could manage before she was forced to land atop a sort of a box-table with paper and writey-things and a flat smaller box inside it. Her claws left big tears in the paper and on the fake stone. Why make fake stone? She puzzled over this for a moment, kneading the paper into unrecognizable wads. Was there a shortage of stone? No one had told her.
A short flutter brought her to the floor, dislodging whatever was left on the box-table and clearing away the paint smell, if just for a second. Her own musky-nest-warm scent was overlaid with the terrible stink of the walls. Shwvir sneezed. It echoed sharply around the room and she barked in surprise before realizing it was only a sound, and proceeded to run her tongue over her claws.
A couple of die.
Her ears folded back. She’d hated that voice.
The bad taste wouldn’t leave her mouth after she’d cleaned it from her wings so she gave up, shaking her head and spitting. It was such an awful taste. Once she’s eaten the death of a sick old pigeon and it hasn’t tasted as bad as this. Only the burning in the air made her feel better. Like a funeral pyre. She purred, a low sound like gravel caught in a rotor. She hadn’t realized that she was hungry. It seemed more important than wondering what the little bird had meant.
In two flaps she was airborne again, skirting through the hallway. She was starting to remember a place like this, a big building with colorful windows and a lot of crying people and a wooden box with a woman inside. That death had been weak, tasteless, even though she’d fought a bigger male for it. This place was like that place but happier.
She smelled the burning again, rising to the ceiling. Not as good as she thought. Not as much meat, more wood. Tree-deaths were boring. It was getting stronger, but where was the smoke? Her eyes focused: the floor came into sudden sharp perspective, each tiny crack like a canyon to her. Only tile and clay and stone, and little bits of paper, and dirt, and ash…?
More tiny cracks made little circles where something big had stepped on the ground. Too big for human-size. Maybe a horse or a big engine-box. But smoke? The floor was scorched. Swvir gave an irritated rattle. It didn’t make any sense. It made no sense, unless-
She banked around a corner and backwinged frantically at the giant black worm standing on a burning pile of clothes. It didn’t so much as flinch in the wind, though its glowing eyes got brighter for a second and its bug-looking mouth made man-noises at her. “What are you,” it said, “How did you get here?” Shwvir squawked at it angrily. It was too big and it smelled like burning and it wasn’t going to die. She flared her wings and hissed.
The worm thing stared at her. Was it getting hotter? She felt heat on her skin. Like the sun. Like a fire. The worm’s eyes were getting brighter, and brighter-
Then it made a sound like a big cat growling, and from its mouth came a wave of flames.
Shwvir warbled, an alien sound in contrast to the bland singsong being pumped out of the lobby speakers. She was clinging to the ceiling of a weird white place and she didn’t like it. Nothing tasted right. It smelled like bad chemicals and sick. Her edge-wings had begun to shrink away from the dead air and she flapped them irritably, dislodging a shower of paint flakes that tasted like rat poison. The shivak spat, eyeing her long grey tongue. Little white flakes clung to it like chemical snow. Sick.
She dislodged in a freefall, snapping open her wings only a few meters from the floor. It was a big place but not big enough for her to fly too far, her being about a horse-size plus wings and this place being for a man-size, no wings. A few flaps were all she could manage before she was forced to land atop a sort of a box-table with paper and writey-things and a flat smaller box inside it. Her claws left big tears in the paper and on the fake stone. Why make fake stone? She puzzled over this for a moment, kneading the paper into unrecognizable wads. Was there a shortage of stone? No one had told her.
A short flutter brought her to the floor, dislodging whatever was left on the box-table and clearing away the paint smell, if just for a second. Her own musky-nest-warm scent was overlaid with the terrible stink of the walls. Shwvir sneezed. It echoed sharply around the room and she barked in surprise before realizing it was only a sound, and proceeded to run her tongue over her claws.
A couple of die.
Her ears folded back. She’d hated that voice.
The bad taste wouldn’t leave her mouth after she’d cleaned it from her wings so she gave up, shaking her head and spitting. It was such an awful taste. Once she’s eaten the death of a sick old pigeon and it hasn’t tasted as bad as this. Only the burning in the air made her feel better. Like a funeral pyre. She purred, a low sound like gravel caught in a rotor. She hadn’t realized that she was hungry. It seemed more important than wondering what the little bird had meant.
In two flaps she was airborne again, skirting through the hallway. She was starting to remember a place like this, a big building with colorful windows and a lot of crying people and a wooden box with a woman inside. That death had been weak, tasteless, even though she’d fought a bigger male for it. This place was like that place but happier.
She smelled the burning again, rising to the ceiling. Not as good as she thought. Not as much meat, more wood. Tree-deaths were boring. It was getting stronger, but where was the smoke? Her eyes focused: the floor came into sudden sharp perspective, each tiny crack like a canyon to her. Only tile and clay and stone, and little bits of paper, and dirt, and ash…?
More tiny cracks made little circles where something big had stepped on the ground. Too big for human-size. Maybe a horse or a big engine-box. But smoke? The floor was scorched. Swvir gave an irritated rattle. It didn’t make any sense. It made no sense, unless-
She banked around a corner and backwinged frantically at the giant black worm standing on a burning pile of clothes. It didn’t so much as flinch in the wind, though its glowing eyes got brighter for a second and its bug-looking mouth made man-noises at her. “What are you,” it said, “How did you get here?” Shwvir squawked at it angrily. It was too big and it smelled like burning and it wasn’t going to die. She flared her wings and hissed.
The worm thing stared at her. Was it getting hotter? She felt heat on her skin. Like the sun. Like a fire. The worm’s eyes were getting brighter, and brighter-
Then it made a sound like a big cat growling, and from its mouth came a wave of flames.