יְהוּדִית ● "Ravine" (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whip_poor_will) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hadriel_logs2017-06-10 03:24 pm
whip_poor_will) wrote in hadriel_logs2017-06-10 03:24 pm
Entry tags:
all i know is something like a bird within her sang [OPEN]
Who: Ravine and You.
What: The whip-poor-will's song is heard throughout the city, and with it a shadow follows not far behind.
Where: Anywhere between the park and orchards.
When: Early June.
Warnings: Mutant cat-on-bird violence and death, with mentions of blood.
Though the echoes and screams of the Jabberjays are nothing new for some time now, a new song can be heard from time to time throughout the city. Some may recognize it, while others may find it alien -- but it's definitely the music of a bird.
A whip-poor-will, to be exact. Though more apparent to bird watchers when they catch sight of a gray-brown nightjar with stiff rictal bristles protruding from its short bill, almost like the odd whiskers of a cat.
Speaking of which, it will occasionally draw the attention of one of the newly resident felines, particularly the interest of a toothy-faced black cat, which will follow the nightjar up a tree before the bird makes its escape without exception.
This cycle continues for some time. Days, in fact. You might have heard the whip-poor-will's tune, its haunting melodies that has been known to send chills down one's spine as a death omen.
Eventually, death comes to the nightjar itself when the black cat can be found with the lifeless bird under the weight of its paws. Feathers and blood taint the many teeth covering the cat's face, as it contentedly grinds its sharp needles around the bird-body into little pieces.
The cat doesn't linger for long, however. Once it's had its fun, the mutated feline soon grows bored with batting the nightjar's corpse around.
Moments later, as if from seemingly out of nowhere, a dark, six-foot-eight woman manifests nearby. No sound nor sight would have alerted one of her presence -- she's just there, approaching the mess of meat and feathers tainting the once-green grass of the park.
Scooping the bird into her gloved hands, she bears down on it with an almost remorseful expression.
"Wow," she says nonchalantly. "That wasn't very nice, was it?"
In seconds, the bird's corpse vanishes, as if absorbed into the red of her gloves or was never there at all. The song is just a memory now.
What: The whip-poor-will's song is heard throughout the city, and with it a shadow follows not far behind.
Where: Anywhere between the park and orchards.
When: Early June.
Warnings: Mutant cat-on-bird violence and death, with mentions of blood.
Though the echoes and screams of the Jabberjays are nothing new for some time now, a new song can be heard from time to time throughout the city. Some may recognize it, while others may find it alien -- but it's definitely the music of a bird.
A whip-poor-will, to be exact. Though more apparent to bird watchers when they catch sight of a gray-brown nightjar with stiff rictal bristles protruding from its short bill, almost like the odd whiskers of a cat.
Speaking of which, it will occasionally draw the attention of one of the newly resident felines, particularly the interest of a toothy-faced black cat, which will follow the nightjar up a tree before the bird makes its escape without exception.
This cycle continues for some time. Days, in fact. You might have heard the whip-poor-will's tune, its haunting melodies that has been known to send chills down one's spine as a death omen.
Eventually, death comes to the nightjar itself when the black cat can be found with the lifeless bird under the weight of its paws. Feathers and blood taint the many teeth covering the cat's face, as it contentedly grinds its sharp needles around the bird-body into little pieces.
The cat doesn't linger for long, however. Once it's had its fun, the mutated feline soon grows bored with batting the nightjar's corpse around.
Moments later, as if from seemingly out of nowhere, a dark, six-foot-eight woman manifests nearby. No sound nor sight would have alerted one of her presence -- she's just there, approaching the mess of meat and feathers tainting the once-green grass of the park.
Scooping the bird into her gloved hands, she bears down on it with an almost remorseful expression.
"Wow," she says nonchalantly. "That wasn't very nice, was it?"
In seconds, the bird's corpse vanishes, as if absorbed into the red of her gloves or was never there at all. The song is just a memory now.