prehistoric

DEIMOS Delivered from the blasts The attempt at humor didn’t instigate any chuckles or rounds of laughter from the General – the slightest arch to his brow was the only noticeable alteration on his nonchalant, dispassionate features. The thief had already found some weasel contortions to amend his claims – a bucket with no one around – except the eagle flying above, placing fish in the aforementioned object, one after another after another. He fought off an eye roll; no time, no patience, for those who sought to prey on another’s work and ambitions, experiences with those who snagged and purloined and poached never very high on his list of favorite moments, a constant guard, a perpetual sentinel. The survival of the fittest line caused a narrowing of his gaze (it wasn’t false; but sometimes the world changed and altered such courses with compassion, with benevolence; his heart wasn’t piercing to either of those in this stretch), but the rest of the stranger’s actions left him momentarily speechless and befuddled – an obvious perusal of his form and physique. His brows furrowed. “You cannot hunt on your own?” What good was a snake with no predator abilities? Or had he simply found something easier, requiring less energy, to prey upon, rather than wasting valuable energy and resources? There wasn’t much to the beast in either regard: tall and lanky, somewhat gaunt. the last of a line of lasts