Blackbird Lore
Inactive Member
Some distance north...
And then there was an explosion, followed by the sound of debris striking the streets, buildings, and anything or anyone that had not survived just ahead of Trent Howard. The explosion rent a fresh hole in the wall of a two-story strip mall. From this smoking gap tumbled a Nepleslian, falling head over heels to land face-first on a loving couple wrapped about each other in death's embrace. As he rose back on his own pair of legs, the first coherent words out of his mouth were, "Shit-gravy on ass-biscuits! About fuckin' broke my jerkin' hand!" He was grasping his left forearm with his right hand while the left hand he shook several times, as if pain were merely a parasite clinging to his wrist.
A second explosion rocked the strip mall and flung the dark-haired, 190 pound Nepleslian- he had to be at least thirty- over the hood of a car and onto the street. "Well fuck me sideways!" he grumbled. This man was a hardy fellow, and had seen his fair share of war "back in the day," so a couple explosions wouldn't be enough to keep him down. No, not this old dog. He stood up. This time, he didn't attempt to nurse his injured wrist nor his freshly earned bruise on his hip. He just winced and looked back at the strip mall, hoping none of those Mishus would come scrambling out; he'd used up the last of his armaments on that explosion; the second one had just been a bonus in his favor.
As he watched, he caught something humanoid out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Trent Howard, armed to the teeth, headed his direction. "Hey man! Can ya spare me a gun? Tryin' to get the hell outta here ain't easy without a few bullets. Oh, right." And then, as if everything wasn't going to shit, he offered his hand. "Name's Kenneth Darken."
And then there was an explosion, followed by the sound of debris striking the streets, buildings, and anything or anyone that had not survived just ahead of Trent Howard. The explosion rent a fresh hole in the wall of a two-story strip mall. From this smoking gap tumbled a Nepleslian, falling head over heels to land face-first on a loving couple wrapped about each other in death's embrace. As he rose back on his own pair of legs, the first coherent words out of his mouth were, "Shit-gravy on ass-biscuits! About fuckin' broke my jerkin' hand!" He was grasping his left forearm with his right hand while the left hand he shook several times, as if pain were merely a parasite clinging to his wrist.
A second explosion rocked the strip mall and flung the dark-haired, 190 pound Nepleslian- he had to be at least thirty- over the hood of a car and onto the street. "Well fuck me sideways!" he grumbled. This man was a hardy fellow, and had seen his fair share of war "back in the day," so a couple explosions wouldn't be enough to keep him down. No, not this old dog. He stood up. This time, he didn't attempt to nurse his injured wrist nor his freshly earned bruise on his hip. He just winced and looked back at the strip mall, hoping none of those Mishus would come scrambling out; he'd used up the last of his armaments on that explosion; the second one had just been a bonus in his favor.
As he watched, he caught something humanoid out of the corner of his eye and turned to see Trent Howard, armed to the teeth, headed his direction. "Hey man! Can ya spare me a gun? Tryin' to get the hell outta here ain't easy without a few bullets. Oh, right." And then, as if everything wasn't going to shit, he offered his hand. "Name's Kenneth Darken."