09-26-2015, 09:33 AM
He is always here, always lurking. There is little that can get beyond the borders of the Tundra without his notice. The two women from the Amazon are no exception. Granted, they make no attempt to pass through the single opening in the Tundra’s massive ice wall. Rather, they settle outside and wait to be noticed. How exceedingly polite of them.
His large, pale wings are extended wide as he soars upon a thermal, gazing down at them so that he might glean some information. He doesn’t approach them immediately, though he does intend to eventually. Their diplomats seem to be rather absent these days. He has not seen Brennen in months (years? He isn’t quite certain, time seems to pass differently when one is immortal), and Crito is currently enjoying the hospitality of the Chamber. So that leaves him and Errant. He hopes that Errant might decide to come check this one out, taking it out of his hands (or rather, hooves), but he doubts that he will. And Hurricane is nothing if not dutiful.
Lifting his wings, he allows himself to drift slowly down from his lofty height. Considering the method the ladies had taken to arrive, he has no compunction against landing directly in front of them. They could make of it what they would. His steely gaze assesses each mare in turn as he tucks his feathered wings against his sides. His voice, when he speaks, is as brusque and no-nonsense as ever.
I’m Hurricane. What can I do for you?
His large, pale wings are extended wide as he soars upon a thermal, gazing down at them so that he might glean some information. He doesn’t approach them immediately, though he does intend to eventually. Their diplomats seem to be rather absent these days. He has not seen Brennen in months (years? He isn’t quite certain, time seems to pass differently when one is immortal), and Crito is currently enjoying the hospitality of the Chamber. So that leaves him and Errant. He hopes that Errant might decide to come check this one out, taking it out of his hands (or rather, hooves), but he doubts that he will. And Hurricane is nothing if not dutiful.
Lifting his wings, he allows himself to drift slowly down from his lofty height. Considering the method the ladies had taken to arrive, he has no compunction against landing directly in front of them. They could make of it what they would. His steely gaze assesses each mare in turn as he tucks his feathered wings against his sides. His voice, when he speaks, is as brusque and no-nonsense as ever.
I’m Hurricane. What can I do for you?
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane