easy pickings ( inga & the llamacorn, day 1
Feb 21, 2024 20:28:44 GMT -5
Post by tick 12a / calla on Feb 21, 2024 20:28:44 GMT -5
As Inga uneasily watches lightning flash through the dense fog, a long shadow materializes somewhere in the darkness.
She tightens her grip on her knife as it steadily begins to constrict, as it gets smaller and smaller, stouter, eventually coagulating to a single murky point. It waits on the inner edge, hovering for a moment as that strange shrieking seems to get even louder, and then it starts to bleed through.
Inga drops out of her stance immediately. She stares, dumbfounded, as something that looks straight out of one of Lieke's books starts happily trotting out of the terrifying cloud mass and towards her.
It's pink for fuck's sake.
The knife points back down. Inga brandishes it between them as the little creature keeps up its merry clip clop across the terrain.
"No, no."
Its little head cocks, its tongue lolls, its pupils are unnaturally large and trusting.
"Stay away, or I'll gut you."
Since it's in the arena, it's probably hiding a set of wicked nasty teeth or something. It can probably breath fire, or it probably only eats raw flesh. Maybe it's got a camera in it somehow.
It reaches her finally, and when Inga scowls down at it, it gently jumps up to knock its horn against the tip of her knife.
"I mean it." She says nastily, "I'll strip you down for parts."
Another happy little huff. It trots a circle around her, completely unaware of the violence it's being threatened with.
On its loop back towards her, it maybe edges a little too close to the edge of the fog. There's the flapping of wings, and an approaching shriek, and then a wicked looking claw reaches out of the shadows and snatches the little guy, quicker than she can blink.
One minute, Inga's staring at the creature, Then the next, the ground is bare and she's pointing a weapon at empty space. The sound of the wings fades out as whatever the hell that was flies away with its snack.
Well.
At least that's that taken care of.
