Maeve
They have varying success against the murder of gore crows. Maeve's whip finds its target, cracking with fire and embers, sending the gore crow to the ground in a burst of flames. It lets out a shriek, flopping and flailing on the ground, finding nothing but pain in its last moments of life. Locke is less successful in his attempts. He's not gotten the hang of hunting birds. They're fast. Fast and small. The gore crow he attempts to snatch swoops out of the way, circling around and diving back towards Locke, claws extended to slash out at his eyes. It doesn't get his eye, but with a quick swipe the crow manages to cut his brow deeply, inciting another cry for meat as the smell of blood fills the air.
Melita is just as successful as the other Accepted. Her arrow strikes true, burning through the crow in a flash, bringing it down to the ground in seconds. The other crows aren't deterred. They keep swooping and lashing out, claws and beaks snapping, scratching, and lashing out between cries for meat and blood.
Melita is just as successful as the other Accepted. Her arrow strikes true, burning through the crow in a flash, bringing it down to the ground in seconds. The other crows aren't deterred. They keep swooping and lashing out, claws and beaks snapping, scratching, and lashing out between cries for meat and blood.
Long nights, daydreams
Sugar and smoke rings, I've been a fool
But strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you
Sugar and smoke rings, I've been a fool
But strawberries and cigarettes always taste like you
