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| Daireem - Wist |
| Author | Comment |
| Sprocket 4/24/2007 12:20:28 AM Level: 1 Experience: 0 Total Posts: 8 | Leader of the pack? Sprocket bid farewell to Alex, turned and walked into the darkness of the ruined city. When he was certain he was alone, he decided on a better disguise than a vertically walking humanoid. It was not exactly his first time shifting outside of the labs, but he found the adrenaline rush made it not as smooth as he was used to. In the lab, his shapeshift was smooth and swift, but that came from much practice and familiar surroundings. Here, the air reeked of danger... cordite, sweat, blood, burned metal. He relaxed and let it happen. His features remained dark and sleek as he took on the catlike shape. The worst part was the partial loss of a cognizant mind... instead taken over by one driven on instinct. In his animal form, the two minds were mostly at odds with each other, and he had larned to cope by behaving in ways that entertained both. He worried that would be a detriment to his mission. He had barely gotten re-used to padding silently down the alleyway when he was jumped from all sides. He was smart enough to let his instincts take over. After all, he had never been in with a pack of zorish before. He had, for many years, been the only one. Locked up in a lab. Not that zorish shapeshifters ever occurred naturally in the wild. Nor demon shapeshifters. Perrenor GeneTech had to work their "magic" to create THAT kind of creature. He realized he was in a giant ball of claws and teeth and the world was a caucophony of screeching howls. He and the other zorish were slashing and clawing and biting in a whirling mass of sleek black hides and sinewy bodies. But none of them were really being hurt. Dominance. The furball was about where the new zorish fit into the pack. Very little blood was being drawn; just enough to let the victim know one of the others had scored a hit. And the ones who were winning were clearly climbing to the top of the pile. One poor, old, sick (all determined by that animal sense that defied sentient description) zorish was at the physical bottom, bleeding profusely from several places and pinned to the broken asphalt by the weight. Finally, when he thought he was going to die from either lack of air or lack of blood, the battle subsided and he found himself ranked somewhere in the middle of the pack. The knowledge was acquired through an odd combination of pheromones and intuition. The old one was dead, the rain washing the now leaking body fluids down the gutter. He attended to his wounds, licking them clean. His saliva encouraged the wound to close up and stop bleeding. His sentient mind welled up from deep down and he looked around. The others were giving him a curious stare through death-dark eyes; they probably sensed his difference. Great, he thought, what did I get myself into? |
| Sprocket 4/30/2007 9:25:03 PM Level: 1 Experience: 0 Total Posts: 8 | RE: Leader of the pack? Days had passed and Sprocket had managed to stay alive, but hadn't learned much about the Rippov. He was confined to the pack of zorish that had jumped him as soon as he set paw to pavement. The others realized he was different, but didn't bother to dissect him to find out what it was. The zorish were wicked in battle, but it was a typical herd mentality. There were very few individuals, and these were considered defective. He was looking at one now, and had to avoid the temptation to shake his head in disdain; a move that would be very un-zorish-ish, and more than likely blow his cover. The scrawny, off colored zorish followed the orc like a puppy. Pathetic, really. Sprocket was rather surprised to find orcs on Wist, until he really stopped to think about it. A war-ravaged dirthole is the perfect place to find such things. He watched the orcs go crashing through the woods and turned his attention to the wounded and dead zorish. No worries. There were plenty more where they came from. The trouble, he was learning, was the never ending supply of the gang animals, like the pachees. It was the special units, the ihbrim, that were limited in number. He still hadn't caught even the slightest sight of one of these, and it was frustrating. How else was he supposed to gather intel on the Rippov? He had to get deeper into the rabbit hole, and see how far it went. Neither his training nor his instincts were helping him much. He walked non-chalantly through the dead and dying. Picking one, he abruptly swiped a paw full of razor sharp claws through the throat of one. The action perked some ears, and he glared at them, then turned his eyes and attention from them to lick a bit of the blood from the ground. Disgusting, but he forced himself to endure it. It was the show, you see... carefully orchestrated upon what he had derived so far about zorish behavior. Dominance through brutality. 'Twas one of the few things these creatures understood. And now, he was beginning to learn his lesson, even as he opened up the jugular of another injured zorish. A few hackles bristled and eyes narrowed, yet he gave them only the barest of glances before slowly meandering off through the jungle. Frankly, he was terrified he would be jumped from behind. |
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