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.#. Mess with thy forces o’ Nature .#. Raven huntress slinks 'pon unfarmilar terrain, membranes inflate 'n inhale thy many scents, memorizing 'n sorting, though none recongised. Delicate visionary dips 'n tosses sky 'ward, inken tendrills whipping 'pon splendius 'n intermingling o'er fallen flutes. Membranes quiver in slight question to o' what this place represents, for a comrad had spoken o' thy U.S., 'n wondering thoughts drew her here. Plumage strikes 'pon pelt with demanding attention, picking up bloody battle with blood lusting pests, optics ever alert to still surroundings. ((Short I know, sorry, bleah, I'm so tired!)) |
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