Post by Voramorak on Oct 10, 2003 15:24:13 GMT -5
It is hotter than usual today, yes. But I fly still. That putrid husk of an over-ripe melon we call the sun hangs so ominously in the grey-blue desert sky. Cymek, my home, my cradle...I will never let it be my grave. My fellow hunter's have left me out here, alone, shivvering in the sickening heat, eyes encrusted with sand blasted from the east. They have left me to rot...and they think they've taken away my choice to live. They think they are clever, they think that they can leave their wicked big brother to rot over the scrub lands so far from our foundationless camp.
Damn these black feathers, which the sun is addicted to.
Damn those bastards...whose blood I will taste before the wicked sun sets.
I fly on wings so free, the one thing they forgot to take from me. My claws bloodied and aching from where I have frantically scratched my way free of my rocky offender. They thought a boulder could stop me. They forget that the earth is not the prison of the Garuda. The sky is our jail. We Garuda, we thirst, are addicted to the feeling of the wind-blown sand in our feathers. But I am different. I was always different. It matters not to me whether my enemies are hunted from earth or sky...it matters not, as long as I am to taste their cooling blood. Am I ab-dead? No, but my blood lust is equal. I am not the bastard flesh of life and death, no, I am something far fouler: I am living, breathing death. I am a god amongst...filthy feathered fiends. Filthy little hypocrites. They know nothing of choices, of the theft I might cause...they have taken my choice to take their choices, and for that...yes, justice must be brought to them.
Alright, that's just the very begenning of the story of my favorite cannibal garuda and yours, Voramorak.
What do you guys think so far?
Damn these black feathers, which the sun is addicted to.
Damn those bastards...whose blood I will taste before the wicked sun sets.
I fly on wings so free, the one thing they forgot to take from me. My claws bloodied and aching from where I have frantically scratched my way free of my rocky offender. They thought a boulder could stop me. They forget that the earth is not the prison of the Garuda. The sky is our jail. We Garuda, we thirst, are addicted to the feeling of the wind-blown sand in our feathers. But I am different. I was always different. It matters not to me whether my enemies are hunted from earth or sky...it matters not, as long as I am to taste their cooling blood. Am I ab-dead? No, but my blood lust is equal. I am not the bastard flesh of life and death, no, I am something far fouler: I am living, breathing death. I am a god amongst...filthy feathered fiends. Filthy little hypocrites. They know nothing of choices, of the theft I might cause...they have taken my choice to take their choices, and for that...yes, justice must be brought to them.
Alright, that's just the very begenning of the story of my favorite cannibal garuda and yours, Voramorak.
What do you guys think so far?