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+--- Thread: [OPEN] Owl Pellets (/thread-1807.html)
Owl Pellets - Miasma - October 28, 2017
It's dusk, and they are just beginning to wake. Calls from impenetrable treetops echo through the dark forest, and Miasma follows the sounds until the converge around the trunk of a many-hollowed tree. Here.
Then, she digs. Her best chances are at the highest concentrations of owls, with their carnivorous diets, but fickle digestion. Digging through the carpet of leaf matter, moldy undersides, but never delving so far as the fine dirt. Surely everything is disintegrated down there. Mushrooms and seed pods are scattered carelessly while she searches for bones.
Owls don't caw, but she hears it anyway: the crows of Death Valley, screaming for her to go, leave, get out of the forest maze. She isn't running this time. She isn't so small for Saga's eagle to scoop her up as in so many vivid nightmares, but the piercing screech still rattles in her head over the owls she knows to be real. Wingspan shadows don't cry out, and screams do not have mouths.
Scheherazade's favour was easiest garnered with pretty little things made by the hands of man. That's why she liked Thetis (daughter of Nevada, daughter of Tatari, son of yOUR FATHER). Such is so here, it seems, from the smile granted the sheep-woman when she gifted the Red Dragon a lantern for her fire, a cloak for her coldness.
Miasma never had the opportunity to craft from remains, so pressed to constantly kill so Kaiju wouldn't begin to contemplate the taste of her adoptive sister. Now, she has as much of Crow's attention as he spares for his children (you're the only one that came), and Sarissa to impress.
She collects owl pellets while the sun sets, hums to herself as the horizon goes dark.